The Shortest Days of The Year

Been hanging around a gas station these days, talking to the cashiers Herb and Donald. Pretty soon me and Herb got into discussing money and politics. "It's no good," I say.

The store always smells like photocopies and plastic burning. Donald burns cardboard and old reciepts in the morning.

"A bunch of us get together on National Holidays and take over government buildings," Herb says one morning over coffee and the morning fire ritual. "It's kind of like a sleepover... only we do their paperwork for them...and we get drunk and tell stories of old times."

I nod and sip my morning coffee, things have sure gotten stranger lately. Herb colored his hair. Donald has started playing opera in the store, they keep asking me if I want a job here.

I keep all the chewing tobacco advertisements I want, but my grandma is starting to complain about the clutter in the garage. In the afternoon I take a marker and write on the calender in the kitchen. In purple writing I claim my independence from the house, "President's Week Vacation". In the evening I grab a twelve pack of my favorite beer in a can and a large bag of chips.

Sitting on the counter I proceed to get drunk and wait for the evening drunks to come in. One by one these days get shorter. I watch the front of the store while Donald makes phone calls and Herb heats up steak sandwiches looking at his roots in the black glass reflection.