Battered and shattered, I fell to the canvas floor of my psychic boxing ring. I had just been fired by my boss for sending a fax on the wrong stationery. But this wasn’t just any boss. This one was also my Father! A total knock out!
The bow-tied referee, with either a halo over his head, or horns — I couldn’t tell which through the fog of broken dreams — stood over me counting to 15. I couldn’t really hear him through the swirl of emotions pulsating through my head, body, or tendrils. How exactly was I going to get a new job? I had already made the supreme effort, by previously leaving this place of temporary employment. Small businesses are the job creators of America, so the politicians always say. Gee, I wish they could have created one for me.
Dazed, I made my way back home in the strangeness of an early afternoon. What do you do when you get home after being fired for faxing a document with the wrong return address? As a fan of film noir, I knew immediately. I pulled out the Scotch bottle and poured a finger into a tumbler. I sat on the couch and took a sip. It tasted horrible. I hate Scotch; I only keep this shit around for guests who like to drink it.
Film Noir au Pissoir. Photograph by Robert Frank.
I sat there, immobile, until my wife got home. It must have been a surprise for her to find me on the couch, drinking. “Uh oh,” she said when she walked in, dropping her arms, “what’s wrong?” She doesn’t miss a trick.
“I had a really bad day at work.” I have always been fond of understatement.
The Bernard Olcott Story 