"You don't want to work for the railroad," a switchman told me this morning down at the railyard.
I had resigned myself to the fact that my chances were zero anyway. How many transportation companies want to hire a schizophrenic? I was able to hide it when I drove a big rig truck. It would be a dream come true for me, though.
"What is the toughest part of the job?" I then asked.
The switchman smiled, then scoffed, and said, "You never get to go home! I am always on the rails."
His train left and I walked on back up to the shopping center. I spent some time in Fred's dollar store looking at prices until the employees started to warily watch me for shoplifting. I felt uncomfortable and left. I had no money to buy anything.
This particular Fred's always brings back bad memories. Memories of when I would search my grandmother's house for spare change and would buy a bottle of dollar mouthwash to drink. It is hard to believe I used to live that way. The thought of drinking that swill now sends my stomach to flip-flopping. Nauseous!
"You got a cigarette?" a young black girl asked me as I left the store.
She had saw me light up.
"You don't look a day over fifteen!" I exclaimed as I laughed.
She broke out into a tirade of insults over my denial. I just laughed, got in my car that was parked in the parking lot, and drove home.