Druggy Slaves and Holy Slackers

Cheap Dude’s year-round willingness to work holy days and all available overtime was naked proof that greedy capitalist blood ran through his veins too. “Time-and-a-half”: almost what you are worth. Almost compensation for a lifetime spent licking the boots of civilization.

He worked harder than he had to, harder than he should have; this had served him well in every financial circumstance, while beating him slowly to death. The shop could be shut down at any time, without warning. Like everything else in life, and life itself. Get, or act, busy!

Constant holy day advertisements on his workplace radio. The money machine ordered the sheep to shop, so off they went! For some reason this was a big story on the hourly fake news as well. Not new, nor news.

His mind wandered during the twelve hours of excruciatingly dull routine. He often joked that twelve hours was too long to do anything, even cocaine and lovemaking.

Years ago, prior employers had winked at drinking and ‘drugging’ on the job when working holy days. How far up the management ladder this tradition ran he didn't know, but as a golf course grunt he’d seen Owners of all types drink all day sometimes, and always on holy days.

Fellow grocery clerks usually had a bottle stashed in a big cooler. The initiated would mosey in and have a nip now and then. Or pass a joint in the attic compressor room, noisy but great ventilation. Walk-in freezer another party zone, no boss went in there voluntarily.

Sometimes the four man freight crew met in the beer cooler in the middle of a night shift. Always on holidays. Four guys times three beers meant they still worked hard but in a much better mood. The shift boss would carefully disguise the empty 12-pack and make sure it got innocently thrown out with all the other trash. He knew the cost would be recouped many times over by the morale boost.

When grounds keeping, holy days were supplemented by rainy days. Number Three would tell Number Two that the little crew was going to “clean out the shed,” or “service a mower deck.” They’d shuffle and clank in the ramshackle outbuilding a while, then break out a bottle of whiskey and a deck of cards. Number Three wouldn’t smoke their reefer, until liquored, then “lemme hit that thing….” It was the only time they could beat him at spades.

When Number Two was feeling expansive, he would invite one of “his grunts” to ride along for a trip “downtown, to pick up some parts.” This, too, was more likely during holy days. Parts took 30 minutes; strip clubs took up the rest of the afternoon, and Boss was buyin’. Never 'disciplined' for such obvious violations of 'company policy,' because Number One was a corporate office far away.

Throughout his workplace years, some of his best co-workers had been on drugs of one sort or another, and some of the worst self-righteously religious and sober. Druggies knew work equals money equals more drugs. Saints knew work doesn’t matter, their treasure was in heaven. Both were correct, so the druggies slaved and the holy slacked.

Drug testing had changed the whole tone of the workplace for the worse. No matter how well he worked now, no unapproved fun was permitted, even on days off. Wholesomeness increased, competence declined, and fun ended. (Of course, folks still got high on prescription drugs, with the right paperwork.) Small consolation that coffee was not illegal, yet.

Most jobs were taken too seriously. In the Cosmic Scheme of Things, how many were truly critical? Doctors, maybe. Engineers. Folks had to pretend their work was important, or their lives were meaningless. In any case, most of it could be done drunk or high once in a while. Let grunts have a little fun now and then, authoritarian joy-killers of earth!

By the end of his shift, this holy day was like all holy days, he was tired and cranky. He’d made a pile of money, stone sober. Damn glad to be working, on any day. He would keep showing up as long as the pay checks did, whether he felt like it or not. He kept his integrity for himself, not to impress anyone. He pretended it mattered too.

The older he got, the shorter life seemed. Every day off work became Extra Holy. His own little tribe, and a wood and plaster fort, safe in the high desert. Reason enough to celebrate daily, with or without chemical amusement.