The Sweat of the Brow (xv)

I know it’s hopeless. I just don’t have anything else to do.

I submit my resume to around fifteen hundred positions. I don’t pull any punches: I need treatment. I try to make myself look worthy of the investment. I’m not.

If forty years of accrued loyalty couldn’t get them to save my life, nothing will. Nothing will but money. Which I can’t get, unless someone saves me.

I talk to headhunters. They tell me to enjoy my sunset years.

I talk to headhunters that specialize in people seeking treatment. Old people. Dead people. They nod and smile and tell me it happens all the time. Cash up front, please. I shake my head.

I talk to my friends. I don’t have any. I talk to people who I used to know. Back before she got sick, back from my life before.

Most of them return my taps. A few have even had treatment. Most haven’t. I don’t know who they are, they don’t want to know who I am. None of them can help me. Most are in the same place as me.

It’s just that they accept it.


~ by davekov on 5 October 2011.

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