Per Hour — The Eternal Question (an oneiric read-along)

Read along with oneiric composition thirty-seven:

It’s nearly routine at this point: when the calendar pinches to an insolvent close, fishing around for a per-hour shift, promise anything by saying nothing.

	The interviewer sits at her desk & watches a man with a grey beard & bloodshot eyes gracelessly lumber in. It's the morning after an eight-inch snowfall & I've slipped twice on my way there.

After describing the job & penning notes on my application, she finishes with This is physical work. I mean, really. Lots of lifting, carrying, loading & unloading in bad weather, hours standing . . .  Her eyes travel from my scuffed DieHards to my blank forehead. It's not for everyone. Will you be okay with this kind of work?

The phrasing is cunning, Will you be okay . . . 

	Thirty-five years ago, there were sets of small rail tracks trenched level with the cemented yard of a central valley Calif prune drying facility. They were used to guide stacked shelves of plums into drying tunnels on miniature train wheels that took corners on turntables gummed with dropped fruit. 

Spinning the load with upper-body twisting while legs held position, a kneecap slipped from front to side felling me for an ambulance ride to an emergency room where I fought the doctor as he used thumbs & palms of hands to relocate the convex back into place, leaving with an ankle-to-groin splint covered in tan foam looking like a leg warmer of enormous ladyfinger sponge.

The kneecap has shifted briefly a few other times since — twice, while running from a bar & slipped back into place myself by stretching the leg out on a late-night sidewalk. 

	I don’t eat prunes & rarely drink on the job, so I won't bring this up.   

Will you be okay . . . 

	Twenty years ago, after bowing to pet a tiny dog standing on its hinds with excited dancing fronts meeting my shin, I straightened with a twinge like a spinal Jenga block had been pulled. 

I left my room only a few times that week to hobble out for over-the-counter muscle relaxers & wine. During a visit to a chiropractor, who stood next to me as I laid face-saddled on the paper-crunching exam table, something was triggered by a pressure point on the small of my back & my legs kicked up suddenly like an involuntarily bucking mule, taking the practitioner down with a heel between hunched-over shoulder blades.
 
	The interviewer doesn't mention any work with small pets, so there is no need for an unwarranted explanation.

Will you be okay . . . 

	Sometimes the ankles take their individual turns & sometimes they fold inward in unison. They prefer missed steps in dark settings like unlit basements or night-time curbs, but also, on a whim it seems, they like to go rogue while simply walking on a flat sidewalk.

Ten years back, they hit a nice double one evening as I stepped off my porch to see if what I heard outside was either gunfire or holiday fireworks. I went down hard, palms spread as I landed, keeping my head & the overwelcoming deck at a bare distance. One ankle was completely useless as if asleep, but the second was only groggy & worked with me, allowing slow steps while walking backwards, dragging the dead log of the other; a gait that freaked out my cats watching from their defensive perches trying to stay out of the way of a large lump hissing with pain, towing a lifeless appendage in reverse.

	I don’t work on holidays, so this shouldn't hamper productivity.   

Will you be okay . . . 

	I always recover with time, responding to the interviewer: No problem.

These withheld events, in fact, show that I'm very dependable — 

I consistently eventually become okay . . . 

. . . until next time.

. . . continue with Per Hour — The Conditions . . .