“I aint gonna work on Maggie’s farm no more.” - Bob Dylan

          It’s about 11 p.m. on Monday and I am procrastinating fantastically. I should be at home up on the hill putting my things in boxes in order to move by the end of the week. Instead, I’ve been enjoying wine and playing every song I know, and some I’ve forgotten, on the guitar. I’m not playing the guitar now, because clearly I’m at the keyboard. But a dear new friend has taken up the torch, and is filling the house with sound. Meanwhile, the hand behind the I-49 cartoon, The Confectionary, is working diligently on his latest painting.

           I got here around two hours ago, and had plans to take off and begin a serious night of packing boxes. But instead, I’m here, embracing the philosophy that there is plenty of time. And there is, actually. The storied and road-shined Nova Stubbs arrives from Anchorage in two days, bearing a much-needed re-supply from Insurgent Headquarters.

           But there is a real reason why I’m in no big hurry to rush home and get it done. I work eight hours a day in a kitchen at a café with a group of great people, and one terrific asshole of a boss. There are rumblings of mass walk-outs in the kitchen.

Kitchens are like that. If you insult one, you insult the entire kitchen. It’s a time-honored solidarity.

           So, the boss – who regularly tries to step in during rushes to “help,” only ends up screwing up the whole system and blaming it on us.

           Last week, he hacked a cutting board up with a serrated knife. The notches stand as a reminder to his horrible management style, and he gets nervous each time he notices them.

           I’m here, and not home packing, because of a phone call. It seems the editor of the Canby Herald here in Oregon would like to talk with me about writing for the paper. This is good news, because for the past six months, I’ve waited for the day I could tell The Boss all the things I’d like to, but haven’t, because I need the work, and my daughter needs me.

           That’s the point.

           The economy these days gives the upper hand to dull-eyed shop owners with bully tactics. So, when an opportunity arises, the oppressed get giddy, because then there is hope for redemption.

           I plan to call the editor tomorrow morning, before work, and learn whether or not I can begin work for him. I suspect I can. So, rather than rush home and pack in the middle of the night after work, I’ll just call in the morning, and with any luck learn when I can start. Then, I can get my pay tomorrow and go. That way, I would have the week to move at my leisure.

           Awful savages. They deserve no less than to be abandoned by those that do their work for meager wages. Especially when they berate and insult their workers.

           I don’t have – and I feel most of us don’t either – any loyalty to employers who wield power just because they know jobs are scarce. The beauty is, they will anger their workers so thoroughly, and then the economy will pick up, and turn to an employees’ market, and they will lose their workers, and have to hire new ones who can work anywhere they want.

           So, after tomorrow, I will know whether or not the day has come when I can hang up my apron and jump back into writing.

           The Canby Herald is similar to the New York Times, only incredibly smaller. In fact, if you put the Canby Herald next to the New York Times, you probably wouldn’t even notice The Herald. I’ll bet the Times has several more floors than The Herald.

           That’s not important. What is important is to be able to put it up the shaft of all those money-hard pricks we all must tolerate.

           “It’s a shame the way she makes me scrub the floor.”