do they expect us to come into work that day?
that depends, do you plan on getting stuff done that day?
nah, what are we gonna get done?
well let me put it to you this way, do you want me to come in that day?
I'm not coming in, shaking his head.
okay. I'll see you at the airport then.
now:
the bastard likes himself a bitta parklife and folks can argue what park is best but mine is the best.
no
really
up yours.
mine is the best. we got a fucking Pepsi cola sign in ours.
it's a goddam antique.
and after months of the gate being closed… it wasn't so the wife, the boy, and I sauntered in.
I popped off this sweet panorama and we walked the nearly finished site.
on the way back, a foreman from the laborers thug union tells us we shouldn't be there.
I acknowledge that we saw the fence open and were clearly in error and would leave and we headed for the fence.
waiting for us in his puffy oversized sweaty brooks brothers shirt with cinched belt was the project manager.
he sort of had that hourglass shape… but in the bad way.
he cocks his head and puffs up for the pantomime.
limping for weeks… I stop limping because the bastard is gonna step correct to this yob.
you can't be here.
sorry man, your foreman showed us the door. the fence was open.
you can't be here.
you need to calm down.
you can't be here.
YOU. need to calm down.
the fence means you can be here.
no mate. a sign that says KEEP OUT tells me I can't be here. an open fence means that it's open.
what if you and yours get hurt.
then, pointing my bastard finger, then I fucking hurt YOU mate
he went his way and I went mine. and I got this sweet photo of the Pepsi sign.
—the bastard
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