by Luke Otley
Sitting on my bunk with a hot (strong) coffee brewed inside an angular brass pot by an unsung genius. I’m done with work – 12:40 – done with bud rubbing. I lay on my back groaning (melodramatic forefather incarnate), crabby and grumbly – my co-workers, bunkmates, friends, fill the room – seething in somnolence – Nacho (from Uruguay) dropping out for a nap, climbing into bed fully clothed “I’m so happy with my pillow”.
Bud rubbing, pfft…Paid four cents to split yourself asunder and (feeling like a big moody giant) grasp a flakey stump less than two feet tall, depriving it of its baby shoots like some new age floral Herod. To make minimum wage one is required to rub three-hurred-fiddy vines per/hour, which feels a little something like this – oof (bending your back)…rub rub…creak (straightening yourself)…step step…oof… etc etc into the boundless rose afternoon.
‘Don’t chase dreams – chase money and dreams will follow’ I think (perhaps paraphrasing?) but my sleep is exhaustless and without depth and there is no space for such nonsense – though even dogs dream…
A dog’s day may be made while bent beggar scratches for ten cents in a store-front, or perhaps a dog end (discarded cigarette). It is only passersby that are saddened by the sight; do you see a complaint upon his bearded lips?