Just When It Seems Like It Couldn't Get Any Worse

Two weeks in the life of the cursed

I didn’t write anything last week.

Well, that isn’t wholly accurate. See, I was expecting to get my manuscript for “We Are Stardust” back from a developmental editor and the plan from there was that I would start sending query letters to agents and, hopefully, fulfilling requests for full manuscript readings by, at least, a few of said agents.

Unfortunately, that wasn’t what happened.

Instead of a completed manuscript, what I got was three Word files: one called ‘tracked changes,’ one called ‘clean’ and one called ‘notes.’ The first was, of course, editorial changes that were made. Essentially, quick grammatical fixes and typos. The second file was a clean version of the manuscript and the third was ten pages of everything that sucked about the manuscript, organized into a chapter by chapter format.

It turns out, instead of hundreds, if I was really looking to get a finished product, I’d need to spend thousands and find a “ghost writer.” Then, it’d be sort of questionable whether the book was mine anymore. I really don’t know what I was thinking?

Still though, at first I was very disappointed. When the hell was I supposed to put all of this work in? It wasn’t easy coming up with that money with Florida wages. And all I got was a month’s worth of homework? I was not happy.

But, after I allowed myself to experience my twenty-four hour silent tantrum, I did what I always do. I learned to accept reality and kept it moving. I am usually doing at least a couple of hours of sitting and waiting in my truck every day, so there was no reason why I couldn’t fix a couple chapters in the morning, a couple while I was working and, on those rare occasions where I wasn’t completely wiped out by the time the work day ended, I could do one when I got home.

The next day, on my way to work, someone hit me at full speed while I was waiting at a stop sign for the chance to make a right. His insurance company gave me a rental for a week but after they decided to “total” my little Lexus Hybrid, they wanted me to return the rental and live with the three thousand dollars worth of negative equity I am now on the hook to pay off.

And, no, I don’t have gap insurance. Like many people who earn the sort of income I earn (minus groceries, bills and child support) I don’t buy a lot of “just in case” stuff that I can’t see and touch. Those items are generally snapped up by the rare few who wouldn’t miss the extra $15 a month.

I tried to shake off the accident as best as I was able to and stick to my schedule. I was successful for a few days, but then came the weekend trip to St Petersburg. If it seems like poor timing, it’s because it was. However, it was booked before the manuscript surprise and the car accident and it felt ridiculous to waste the money, so we went.

I work best in a “study hall” type of environment and a sixth floor hotel room in a bustling city during Pride Week was a few inches to the left of “study hall.”

I vowed to work twice as hard the second week.

On Tuesday, an hour after I came home from working my overnight shift, I texted my driver manager to tell him that he was incorrect about what time I needed to be in Arcadia, Florida. He thanked me and asked me if I could come in two hours earlier. I agreed even though, once again, I’d be getting less sleep.

What I didn’t expect was that two hours after that, the warehouse manager, would be texting me to bitch about the number I put in the subject line of my last email. He wanted the load number, not the Bill of Laden number. It was nothing short of scandalous. He ended his rant with “this is the last week of training.”

It was a half-hearted threat, so I decided to push on it a little to see how much of a threat it really was. Turns out, it was more of a scare tactic than a threat. None of it really mattered, because whatever semantics you want to use, it got me riled up and I was awake. I had a real possibility of having to work fourteen hours on two hours sleep.

If you’re asking yourself why a manager would text a guy at ten in the morning, who just left at six in the morning, I can only offer one answer: because he doesn’t care. Oh, you can rest assured that if I wrecked the truck because of sleep deprivation, it would be solely my own fault. If I called in sick because I only got two hours sleep, that would also be a big deal.

This was one of those no win situations that working class people are put in as a rule.

Long story short, my sleep deprived ass left my phone on the trunk after I pumped gas into the rental and my phone was mashed into sawdust. A truck driver without a cellphone, these days, is somewhat useless. That machine is our lifeline. Phone, text, browsers, GPS. It’s all necessary these days to do the job.

However, now that I don’t remember my Apple login, I can’t get any of my old data back. Nothing to fear, as Apple has promised to call me and help me get situated within the next ten days. Luckily, I was able to log on to a few things in my laptop and, with some difficulty, could continue editing my manuscript over the holiday weekend.

I’m leaving out the part where I got $150 stolen from my checking account and, subsequently, had to close the account with my entire paycheck floating in some limbo, but, at this point, you already probably think I somehow got my hands on the Brady Bunch’s omen from Hawaii, so I’ll leave that out.

But I will say this much: the universe is trying to tell me something in a very clear and concise way, and I’d be a fool not to see it. Something about my current situation is not working.

I, on the other hand, am. Through rainstorms, car accidents, bank account robberies, overbearing bosses, negative equity, my exes friends leaving crappy comments on my articles, estranged children, overnight work shifts and one harried and somewhat annoyed spouse.

Beat that!