Machinist I Don’t Have A Problem With Anger I Have A Problem With Idiots Shirt, hoodie
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Machinist I Don’t Have A Problem With Anger I Have A Problem With Idiots Shirt, hoodie
In the early 1990s, I opened up a small deli and hired a couple of my older son’s friends, about 20 years old, to work there.
One of them was Bonnie.
I’d first met her when she and my son were in a high school production of “Guys and Dolls.” She was beautiful, talented and charming, with natural charisma, and the audience was enraptured whenever she sang.
Bonnie lived with her mother in a house two blocks from me, so when she and I closed the deli at night, I’d drive her home, and I’d tell her anecdotes I had dined out on for years: when I was a deckhand on ammo ships to Vietnam, when I spent months studying meditation in Indian ashrams or took peyote with the Native American Church. Bonnie laughed or gasped in all the right places, a perfect audience of one.
I know what you’re probably thinking, but there was no romantic vibe on my part. None. I thought of her as the daughter I’d never had.
The deli was struggling to survive, and on top of that, I was diagnosed with cancer. During the months I went through radiation and surgery, Bonnie and Rudy, a night clerk, ran the deli. After treatment, when I returned to work, I realized there was a discrepancy between how much food we sold and how much money we took in. I suspected that Rudy, the night clerk, was stealing from the till, so I let him go.
After three years, I closed the deli and moved on.
Fast forward to the Fourth of July 2005. My sons were playing with a brass band at a farmers’ market and I ran into Bonnie, whom I hadn’t seen in years. She was thin, her face was drawn, her complexion sallow. She pulled me aside, so we could talk.
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