Job.

The grating voice of Jim Ross, resident novel writer and alcoholic, whines over the intercom at 5:30 in the morning-every morning- that it was time to wake up and wishing everyone a good day. Juan and I ate breakfast together pretending nothing went on that first night we had met. We had decided that it was time to get off our rusty dusty and find some work. We saw in the local newspaper The El Paso Times that a factory was hiring for merchandise handlers and promised a good salary. Juan and I thought we’d try it out.

Eventually, we found the offices and to our dismay it was actually a job of selling novelty merchandise to local companies: calculators, daily organizers, pens, and the such. Basically, a fucking door to door salesmen. The little pudgy dwarf of a manager, a short Mexican by the name Salvador Revas interviewed us and explained the job. Juan and I were a little skeptic at first, but, Salvador persuaded us to join him for a day of whirlwind excitement in the art of door to door sales and at least give it a chance.

We spent the entire blazingly hot afternoon zipping around in Salvador’s broken down van trying to sell this crap door to door. I hated it and Juan just thought it was funny. Salvador, who insisted on us calling him ‘Juicy’, explained to us the potential of making all of this money. I thought it was a bunch of worthless shite and wound up not selling anything to those assholes we came in contact with. At the end of the day with tired feet, Juan and I said our good-byes to Juicy and returned to the Mish.

The following day, Juan talked me into going to this old wood and concrete factory across from the Rescue Mission. He heard that they were hiring and since he enjoyed hard labor it was right up his alley. The owner was a crusty cantankerous old man named Jenkins. He disliked me from the start. Jenkins would talk to Juan but stared at me with his one good eye like I just finger fucked his virgin daughter. He had Juan and I doing all sorts of menial jobs to test our endurance.

Out back Jenkins had us picking up shards of tile and placing them in this wooden bin. After about five minutes of this, I quit and walked away. An hour later, Office Depot called and hired me. I had put in an application a few days ago and after the interview they gave me the copier position. That was fine with me.

Ah, yes. Office Depot. My first day there I had made a bad impression on the orientation director, a screaming swishy fag named Dale Torres. I would constantly rib him about his sissy acting nature. He didn’t like it. And the fact he was popular with the rest of the crew, they didn’t like it either. When I started working my regular shift, my schedule Thursday, Friday, Saturday, and Sunday nights. Though the days were short, the pay was good. I guess.

The drugs that Dr. Guzman prescribed to me, in my opinion, were not working. They make me acutely agitated. I would become unusually hostile and yell and throw things for no apparent reason. Guzman assured me that it was just my systems way of adjusting to the balancing effect of the Prozac. I told him to go fuck himself and I stopped my sessions with him. I came to the conclusion that nothing was wrong with me. Why, I’m the sanest guy I know.

The time I spent with Juan Holguin was becoming somewhat of a romance. This young dark skinned straight acting cholo seems to have taken a liking to me. We take romantic strolls out behind the cement factory at night and I would blow him. He is a good companion; caring, smart, and has a great sense of humor. My attraction with Juan is growing. We went and saw The Brothers Grimm (Kitty puree!) and had lunch together and sat at a bar downtown and over beers and tequila shots talked of intimate things. We even had sex a couple of times at the mission. That being both scary and exciting in the fact that we might get caught and be asked to leave.

I think when I move into my apartment I will invite Juan to live with me.