I stood at the gas pump tonight, staring at my boots, listening to the machine tick its way through my bank account.  I leaned forward to spit, but the sudden pressure in my jaw veto’d.

I tried not to think about what it cost me to get four deeply rooted wisdom teeth pried from my head.

I tried not to think about the $80 I spent on eggs, vitamins and vegetable juice tonight.  I refused to look at the gas pump.

I’m not terribly attached to money.  I like having it only for knowing that my bills are paid.  I plan my life one plodding, swaggering, stumbling footprint after the next.  The money is spent before I get it.

I could tell you how I’ll spend $25k on an engine (inconel, titanium) before you can say “uncontrollable valve loft” . . .

The pump stopped.  I didn’t look.  I returned the handle, closed up my tank and climbed back in my car.  The spongy feeling hit me, the melatonin kicking in.  I watched every green light turn red, going in and out of focus.  Almost home, I thought.

I think of everything in hours.  How many hours does this bottle of whiskey cost me?  How many since my last drink?  How many hours for a whore at the Bunny Ranch?

Not to fuck her, maybe just smack her around with my belt.

How many hours until I’m back at work?  How many until the weekend?

I’m tired of waiting.  Tired of watching the clock.  The calender.  The phone.  Wait for the alarm.  Wait for the whistle.  Wait for the light.

I don’t want permission anymore.

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