Hand-shaken, spit-on-the-dollar contracts. Each one of them says I’ve got to plow snow, so I’m up before the sun. The rusty yellow metal scrapes across the asphalt of Spectrum Used Cars as I gas the truck back and forth. The lot’s every bit as small as it looks. Probably only holds fifteen cars. I make quick work of it because I’ve got three others to clear before eight. I started a half-hour ago and the cab’s just now got some warmth about it. The heater doesn’t work like it used to. Neither do my bones. Getting out of bed is a title match. I never know who’s going to win the next round—me or the old man who swears he’s me. He put up a fight today, coughing up the stuff that settles in at night. I told him I didn’t much mind the sound of him, so he stiffened up his joints. Stiffened them up like curing cement. I threw off the covers like it was easy, just to spite him. Cold hardwood on bare feet sent me searching for my wool socks. I labored into the rest of my clothes and wandered down the warped stairs.
