My Flash Fiction or Short-short Story, "My Part-time Job, Years Ago."

Copyright Glo Lewis 9/18/2023

 

Dear Readers of My Blog, 💚

 

I have decided to share my flash fiction or short-short story, “My Part-time Job, Years Ago,” with you. Here it is below (As usual, God bless, and I'll be in touch soon):

 

 

My Part-time Job, Years Ago

Copyright Glo Lewis 9/18/2023

 

 

 

Work is a jeweled-eyed coyote; it splashes up out of my subconscious, shaking its shaggy coat, when I least expect it. It devours the domestic cat within me as I relax, casually kneading my nails into the sofa on a Sunday afternoon with a paper to write, books to study, or a long-awaited chapter of my novel, crying out for revision. Suddenly, the animal of work is there, salting my psyche-- and I wonder: Did I do this or forget that?

The chandelier of sunlight sparkles like twisting streams of rock candy in the center of my days. By night, packs of coyotes compete for my attention. The staccato punches of their yodeling barks kill my dreams on summer nights, as I wrest with misgivings about future work. Where heads the wild, loping ride of my future? Its amber eyes are wary. Will I create the work, or will it execute me?

Right now, struggling to be a novelist, my job at PSU is only two days per week, but there is much to it. I feel like I labor all week. Yet, when I think about it even in the minus of a minute, I am grateful for the excitement of this employment.

All the people and the responsibilities, the events, the chaos, the errors and confusion, the flaring of tempers, the frustration, the accolades and the love, the people I get to know, who get to know me.

My walk with God and holding fast to that and my spiritual principles even when under fire—when I feel a tiny spark of the old Glo getting frustrated and impatient—thinking how crazy an idea is, how impossible, and then waiting, holding off, thinking better and smarter, and realizing that I can hold my peace because tomorrow is, after all, another opportunity.

The Americans and the Fulbright scholars from around the world, brilliant teachers, smart students, the rushing around, the lack of follow-through, the getting it all done, rallying at the last minute, those who taught me things for my job so well, now leaving. New people coming on board.

Lighted birthday cakes at meetings. Young people with blue and hot pink hair and big boots or dainty red flats. Those who seemed to resent me finally demonstrating acceptance. Professors. Cafeteria workers. Great food and not so good. Trees a riot of color. Rushing through wind and rain. Bosses who know the system jokingly yelling at me that I am making errors. Running into old friends from the Dean's office on the street, on the stairs, in the elevator-- "We must have lunch!" we shout.

Mistakes coming at me from all sides as I try to do the right thing; managers telling me to run with a project; supervisors complaining that we need to slow it down; instructors and colleagues joking with me, sidling up to me, laughing; bands playing on campus, religious people with wild hair in ragged clothes, Bible in hand, imploring the students and anyone who will listen, "Jesus loves you!"

The pulse of panic in my dash to work, having overslept and awakened to the warm tongue of my dog, River, licking my hand. The memory of my clock beeping through its cycle still lingering like larceny.

Being given more responsibilities; being chastised; being praised how great I am, so important to the projects and assignments; being sent emails that state I am valued; being slighted and forgotten; having others show dismay that they overlooked me that way.

Being told that we need to get it done, get it out, get it rolling-- hurry, hurry!

Being advised that we should have waited, because now there are revisions, and the old stuff is all wrong. Get it done; re-do it; get it out; get it rolling. That's how it is, they say, and someone whispers, "Welcome to PSU." Here's another big bureaucracy, and on and on...

Some days, I leave work so tired that I can barely trudge through the grimy parking structure to my vehicle. But all of it makes the job so much more rewarding.

Sometimes I want to call it quits, but as Sinatra once sang, "My heart won't buy it."

Besides, I need the job.

 

 

The End