fifty-eight
It’s a sad, sad day for ol’ Dick. Over the years I’ve experienced a gradual diminishing of income from my residuals and royalties. It’s been sort of like watching gangrene eat its way up my leg to my heart - the inexorable march of decay. Years ago I was drinking nothing but top-dollar scotch but now it’s nothing but rot-gut. I have always known this day was coming. To everything there is a season, I guess.
So it has now come to this - I have to get a job.
Not that I haven’t ever had a job - I’ve had a few: bartender, landscape gardener, fisherman, bovine castrater, Mr. Softee man, ballon sculptor, butter packer - just to name a few. But these were all acquired through friends or by leveraging the modest fame once associated with Dick from Africa and were only meant to be short-term supplements to an already adequate portfolio. I’ve never actually had to search, apply, and interview for a job. It’s been so long - 40 years or more - I don’t know where to start.
I’m really bumming. It’s like there’s been a death. So sad …
