I CAN'T HIT A FASTBALL ANYMORE

I am in the middle of my ninth year retired from the BISD. I earn botana money from my scriptures on my blog and Facebook, but I haven't worked a day during this period. I noticed that a convenience store five minutes from my domicile was advertising for a cashier. I inquired about the position with the owner. He offered me a fair sum of money, but it required me working Monday through Saturday from 6 a.m. to 3 p.m. I accepted his offer and trained Friday and Saturday.

I have been drinking too much lately. Combined with the two milligrams of Xanax I take every day to deal with reality and relax my body, the two have resulted in several falls in recent months. Last Wednesday I was in a bar and the next thing I knew I was waking up the following morning. One ear was caked in blood, my upper lip was cut and my neck ached. I have had a headache that hasn't abated. It hits me in cycles.
"You're going to kill yourself if you continue abusing yourself in this matter," said Estanislao Contreras, the controversial poet of Chicano Fuck Songs. "You need to significantly reduce the Xanax dosage and the amount of alcohol you're guzzling. These dangerous occurrences are happening too often. I'm serious. You're going to kill yourself. You want to be around for your grandkids, don't you?"
Besides pocketing the extra money, I wouldn't be drinking if I had to rise six days of the week by 5:30 a.m. This reality played a major role in taking the job. I started my training. There are three screens on the counter, one each for the lottery, general merchandise and gas. Most everything is scanned, but there are various items that require knowledge of the prices. I'm an old dog incapable of learning new tricks. My mind has atrophied. I came home Friday paralyzed by all the information that I had to assimilate. I could only listen to Liszt.
On Saturday I trained at 6 a.m. because the cook starts his shift and there are several chores that the cashier has to perform in terms of opening the store. Then it was back to the three screens. There are 100 different scratch-off tickets on the right side of the counter and there are the cigarettes and other nicotine products behind the cashier. In many cases I had no idea of the customer's request. And this was only the tip of the iceberg in terms of the many and miscellaneous products. Nine hours later I returned to my apartment, a shattered man.
I couldn't sleep. Rows and rows of numbers that one would view on a computer screen following the stock market surfed through my mind. If I took this job, there would be no time for writing, exercising and reading. My feet were killing me. My back turned stiff. As much as I desired the extra money, I have grown accustomed to the extra time. At two in the morning I still hadn't fallen asleep and I was expected at the store in four hours.
I picked up my phone and sent the owner the following text: "I'm sorry, but I cannot do the job. At 74 I'm too old. You were very nice to me. Ultimately, I haven't worked in eight years and I know that I can't do the job even though I thought I could. I wasn't comfortable with myself because I knew the job was going to wear me down. I have good retirement and medical insurance and I don't need to work. Again, thank-you very much, but I don't want to waste your time. Good luck." I took the Xanax that I had skipped because I didn't want to oversleep. I slept until the early afternoon.
I have never felt such a mental relief. The job would have been as bad as being incarcerated. I might have more money, but I would have no freedom. I would be too exhausted to enjoy the little free time I would have.

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