Every Friday, I get a nice little pay cheque. My bosses still can't spell my name; the amusement of watching them write it out three times, swear, then start over hasn't worn out yet. Of course, this entertainment keeps me in good stead while I try not to cry from the tiny number. I work service. It will never be a big cheque in service.

Between the me and the bank lies the hardest trial of my week.

I broke up with Film Boy on Sunday night. His grandmother died on Monday. I fixed my DVD player Monday night. I took him back Tuesday, early morning. I spent $100 on DVDs Tuesday afternoon. The health inspector visited the Shop just as I got into work Wednesday morning. A dear friend kept me up in a nightmare-like stupor while he tripped Wednesday night-Thursday morning. I may have slept two of these nights.

But all of those weird, sad, frightening, heart-wrenching, irritating ways to spend a week so far held nothing in the difficulties that lay on Queen west as I walked to Scotiabank. 

John Fluevog

The store was open today.

[Omitted for coherence]

At last I deposited the entire cheque and continued on my way to the subway and home. Still wearing my 6-year-old orthopaedic shoes.