How Could You not Do Well in the Bahamas? by Ian Wolff
There is a man living under my house. He moved in a week ago. At first I thought it was a raccoon making a nest for itself with the leaves from the big maple out back. The leaves had all fallen from the tree, and I had raked them into piles in the yard. I’m not much of a yard-work man, but I had needed the diversion. I’ll go ahead and tell you, my girlfriend left me.
Melissa left me not long after I quit my job at Danza’s where I was a line cook. I shouldn’t have quit. It was a good job. I made decent enough money. Enough to buy this lousy clapboard shotgun shack. And I had full benefits. But the GM had it in for me and constantly rode my ass until, finally, I came out of the kitchen and punched him in the face in the middle of service. Melissa made it through most of my drunk that followed. But she finally gave up after day eight, and ran off with Danza’s brother, the sommelier….
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