A: Why not?
B: Because you can’t beat a fucking clock.
A: You can’t beat…?
B: A clock. You can’t beat a clock.
A: …
B: I used to have this job at a Kinko’s on the site of an old Civil War hospital in Milwaukee. It was on Brady and Farwell, a dire crossroads where all of the customers were desperate in diverse ways. Each one seeking grace differently in order to try to make it: fedoras, colorful glasses, letters to the editor.
Despite the colorful clientele, it was a job and the hours had to be clocked. The only thing I managed to do to maintain a zone of freedom around me, almost like a force field, was to go into the bathroom with poetry books stuffed into my apron and read stuff on the john. I felt free and I traveled to great worlds in that shitter.
A: Right.
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