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Ben Hecht
B. 2.28.1894 New York City / D. 4.18.1964 New York City

I realize I should be writing about the tsunami disaster but I still donít know what to say, except that Iíve been too broke to send a donation yet. I didnít get a Christmas bonus but I did something essential on my week off from work afterwards. On the Sunday I declared a moratorium against thinking about my job until Wednesday at the very earliest. I was being plagued by a nasty bout of fantasy confrontations with a work superior and you know how that is
frightening exhilarating heart-pounding
wasted hours, sitting at the kitchen table while nothing gets done. The cats pace, they fling litter. All at once I became greedy for the time Iíd earned. I wanted my time and I wanted it good. That meant a firm goodbye to my awful fantasy work superior, au revoirs to her thrilling comeuppance
I closed the iron door on them
and my lovably infantile sometime boss would have to say sayonara, too.
The occupation was over. Until Wednesday
I resolved, every time my job peeked round my windowsills I would shoo it away. My job, I would notice in this new light, bore all the outlines and markings of a troublesome neighborhood child who cannot learn
an idiot, making pig faces on windowpanes.
Through the accumulated mucous tracks of its peculiar essence of catastrophe, I looked my job in the nose and felt a burst of sad angry impatience: Why is it allowed?
Then I think discouragement must have made it lose interest because my job stopped coming back. Friday I realized Iíd forgotten to think about it on Thursday. I continued to think instead about other things in the world. By the time I returned to work the following week, this week, my job was like something Iíd lost among the papers on my desk. I knew it was there, but
on Tuesday I applied for something else.

Consolation Site: Uncredited

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