So the therapy helps. And the Buspar™ is working (the “anti-depressant” meds they’re giving me). And I haven’t had to have any surgery, emergency or scheduled for a year and a half. Business is booming. There’s hope that we can pull a financial miracle out of the hat and get out of the debts we unknowingly inherited buying the company. We increase everyone’s shifts/hours. We are literally running 24/7 with 10 employees shoving almost two million in typesetting and pre-press jobs through a year and all the employees except 2 have less than 18 months on the job!

One day, Fred tells me, the client just called and we’re not going to get job X. And because of that, there’s nothing else on the horizon so we either have to lay off one person or cut everyone’s hours. We decide to cut hours—it seems more fair and we don’t lose the skill we’ve worked so hard to teach these employees. I start telling everyone, one at a time at their workstations. I have two more to go when he calls me in his office. “Have you told everyone yet?” “Almost,” I say. “Well, stop, and tell everyone we’re now on mandatory overtime, minimum 50 hour weeks for the next two to three months!” That, my dear readers, is the printing business! Feast or famine and it can change in a heart beat! Or a phone call, as in this case. We just got awarded sole production from a small text book publisher and it’s their peak season. This is on a Wednesday.

Now, for the past six years, I’ve lived with this roller coaster of work. I’ve worked literally 72 hours in the same suit and panty hose (and let me tell you, some where between hours 12 and 16 they “become one” with your body! e-e-e-w-w). I’ve caught cat naps on a cot in the ladies room for an entire summer, only really sleeping on the weekends. It’s been 60 to 80 hour weeks for way too long. I’m not that strong. (At least, that’s my mind set so that indeed, is my reality.)

This same Wednesday I find out a former employee has died. He O.D.’d. When he was clean, he was one of the best workers I’d ever seen. He was a happy, gentle soul, very willing to do whatever needed to be done. We’d hired him through Goodwill Industries and knew he’d been through rehab but hey, he was making deliveries and cleaning toilets so we felt blessed to have someone so bright and eager. I started to show him a bit about the computers even. What we didn’t realize was the public housing across the street from our downtown location was a known crack house. It wasn’t long before the temptation was too great. We had to fire Alvin because when he was high he stole the cash box and pawned a couple of typewriters. But I had this strange connection to Alvin and I felt compelled to go to his funeral. And it was on a Saturday after all.

Fred was livid! He didn’t want me to go to the funeral. “You’re needed to get the work out.” (Does that mean I’m irreplaceable? I daren’t ask it though!) But I was really, really compelled to go. Perhaps because my younger brother was in prison for crack addiction. I could see him in Alvin and felt so bad for my brother and so grateful he was “safe” in prison. Anyway, I for once I defied Fred and went.

Now, I’m a very middle-class very white chick. Very fair skinned. Alvin was half white. So, there were two white folks at the funeral. His mom, and me! It’s rare for me to feel uncomfortable with any group of people but for some reason this seemed awkward. The service was nice—long—but really showcased the light side of him rather than the possessed side. Leaving the service, there were wooden steps leading to the parking lot. Going down the stairs I suddenly felt a presence. I even turned and looked over my left shoulder. I could feel Alvin standing there, laughing as he did, and his brilliant smile flashing at me. The next thing I know, I’m on the ground and two of the oldest, most shriveled up, skinny black men are attempting to pick me up! I weighed 220 lbs. NOT! Somehow we manage to get me up although I really know I can't walk and should just stay put. See, I missed the last step and the curb. I fell about eight inches and pretty much shattered my right ankle. 215 lbs were turning left to go to my car while 5 pounds (my right foot) decided to go 180 degrees to the right. That doesn’t work, folks!

to be continued...