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I remember seeing Elijah at Mama's Royal
Cafe, unshaven, pale, haggard eyes and skin, damp stringy hair hanging down
to his chin and wild self-hate haunting his motions, the shitty tattoos
staining his arms as he hustled around the restaurant head down in self
shame and loathing and consumed by it, dirty dishrag wet and held loosely in
his hand, stained apron draped around his waist under his equally stained
shirt. He worked feverishly, like he drank. He worked feverishly, clinging
to the job as a man clings to a life preserver. He hustled around the
kitchen, hypnotized by cooking sherry and the blind rhythms of the job. He
came early and stayed late. He gladly worked off the clock in abject
gratefulness to the job. Anita, the kitchen manager, loved him. She'd tell
him to go home. He would hunch his shoulders and march out, to go and drink
in the shower, take a deep drink in the shower. "My favorite place to drink
is in the shower. I love to pound 40's in the shower."
The job would be the last thing he
would lose.
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