Money is Money
I had my first shift where nobody died and I still came home feeling wrecked.
So that was new.
It wasn’t some big dramatic scene either. No flames. No pileup. No movie-of-the-week trauma.
Just an old woman in a cramped apartment who couldn’t catch her breath and kept apologizing to me for “being a bother.”
That part got me.
Not the oxygen tank. Not the cyanosis. Not the smell of stale air and menthol and loneliness.
The apologizing. Like she had to earn help. I sat in my car after shift and cried like an idiot for ten solid minutes.
You don’t have to say anything wise about it. I just wanted somebody to know.
Also I got a second job for a while, just to shore things up. Not glamorous. Tips-based. Men are awful. Women are worse. I smile until my cheeks hurt and come home smelling like fryer grease.
Still. Money is money.
And before you ask, no, I haven’t gone out with anyone from either job. The options are bleak.
—Reva