MY NEW CAREER
by: Michael Hathaway
some call him handicapped, some call him special, some call him
disabled. i imagine he's been called worse in his 59 years. i just call him
Clem. i work for him midnight to eight a.m., clean his house, see to it
he has safe, peaceful sleep. around seven he hobbles out of bed,
appears in his living room doorway, what little hair he has standing
at-attention.
with his near-toothless grin he says, "HI!!! I'm h-u-u-n-n-n-ngy!" while
I fix his cereal, he shuffles around his bedroom donning t-shirt and
overalls. he pats my shoulder, sits down to eat, says, "thank you,
Man." he shovels frosted flakes in his mouth, too fast, milk dribbling down his
chin. he approaches me at the sink, so earnestly, nose-to-nose. he wants
to tell me he's finished eating through a mouthful of unchewed cereal, but
coughs unexpectedly. there i stand laughing at shift's end, my face a
puddle of milk and soggy frosted flakes.