As we ate organic chicken taquitos in the employee dining hall during lunch, my coworker Brynn asked me if I planned to attend “that thing” commemorating the twentieth anniversary of 9/11.
I couldn’t resist. “You mean take your plane to work day?”
Brynn laughed. Then I think that bitch complained to HR, just as I think she’d complained when I’d joked about fundamentalist anti-trans nutcases. No sensitivity training this time, though—the company fired me, after those federally-enhanced unemployment benefits had expired. So much for the publishing business. Perhaps I had a death wish, saying anything around her. But I had gigantic balls. And I still do. In your mama’s mouth, ha ha.
Copyright © 2021 by David V. Matthews
September 10, 2021