“They honked when I worked slow. No one slowed down when I fell.” They used to call me “Patch.”Not because I wore one, but because I fixed them. Potholes. Cracks. Blacktop buckles that could eat a tire whole. For thirty-eight years, I chased the sun up and down county roads with a shovel in one […]
I Built Your Roads. But You Swerved Around Me at the End Read More »
“I heard senators pray behind locked doors. Then watched them vote to cut my pension.” Clara’s knuckles, gnarled like ancient oak roots, tightened around the worn handle of the mop. The acrid tang of industrial cleaner bit at her nostrils, a smell as familiar as her own breath. Seventy-two years old, and the only thing
I Used to Scrub the Floors of Congress. Now I Clean Motel Bathrooms Read More »
I trained the new guy. He was an app. For thirty-two years, I drove the same delivery route through the heart of Lancaster County, Pennsylvania. Back in the ’70s, when I started, the truck was a beat-up Ford with a stick shift that groaned like my old man after a double shift at the steel
They Took My Route. Then They Took My Dignity Read More »
“My back gave out the day my son got into college.” That was the last box I ever lifted at the warehouse. Seventy-two pounds of diapers, bulk-packed and wrapped in torn plastic, dropped straight down the loading ramp as my spine screamed and my knees buckled. I remember the dull thud, the way the concrete
By someone you’ve probably passed in the grocery aisle “Every shirt in your closet passed through my fingers—until they moved the factory to Mexico.” That’s not an exaggeration. For thirty-two years, I stitched sleeves to shoulders, collars to necklines, and labels to the back where no one ever looked. I was the one who turned
“I Brought Your Medicine, Your Food, Your Christmas Gifts. But I’ve Spent 12 Birthdays Alone.”A trucker’s lament in a world that forgot how things got where they are. I brought your medicine, your food, your Christmas gifts. But I’ve spent 12 birthdays alone. Not that anyone asked. Truth is, I haven’t celebrated my birthday since
I’ve Driven 1.2 Million Miles, and Still No One Knows My Name Read More »
“They clapped for me during COVID. Then outsourced my job to a robot.” That’s how it ended. Not with a handshake. Not with a thank you. Not even a damn human voice on the line. Just a kid in a collared shirt I’d never seen before, reading off a script through Zoom, telling me my
He Called Me a Hero. Then He Fired Me on Zoom” – A Janitor’s Truth Read More »
A Short Story for Those Who Remember When People Meant More Than Views “I gave that kid free pie for ten years. He left me 25 cents and a TikTok video.” That’s how it ended. Forty-three years of hot plates, burnt coffee, and knowing how every regular liked their eggs. Poached soft for Earl. Scrambled
They Tipped Me a Quarter and Filmed Me Crying Read More »
by someone who still believes music is not a luxury “They said music class wasn’t essential. Tell that to the blind boy who sang at graduation.” That’s what I told the school board the night they voted to slash the arts program. They didn’t look up. Not once. Just kept scribbling notes on their tablets,
I Wrote the National Anthem in Braille for My Students Read More »
He survived Iraq. But every night at dinner, I watched him disappear. The boy who used to chase fireflies in our backyard, who’d laugh so hard he’d snort milk through his nose, was gone. In his place sat a man in a pressed uniform, medals pinned to his chest, but his eyes—those blue eyes that
