Love him or hate him, the guy sure can write!
…He could barely do it. I still can’t believe he didn’t have a hernia. Maybe he did. I could have sworn that at one point I saw one of his testicles roll out the bottom of his pants and skitter to the curb.
…That’s when I vowed to never complain about my job again.
…But before we got to the restaurant, I made the mistake of looking back. And I saw this man, this hard-working immigrant man who probably sends most of his money back home to Latvia or wherever he was from, standing in the street, the rain streaming off him, staring at his broken livelihood.
I was barely able to choke my risotto down.
If I ever complain out here again about how hard I have it, someone remind me of this story . . . not that you’ll have to, I hope, but just in case.
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