In the name of trying to get, but never being promoted, I let them send me on a 'roof walk' with a bunch of constructiony dudes at a prison in Stockton. As I climbed the ladder up the roof of a prison, my wig wipping around my face threatening to blow into the sky, I wondered how I'd gotten to this point in my life.
"You're doing great, Coll!" some guy yelled from the ground. I turned to look down at him through tangles of faux hair and immediately wished I had not. Oh God, I'm going to die, I told myself as I clutched the rungs. I turned back around and pressed my face into the building, leaving a smear of makeup.
I didn't die, I made it onto the roof and back down the roof and eventually all the way back to Sacramento into my cubicle where I'm WAY underpaid. I sat back in my chair grumbling and opened my email to find I'd congruently been assigned several clock and binocular orders to mark someone in the Department retiring and pummeling toward their own death.
"God damn it," I muttered and immediately felt Jesus Guy's eyes on my back.
I would have gone to Taco Bell at that point and gotten cheesy fiesta potatoes to escape into, but it was motherfucking 108 degrees outside and the air conditioner had crapped out in my car. I can't possibly describe to you the firey pits of hell-esque conditions of driving home on the highway alongside big rigs and oil tankers with my wig and my makeup and padded bra suffocating every part of my body. It feels like my tiny Toyota will ignite in flames right there, and I will combust having not even been the receipient of a clock or binoculars.