Move, Remove

We all do this, for instance make piles of things that will have to be moved again. 100 kids in batches of 25 in the classroom tomorrow, so the reject art from "Cream Of The Crop" has to be moved, only other space not spoken for in the immediate is the Board Room, so I move everything there. Yearly auction event upcoming and stuff starts arriving at every door, this is the patrons chance to clean out some places, get rid of some things, one sweet woman whose name I didn't catch made me promise to not let her buy back anything she was donating. For a year now we just dumped things in the cellar, without a chance to organize, so the one possible storage area (a hideous space that floods and stinks) for the auction stuff, is already filled with crap, so the rest of the day I spend down there, cleaning the hold, coming up a few times for air and a smoke, take three elevator-loads of trash upstairs, three elevator loads of auction items down. Many things I have to wrap, delicate glass, because I don't have that much space and I need crowd things together. A bunch of those thin-slatted fruit cases I pack things in for safe-keeping. One woman actually brings something in that is already broken and I can't wrap my head around that, a bunch of broken glass in a bag, I put on gloves, box and tape it shut, put it in the neighboring bar's dumpster. Sometimes the janitor has to make a call, there was a class in this, at college, concerning where the guilt fell, if there was a lawsuit; when it might be necessary to mention something to your superiors, and when it was best to remain silent. Hiding the truth. Deniability. Getting shed of dead florescent bulbs is always difficult, but I've developed a technique that is both exciting and effective: explode them in a just emptied dumpster behind the bank across the way. Nothing easier. Doesn't matter if it takes a few weeks for the perfect circumstances to occur, D and I out back having a smoke and the garbage truck comes over there, D goes back upstairs, again, deniability, I put on an orange vest I keep folded in the basement, against the moment, take the bulbs over and smash them in the bottom of the dumpster, sometimes I wear a wig, sometimes I glue on a mustache, I change hats. I enjoy smashing the bulbs, I wear safety glasses and long-sleeves, fuck the argon, I can breathe almost anything, go to lunch on inert gases, my goal is, at death, to become neon: "Live Bait", my all-time favorite sign, in neon, at a fish-camp in north Florida, Paccetti's, the 'Live' is red and the 'Bait' is blue, I see this sign in dreams, sometimes the one thing I remember, probably be distracting to me, day-to-day, but I might turn it on for parties, like someone else's scented candles. If I ever had a party. I seem to consult on cooking for that clan about once a year, just enough to stay viable. That other guy. The one that justified a certain introspection. I haven't forgotten where I was just a couple of nights ago. It may be that the best you can hope for is not dying. I tend toward the negative because I am so often wrong. Not this. Fuck introspection. I need to clear some brush. The answer is almost always physical work: I'm a Sling-Blade Man, doo doo doo, I'm a Sling-Blade Man.