Going Green
by April Winters
My wife must
be part Parakeet. For two years, she’s
repeated the same thing when I get home from work:
“So you got a fancy title, Harry - Hazardous
Waste Technician. Big whoop! You’re not
making much money, so we ain’t getting rich
any time soon. Besides, I’m scared one of
these days you’re gonna come home glowing in
the dark.”
I kept telling
Rita there were only two chances of that
happening: slim and none. “I’m not an
idiot. You gotta be very careful with those
dangerous chemicals.”
Unfortunately,
no one bothered passing that last little tidbit
along to the new hiring manager. That guy she
employed was about as coordinated as a newborn
calf. Did I mention they made me partner up with
him?
I blame Rita.
She shouldn’t have thrown that “glowing
in the dark” crap out all willy-nilly into
the universe. You do that and something’s
bound to come tangoing back to kick somebody in
the pants.
Life changed
for us after the incident at the ACME Nuclear
Waste Dispensary. The doc said my hair will grow
back – eventually – but my face will
never be the same. Rita thinks that might not be
such a bad thing.
During
hospital visiting hours one night, Rita asked me
what I thought about being a party clown when I
got back on my feet. “A freakin’ party
clown? You mean those guys who go around to
kids’ parties and do stupid tricks?”
She clicked
her tongue. “Oh it wouldn’t be that bad,
Harry. Besides, it’d be like getting a nice
raise. I Googled it – do you know those
clowns make over eighteen dollars an hour? Plus,
the makeup they wear could hide your scars.”
I had to admit
the money sounded great. Too bad I hate kids.
“They yell and scream, they spill stuff, and
some of ‘em stink. “Hell,” I told
her, “I already had that. The people I
worked with yelled and screamed, they’d
spill stuff, and the place didn’t exactly
smell like a rose garden. At least there, though,
I was surrounded by adults instead of snot-bubbling
whiners.”
“Well,
Einstein,” she said. “If you’re
already used to that, why not make a few more
bucks an hour? We still won’t get rich, but
you won’t be dealing in toxic waste. Kids
spillin’ stuff is a lot less dangerous,
don’tcha think? Even projectile vomit
wouldn’t land you in the hospital.”
The good news
is the settlement covered medical expenses, Klown
Kollege, and dinner at Taco Bell. Rita got a kick
out of naming my character Glozo the Clown;
she’s clever that way. The makeup covers my
scars enough not to scare the kids, and our
electric bill is down by fifty percent. We
don’t need lights after dark anymore, thanks
to my greenish glow.
Did I mention
I hate it when Rita’s right?
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