Fallout (Crank 3)

air shift tomorrow. Another change:

I’ve been promoted. Still

working weekends, and assorted

holidays, when the so-called

stars would rather sleep in.

But no more late nights. I’ve

moved to the six to eleven a.m. slot.

Yeah, it’s a little more money.

But it also means I have to be

up at five a.m. to get to the station

on time, wide-awake and

prepared to help listeners

“Start your day, the X way.”

I entertain myself for a while,

watching other people’s various

stages of inebriation and half

listening to the argument

in my head—the smart side

of my brain saying, “Leave

the damn bowl alone,” while

the dimwit half asks, “What harm

could three little pills do?”

To pharm or not to pharm? Ah,

what the hell? I close my eyes,

reach into the capsule stew,

grab three anonymous pills.

But before I can pop them into

my mouth, my cell buzzes.

Nikki texts: Can u pick me up?

Car won’t start. Dead batt.