Page 48 of Thug

“What isn’t? The government’s corrupt on all levels. The police, our country’s mistreated youth, and angry spouses are unwilling to communicate and far too eager to shoot. I’m forced to have a healthcare plan that cost me a week’s wages per month—and I’m penalized on my taxes if I don’t maintain it. Our government is more concerned with preventing Mexicans from crossing our borders than they are drugs. Oh, and let’s talk taxes. Joe Schmoe doesn’t have the same loopholes at tax time that Jeff Bezos does.” I forced a dramatic sigh. “I don’t even know where to stop. It’s all so frustrating.”

He chuckled. “I thought you were Miss Happy?”

“Just because I find it frustrating doesn’t mean I’m going to let it ruin my day.”

“One of these days, you’ll get a slice of life’s pie and you won’t like the taste of it,” he said. “In fact, it’ll taste so bad that it’ll slap ‘happy’ right off the long list of feelings at your disposal.”

“I doubt it.”

“I don’t.”

“Things happen that bother me,” I said. “All the time. There’s a big difference between it altering my life and altering the way I feel. There have been times where I’ve had to choose between paying for my healthcare plan and buying gas for my car. It’s frustrating as hell, but I’m not going to let it ruin the way I live my life. The only thing I can do is try to elect someone who I feel has a better idea the next time we get a chance. Even when I had to ride my stupid bike to work, I was happy.”

“Why?”

I laughed. “Because I knew if I got hit by a car that I had health insurance.”

He looked away for a moment. “I’m going to ask you something,” he said, returning his attention to me. “But the question’s different than it appears to be on the surface.”

“Okay.”

“You’re a porn star. Would you rather spend your entire career giving the first ten minutes of a blowjob, or the last ten seconds?”

I laughed. “That’s random as fuck.”

“I thought we were having an open-ended conversation,” he said in a serious tone. “A biker and a bartender, just killing time?”

I thought it was deeper than that. Disappointed that he seemed to think otherwise, I began wiping water spots from the countertop. “We are.”

“Alright. First ten minutes, or last ten seconds?”

It was a crazy question, but my response was easy. “The last ten seconds.”

“Why?”

“Everyone congratulates the man who makes the game-winning touchdown, but no one runs up and high-fives any of the players who made the drive toward the end zone.”

He wrung his hands together but didn’t offer his thoughts.

“Whatever I do, I try to do it well,” I explained. “I don’t need your recognition for a job well done, but I need to feel like I’ve accomplished my goal.”

“You’re goal-oriented?”

I found it ironic that I was in the middle of struggling to rid the countertop of a stubborn stain. “I’d like to think so. I’m the type of person that comes to work when I’m sick. I get home at three in the morning and clean house. I even change my own oil in my car.”

His eyes narrowed. “How frequently?”

“As soon as it hits 5,000 miles.”

“You set a goal. You don’t reach it. How do you feel?”

Still rubbing the same stain incessantly, I laughed. “Driven.”

“To continue?”

“To continue until I either succeed or determine my goal was unrealistic.”

“What if your goal was realistic but you don’t succeed?”