This is Peanut. We used to work together, back in the day. It's sad to say, but I've lost track of him. Peanut dipped Beehive snuff, prayed to High John The Conqueror, and called shit like he saw it. He made me laugh approx. 1,000,000 times. We washed a whole lot of dishes together in this cramped, little dish room. Last I heard, he was working on an assembly line somewhere in middle Georgia, manufacturing babies' clothes.
Co-workers like this enter our lives, are meaningful for a while, and then disappear into oblivion. I often think about my old co-workers, though, and I wonder what they're doing, how they've fared, and so on. This is probably a sign of my general resistance to goodbyes, closure, and the passage of time. I don't care, though. I have always felt a real sense of solidarity with my co-workers, especially in retrospect. I guess that makes me a Pinko Commie. So be it, then. I am a Pinko.
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