PRESSURE PRESS ARCHIVE

Bob's Gone   7 years an operator tumbling out of high-school barely graduating because of whiskey & valium & dope, we were good friends who shared all the alcohol & smoke on breaks back in the warehouse & parkinglot completely smashed on our machines thru most of the 80's. many, many inside jokes kept us sane under cavitating, deteriorating hydraulics & evil, suck-ass bosses like powell who, on retrospect, surely enjoyed fucking with hatred, fuck, he supplied a lot of the beer & ignorance. powell's unburst boil there on the back of his oily neck we'd do monkey-laugh when he walked away, pretend innocence if he turned around. how many times i dreamed him dead, slaughtered by, say, jack-hammers. old fuck farmer when technology & statistical process control & total quality management hadn't reached erie, pennsylvania. office-boys beat powell into the pile of shit he was, & when he quit, i rejoiced & we partied even harder, jerry had great supply of black & gummy hashish we rolled into a tiny ball on a pin & hit eventually OUNCES i think ALL of 1984. man i get those years confused can't figure episodes but bob walks around & looks so much like powell, blasted on fifths & fifths & half-gallons & vats, an entire jupiter of bourbon, abusing all the new operators who throw him fingers & hearts of bitterness, does NOT smoke but can be bought with some cocaine now & again. even i'm feeling resentful bob brother, lost in asshole politics of the plastics industry, history's mirror we try to avoid for the blind, deaf dollar, the pennies minutes milliseconds rolling digital timers christ! bob squats beside his wrecked bobcat devouring kentucky bourbon all night, the shit! drinking & ratting & drinking. bob's gone he's management.