Much Ado About Clothing

Issue #5 Don't Know What You've Got Till It's Gone

As soon as I get home I call Miguel and tell him what I've discovered and what I'm going to do.

"Are you serious, Cuz? They just got a pay increase and they are throwing fits over our letter? I was almost beginning to believe they really couldn't afford it."

"I hate to stick this on you, but I think it would be better if I didn't come in at all. Which means you will have to take all the phone calls and explain to them what's going on."

"Yeah, I understand. Hey, why don't you come by before we open in the morning and put a message on your direct line? If anyone decides they want to agree to the new pay rate, they can leave a message and we'll call them back."

"Good idea. I'll see you in the morning."

Friday morning my dauntless resolve holds out right up until I get home and realize I have nothing to do. Nothing. To. Do. I can't remember the last time that was a problem. Usually, even when I'm slacking in front of my game console I have work waiting for me. I start stressing over the formal message I left on the machine at work and on my voicemail. It was short and sweet: "Hi you've reached Matt Johnson. Due to resistance to our new pricing scale, the custom tailoring section of Spic 'N Span Drycleaning is currently on strike. If you would like to commission work, and are willing to do so at the new rate, please leave a message and we will provide you with an updated contract. Thank you."

I'm not sure how I could have made it more succinct, but I worry nonetheless. Then I remember Brenda's comment about Supers having more money than they knew what to do with, and I stop worrying. I spend the day watching TV and battling mutants. Ten minutes after five o'clock I can't take it anymore, so I dial the Spic 'N Span. Miguel answers on the second ring.

"Matt, you son of a gun, you may have done it!"

"What? Already? Who called? What did they say?"

"I don't know, I haven't listened to the messages yet, but your line has been ringing off the hook! Some even called the main line. I just transferred them to the machine, but it certainly seems like you are still in demand!"

"That is such great news! Don't worry about going through the messages, I'll get them in an hour or two. Have a good night, cousin."

"You too."

Bolstered, I place an order at the Cottage Inn down the road. After a couple slices of celebratory cheese pizza, I sit down with a pad and paper and dial up the answering machine in my office. Forty two minutes later I'm back to the increasingly familiar feeling of despondency. The messages were varied: growled irritation, teacherly disappointment, and explosive indignation. Even the occasional heartbroken sounding plea, as if I had filed for divorce rather than just going on strike. But not one of them was an actual consent for work.

Saturday Jasmine drags me out of the house and we bum around the park and go to a matinee. Sunday my Dad asks me to help him work on his car. I don't know anything about mechanics, but I know if I stay home I will just stress myself out about work. I also know that my mom will be cooking, and getting a free meal or two seems like a smart investment in my continued existence.

Mom turns to me as I'm helping her wash the dishes from dinner and says,

"So, what's bothering you?"

"What do you mean?" I reply in all innocence.

"Honey, I love having you here, but you gave Long John a bath, vacuumed the living room, and spent two hours holding a flashlight for your father. Now you're rinsing dishes and I'm willing to bet if I so much as look at the laundry room, you will volunteer to fold clothes. You are obviously trying to stay busy, so something must be really bothering you."