banjo

He puts three logs into the wood-burning stove and pulls a chair closer to the warmth. His dog’s name is Banjo and it sidles closer, too, to the heat. It is Sunday night and he – they – are waiting for bedtime. It has come to this – waiting to go to sleep. Tomorrow, he will head into town, looking for work. It has been like this for the past seven Mondays. No one is hiring. No one needs an honest laborer. Already, he’s cut back on Banjo’s portions. Already he’s cut back on electricity and logs. Already he’s cut back on his own amenities, much as they were. The wind blows, whistles, outside, and he hopes he can wait out the downturn. He never expected to be like this, but it is what it is, he has come to say. He pulls on a second sweater and crosses himself, thanking God for global warming. It could be much, much worse. Banjo sneezes, then yawns. At least he is not alone.