By Joshua Ryan
I woke up the next day, and I was still a workie. The other workies knew what I used to be. My former friends knew what I was now. But nothing had changed. Nobody actually cared. After all, I was just a workie. I was a workie the day before; I was a workie now; I would always be a workie. Unless this was all a fuckin nightmare, and I was about to wake up. Or unless Mike and Jerry were gettin their rocks off, shaming me and hazing me, and when they got through, they would throw me out. That was my only hope.
I went back to washing the floors and scrubbing the toilets, and the other workies went back to whatever. Marky and Mr. Meyers took me on their little trips into town. I got better at slogging workie suits from the washer to the dryer. The nights got cold, and the boss brought out a stack of colorful quilts for us to use on our beds. I was ready to puke, it was so faggy. I slept under my ratty old workie blanket, and froze.