SUMMER OF ‘95
by
Michael Ewing
The blaring alarm
shattered my sleep. I groaned and cracked my greasy eyes open wondering when
five-thirty in the morning had gotten so damned bright. I pulled the pillow
over my aching head and tried to figure out a way of not going into work. The
night before I had gone out drinking at Shy’s with Scott and Justine for their
anniversary and had overindulged. Yesterday, my boss, Gregg, had asked me for
five more names for layoffs and it was easy to drink more than I should have.
God, I hated my job.
