Mark’s main preoccupation as a highschooler was trying to figure out how he could scrape together a living as an adult. His mother informed him frequently and smugly that at 18 he would be booted from his home so that she could enjoy the exclusive company of his step-father.
It seemed so daunting. Mark studied the bills that came through the slot every day, piling up on the tacky “Welcome!” mat on which he banged the snow off his boots. Electricity, Internet, cable, heating, gas, dues so that his step-father could receive a record once a month. It was much more than his meager summer jobs – Dairy Queen, church janitor, lawn mower – could ever cover.
Near the end of his senior year, Mark moved out a few weeks before his 18th birthday. His mom grunted when he left. He moved in with a buddy from the grade above, Freddy, who had taken a job at the tool and dye place on the outskirts of town after high school.
After some rough years doing grunt work, Mark accidentally fell into a mechanic gig which he enjoyed alright and which paid him more than enough to live alone and buy a couch or anything else he could want.
While smoothing out the hood of an old lady’s old sedan which a stray baseball had dented, he realized that he’d never planned what to do with his life once he found a tolerable job that paid a tolerable wage and that he had no clue what to do with the rest of his life. Mark was 26. The dent came right out.
[Buy Saint Bartlett.]
This must be one of the oddest songs I’ve ever heard. I can’t say I liked it but on the other hand, I didn’t hate it.
I do believe this song has made me very placid.
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