by Brett Stout
I’m sitting in the beat up white work van with my co-worker Marvin next to some vacant generic strip mall out in some North Atlanta suburb at five in the a.m. It’s fucking freezing and coal black outside. I sit and smoke cigarettes and drink my crappy and cheap gas station coffee while Marvin snorts a line of speed to get him going and then puts in his dentures that were resting on the van console. We should be inside working, but the boss isn’t here this early, so fuck it and fuck him. I need a few more minutes to wake up and procrastinate, and then it’s back to the concrete. The concrete has been killing me for these last three days. It’s my job to take the heavy electric saw and cut the concrete into huge blocks. Then, once I’m done cutting them into rectangular blocks, I have to lug these chunks of concrete weighing over fifty pounds each up twenty steps and around the corner to the giant green dumpster. My back is killing me, my hands are chaffed and still bleeding from yesterday and my entire skeleton is numb from the freezing fucking cold. I continue to sit in the van smoking cigarettes and drinking cheap and crappy gas station coffee while feeling Social Security instead of twenty.
Brett Stout is a 38-year-old artist and writer. He is a high school dropout and former construction worker turned college graduate and Paramedic. He creates controversial art while breathing toxic paint fumes from a small cramped apartment referred to as “the nerd lab” in Myrtle Beach , SC. His artwork has appeared in a wide range of various media from small webzines like the Paradise Review to the University of Oklahoma Medical School Journal.