Monday 3/06/2006 10:33:00 PM

It was always at 2 am that he'd take his hundred icecubes out of the freezer. To fill the glass he'd sprinkle with scotch. He'd always have a few drinks there. Some jobs are different. It's okay. That's entertainment. He'd get home and have a few more. Because it was such a strenuous job. Being indispensable and all. Whatever would those viciously single people dance to if he weren't there to press play.

He worked nights. Always. That's what deejays do. Single's dances. Back in the day. Before internet dating. 50 and 60 somethings trying to get laid. They needed dark rooms and plenty of loud music if that was ever going to happen.

He worked nights. Would come home at 2 or 3 in the morning. All tensed up from pressing play. He'd change things while you were sleeping. A bicycle seat. A tape deck. Whatever. He'd 'make it better'.

We'd wake up to different things. Different speakers. Different pedals. Everything belonged to him. Our things. His. He was just letting us use them.

I'd scream and yell and try to make a point. But the harder I'd press the quicker that pencil tip broke. I'd scream because I wanted something to be mine. Not what he'd let me use of his.

Eventually he won. He'd managed to own everything, but he still had nothing.


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