20 Mar Miles Preston-Clark
My girlfriend and I live in trailer on a vacant lot in the West Side of the city. We take the train almost fifty minutes to get downtown everyday except Wednesdays to work retail jobs for minimum wage in the very affluent tourist district. Sometimes after a long day of folding sweaters, on the train ride home, my girlfriend will make an offhand comment about how fucked up it is that we have to pay to travel so far from our fairly impoverished neighbourhood just to serve the rich. I agree with her, though my statement is drowned out by the sucking sound of the train transitioning from underground to the tracks that go overhead.
My girlfriend says she’s going to quit her job and she does. When she moves out abruptly and leaves me in our trailer alone, I realise that a double wide is a whole lot bigger without two people cohabiting it. I still take the train fifty minutes to fold sweaters everyday except Wednesdays. My girlfriend, who I guess is not really my girlfriend, gets a job in local government and starts trying to implement change. My life goes on but not really. I don’t do anything notable. Everything about me just gets stuck in one place. The vacant lot seems to get more vacant even though I’m still here. My mother calls but I am afraid to answer because she will ask me if I want to fold sweaters for the rest of my life and all I will be able bring myself to say is that somebody has to do it.
Miles Preston-Clark is a a Black interdisciplinary artist, writer, and student from Atlanta, GA living in Chicago. His writing has appeared or is forthcoming in Hobart, Pulp, Spork Press, Reality Hands, Pioneertown & elsewhere. milesprestonclark.com