Like the end of the trojan war, so must the students disband from their armies and make their returns. home as nameless soldiers, or as heroes who must win back their households, the students go.
And i find myself among them. the trip home was no odyssey this time. no Midnight road closures, no seedy hotels, no sleepless nights and strange, incomprehensible thoughts this time. No sirens either, and only one cyclopse, and he just sat there, lookin' mean.
I work now, and am paid, instead of paying to learn how to think. It's different. I can read trashy novels in my time off instead of avoiding reading important and difficult novels in my time for studying.
I have returned to the ways of the fish. I sit in the passanger seat for the ride to the fish fry. Then, i bag, load, flip and remove the fish as my coworker, currently only Zach, does the same. Together, we creat a human fish frying machine that churns out tasty morsels of oil saturated whitefish a splake at an alarming rate. We sometimes describe the sounds of a Nazi fish fry, or muse on what Chad Kreoger would say ("Yeah.... beat my wife.... yeah"), or we learn the secrets to living a full life from a man who was probably James Bond.
Then, we cruise in the fish van, pumping out ninety-four point five, the suck FM.
The next day, we return to the shop, and sell, pick, scale, clean, cut box free, dethaw, stuff, pack, wrap, smoke, cook and fillet the fish. But the work does not end. The fish is eternal.
The fish... it is eternal. Live the Life. Dream the dream. Howell's Fish Forever.