Tuesday, August 12, 2014
I don't know if they call it that anymore.
General business, I mean. That's what they called it when I was younger. I don't know if that was peculiar to New England, either. It sure was peculiar, though.
If you had an agent, he'd call it General Business. It's a General Business job, he'd say. That's what was said. You understood immediately what was required.
You made twice as much as bar band wages. You had to fish through the back of the closet for clothes you think you have. They're the haberdasher's version of a stray cat. They're at your house, but you're not sure where they came from, and you're not even sure that you actually own them.
Chicken and shells. Chicken and shells. Chicken and shells. A bridesmaid or two. General Business.