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horrified credit union members gaped through the window still clutching their signed checks and between manicured or grease-stained nails. It was a strange time for credit unions. They didn’t know if they still wanted to be credit unions or if the allure of being banks was too strong.

They didn’t fire me. Unbeknownst to me at the time, it was probably illegal to fire someone for medical issues. They sure as fuck refused to hire me ever again after I did quit. And I’m a masochist, I tried to go back there several times to no avail.

My father got me an appointment with a neurologist. I’m pretty sure he paid him out of pocket to run me through a machine and make it look like he was investigating very seriously, while secretly whispering to each other about how I’d probably just get over it and was making the whole thing up in my mind.

I don’t know if it was the ibuprofen or the cat scan. Maybe it was the ritual I developed of going to the beach after class before my shift and just dunking my head in the waves. Maybe it was the games of chicken I played with the dump trucks on the ever expanding route 4 between Portsmouth and Durham. Maybe I only though I swerved back in time every time. A crack, bigger than I could comprehend. This was the birth of the writer and the wasteland.