Unemployment, Day 107

by F. John Sharp

A troupe of jugglers and clowns parades past my house every day, precisely at eleven. This is when I unfold a lawn chair, drag out a cooler of microbrew, and settle in for the afternoon. I laugh and clap, raise a bottle in salute. The neighborhood parents shoot disgusted looks and keep their kids out of my yard. The parade lasts until my wife gets home, when she closes the garage door behind her and weeps. I have asked her to join me just one time, but she shakes her head while sorting mail into "bills we can't pay" and "bills we really can't pay."

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F. John Sharp lives and works in Northeast Ohio. He is the fiction editor for Right Hand Pointing, and his work can be found here.