Jobs

 A whiff and the chirps reminded he was getting late. He stood up, stretched himself and rode back to his work. The same dingy lane. The same garbage dump. The same smelly front door.

The same life. The life he'd been familiar with for the past four years.

They say no job is easy. They say you have to be passionate. They say you gotta love what you do. But he felt otherwise. 

They say it's all about love. Love that they celebrate. But really? He had seen enough of them being afraid of what they celebrate!

They say a good business revolves around selling yourself. Does that include your body too? Or the mind? Or both? He was usually confused. For his mind wasn't the thing he could sell: and wasn't sure why or how selling anything was any good.

But a growling stomach is seldom quenched by anything but food. Swallowing his dignity, or whatever was left of it, as an appetizer, he proceeded upstairs. To the smelly bedroom without windows. With an equally dingy light bulb. With a sofa that squeaked every time you sat on it: apparently his 'clients' liked that noise. 

He turned the light on: surprisingly bright for the state it was in. The room was empty, except for the bed and the sofa, and a conspicuously morphed picture of a naked, young Arnold.

He sprayed the room with some something- in an attempt to mask the smell out, sat down and waited on the sofa.

....

He might have dozed off sometime during the night; for the next day he woke up cursing himself. He's probably gonna go hungry that day. Maybe work somewhere for sometime. And then he found a bunch notes just by the door. And a note. "I've been with you before when I wasn't in my best, and have come clean now. All I know is that you deserve better. Get a proper job. Contact if you need help."

Even without a window, he could see a sun rise. HIS sun rise. With a tear in the corner of an eye, he dashed out, ready to face the world.