bad jobs

My last year in New York I got a job working as the public relations and web content writer for a bakery with stores in Manhattan and warehouse headquarters in Williamsburg, near my apartment.  The man and woman who ran the place argued incessantly and had desks on the opposite ends of the room, with my desk crammed between. 

The man was Middle Eastern born and large, with a bellowing voice that reminded me of my father’s sleepy cries during nightmares.  The woman had a short pageboy with bald spots in the middle and was quick and worried in her movements.  It took me a month to realize they were married.  Only the colorful children’s drawings taped to the walls near their desks with corresponding names gave them away.

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