I had been out of work for a while when I finally caved and took a job delivering pizzas. It was humiliating, the hours were terrible and I hated myself daily, but it brought in enough money to make ends meet.
Really, I’m a musician. I’ve been playing guitar since I was 5. After years of attempting (*failing*) to become a famous rock star, I had relegated myself to joining a cover band. Playing “Summer Breeze” nightly did kill my soul a bit, but the band I was in had enough local success to enable us paid gigs, 5 nights a week. It was lucrative and I was able to make it my full-time job, until my fall fucked all that up.
The midwestern town I call home has brutal winters; just the bane of the population’s existence. The soul-crushingly low temperatures create horrific ice patches on the roads and sidewalks. Walking to get my mail one morning, I misjudged the stability of one of these swaths of ice and took a nasty spill, breaking my wrist on the concrete.