Mr. Joyce Takes on the World

Me on my tenth birthday. Thirty-one years ago.  14,965 Days             That’s how many days I’ve been alive, so far. I was born 41 years ago; it doesn’t feel like it. It never feels like I’m the age I’m “supposed” to be. That doesn’t mean that I haven’t matured or learned things along the way. It just means that I’m not “acting my age,” so to speak. That means I’m not doing the stereotypical things a person my age would do. I’m not sure what a 41-year-old is supposed to do. Look at investment portfolios, have champagne with supermodels off the bonnet of a Mercedes? Is that what I’m supposed to be doing? Double points if the model is named Mercedes and has rack and pinion steering. Fuel injection is a given.             You are as old as you are made to believe you are. I’ve talked about this numerous times that being 40-something doesn’t mean you’re “over the hill.” I thank God, Cthulhu, numerous deities, and anyone with good taste that I wasn’t given black lollipops on my 40 th

The Long Walk  The Lockdown for Covid-19 hasn’t been a time of side-hustles, Netflix binges, and acquiring new skills for all of us. If you’re an “essential worker” like myself then you still have to work. They say if you’re self-isolating you should perform daily routines. I don’t have that luxury, so my routine hasn’t changed too much. No, it’s not been a grown-up summer camp for me. Instead, it’s long hours of people frustrated that I can’t solve their problems in ten seconds or less. God forbid that during a crisis people would give a damn about the things that really matter. And certainly, God should forbid that anyone would have to wait on a phone line for more than three minutes.              We are both short-staffed where I work, and overwhelmed. But, surprisingly, most of the calls we receive aren’t about the economic impact of the virus itself—layoffs, loan deferments, etc. Instead, most of the calls are about petty squabbles over fees, wait times, and old score