Last Chapter of the "Getting Fired" Episode

So, I figured I better finish this off - we're about two months late now, and I've got some catching up to do. Where were we?

Oh yes. So I got fired, had me a big ol' mess of southern-fried depression with a side order of Catholic Guilt and my very own recipe for self-loathing for desert, got by with a little help from friends, and Mrs. Wiggy and I decided that the best course of action might not be to try to find a job-type job right away, but to perhaps try out some contracting for awhile, to give us maximum flexibility. We wanted to keep the house for the time being, but still needed some income. Fight one battle at a time, as it were.

This unfortunately left some hard choices. There aren't too many huge companies in Wilson, NC. In fact, only one that used the software that I'd been trained in. The product costs a bunch, so only really big companies can afford it. My choices were limited in North Carolina. So I had to cast a wider net.

Turned out that there was a contract job awaiting me - one I was tailor-made for, in the sense that I could do what they needed done. Problem was, it was in Detroit.

Well, beggars can't be choosers, can they? Since Dobby had been given a sock by the old employer, it was time to seek new stockingwear holders elsewhere. I called, sent a resume, we talked. Did the drug test, had a background check, and that was it; I was hired. Six month contract in the Motor City.

I knew I would need a place to stay in Detroit - this contract was strictly an hourly wage - no overtime, no expenses. So I had to come up with a place to kip and cook. Looked around, found a house with a room to let in Royal Oak, Michigan - a suburb of Detroit. Just a block or so off the downtown area, this is a pretty nice neighborhood, rent is reasonable, and a short drive to work every day.


Who knew? If I had been asked to imagine myself at 45, married, living in small southern town in a house with Mrs. Wiggy, her mom, two psychotic Dogs of the Apocalypse, three odd little cats, getting the sack, finding work in Detroit and going to live in a flophouse whilst my dearest kept hearth and home together in Dixie, why I'd have said you were mad. People write songs about crap like this. Well. Imagine that. And me a songwriter.

It's a damned good thing my life is so strange. Otherwise, I'd be so normal, I couldn't stand myself. It's exciting being me. Sometimes not fun, but always exciting. Just don't stand too close - stuff tends to happen in my general vicinity. If you were standing next to anyone else and said "Say, that fellow's pants just exploded," that person would say "What's that Wiggy gone and done now?" If you were standing next to me, I'd look down to see what I had done to cause it. Hijinks, my droogies. Hijinks.

And that, my little droogies, is the conclusion of the chapter of my life entitled "Someone Cut The Rope," by Wigwam Jones. But life deals us these little setbacks, and we move on. Or in my case, to Detroit.