We use cookies to improve our services and remember your choices for future visits. For more information see our Privacy Policy and Terms of Use.
Independent, Reader-Supported Publishing
Browse Sections
Require Subscription
Essays, Memoirs & True Stories
No One Is Waiting
We are the children of a new age — and we have gotten very high. Yet it feels like our ambitions are so much higher than our situations.
July 1974Essays, Memoirs & True Stories
Confessions Of A Junk Addict
CONFESSION: I realize that all may not share this addiction or feel the same high that I experience over a sixty-year-old rocker for $20.00 or a refrigerator for $35.00, but I admit that I’ll go to any length to satisfy this craving.
January 1975
Essays, Memoirs & True Stories
Two Dollars An Hour
On my first day at the book warehouse, D., the boss, is complaining of sore muscles and a bad headache. Baseball on Saturday, drinking with the boys on Sunday. “I done indulged too much,” he says wearily. His manner is relaxed and friendly.
January 1975
Essays, Memoirs & True Stories
The Depression Years: Costly Memories
Being of the “old school,” the subject of money affects me in a different way: memories of depression years, five cent apples sold on the corners, bread lines, cold winters without coal, hot summers without a fan, sweat shops and no money for trolley fare to go to the beach and cool off.
January 1975Essays, Memoirs & True Stories
The Unthinkable Contract
It was one of those days that appear in endless number to those who look for work. Those days are numb and temperatureless, their color a shade of dull empty blue, and not grey as would seem the case. One walks past the bank on the way and notices the smart girls going in the back door to work, their dress, its neatness, and sharpness, remains a very real impression.
January 1975
Fiction
All In A Day’s Work
It came as no shock as I looked at the paper that our noble Leaders declared our Nation’s economic plight. Vaguely, I understood the declarations after earnestly seeking employment for the past two years, though never in Cincinnati. Maybe my first clue was the infinite numbers who trod the highways from nowhere to anywhere searching for a friendly face and a pot of somewhere beans on the side of the road.
January 1975
Subscribe & SaveSAVE 52%
Personal, political, provocative writing delivered to your doorstep every month—without a single ad.
Subscribe Today