Zaphod Beeblebrox paced nervously up and down the cabin, brushing his hands over pieces of gleaming equipment and giggling with excitement.
Trillian sat hunched over a clump of instruments, reading off figures. Her voice was carried round the tannoy system of the whole ship.
"Five to one against and falling . . ." She turned her microphone off--then turned it back on--with a slight smile and continued: "Anything you still can't cope with is therefore your own problem. Please relax. You will be sent for soon."
Zaphod burst out in annoyance, "Who are they, Trillian?"
Trillian spun her seat round to face him and shrugged.
"Just a couple of guys we seem to have picked up in open space," she said. "Section ZZ, Plural Z. Alpha."
"Yeah, well, that's a very sweet thought, Trillian," complained Zaphod, "but do you really think it's wise under the circumstances? I mean, here we are on the run and everything, we must have the police of half the Galaxy after us by now, and we stop to pick up hitchhikers. Okay, so ten out of ten for style, but minus sever million for good thinking, yeah?"
Worked my last day at the medical office of the surgery center. Probability of me returning to it at this point: less than one and falling. I tried to keep myself focused on work--registering patients, putting together patient charts, packing up my personal belongings at the end of my shift.
The busyness of the day was good. It kept me from getting too nostalgic or sad. I've been in this situation before. About five years ago, I was forced to leave my job at the surgery center. It had to do with the fact that my sister was the supervisor of the facility. It was either her or me. So I went to work in a cardiology office for a couple years. Then my sister was diagnosed with lymphoma of the brain. She died in August of 2015. A little less than a year later, my old job became available. I posted for it and was rehired.
That's how I came to this day--leaving the surgery center again, this time for good. In a month or so, the place will no longer exist.
After work, I drove to the cemetery with my friend, Missy, and paid a visit to my sister. As I was standing my her stone, I said, "Well, Sal, I kept it going as long as I could. I did my best." Then I started crying. I pretty much cried all the way home.
I will say that it doesn't seem quite real at the moment. Like next week, I'll be punching the time clock and opening up the surgery center office, like any other day. I suppose that reality will set in soon. One or two days of being at my new job.
Tonight, however, I'm going to lead a poetry workshop. This will help with the sadness, I think. And I'll be surrounded by some of my best friends.
Chances of me crying again tonight: even.
Saint Marty doesn't take sucker bets.
Martin! Who else could've done exactly what Sally would've done! I believe everything happens for a reason! And if she couldnt be there to take the surgery center to the last day someone needed to on her behalf! Who else could that have been Marty! Just you... Sally on your shoulder! Bless Missy for being there with you!
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