Rehab In Juneau

I was having too good a time at the 169 in Chinatown.

Work was light and I was falling deeper into debt.

I received a phone call from Alaska offering a jewelry job.

I accepted without thinking and flew four time zones west and north to the Land of The Midnight Sun.

I should have thought over the decision.

It seemed like a good idea at the time.

Instead I entered into a world of twelve hour days ruled by a shrewd woman my own age.

She knew everything about selling to cruise ship right wing neo-Nazi passengers.

I knew nothing.

My every mistake was punished by a lash of her tongue.

I was in the gulag of the Alaskan summer work force and the commissar was not pleased with my performance.

I wanted out, except Juneau was not connected to the outside world by a road.

Only cruise ships, ferries, and planes.

After work I longingly stared at departing planes.

No ‘zeks’ or convicts were allowed to leave Juneau.

At least I’m not drinking triple gin tonics at the 169.

Not that drinking there is a bad thing.

And it’s bullshit that there is too much of a good thing.

Or is there.


I hate rehab.

But I do like Steel Reserve.


I ain’t no quitter.

Not in Alaska.

Where the sky is gold as the gold from the earth.

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