The cable guy was finishing up, having spent a few hours in my house. It's tough not to figure things out about a person when you are on the inside. I spend a few minutes in a person's home and could write a book about them. I'd have to make a lot of it up, but you get the idea.
"Yeah, I am."
"How's that going for you."
"My father was a firefighter."
"Only he never talked about the job."
I could tell that this was a man who didn't talk much. I never know what to expect when somebody finds out "I'm the guy who writes those books." Not everybody is a big fan. There is a culture of secrecy on the job.
What happens at work, stays at work.
I tried that. It wasn't working. After a few years of sobriety I started writing. I haven't stopped. I haven't had a drink either. I traded one obsession for another; one was killing me, the other helps me live.
"What's he doing now?"
"Nothing. Had a heart attack, been dead ten years now."
"Don't be. He was fifty-three. Should have talked about it."