My fingers were red and swollen like breakfast sausages. I laughed when I held them up in front of my face as a couple of the guys who had come into the QuickMart were just getting off their shift. Another guy said he had the same problem and was forced to go to the clinic. 

We had been de-sliming eels, a disgusting process of running our hands the length of 4-5 foot eels to wipe off the slime that seeped from the pores of the eel skin. We didn't know the slime was toxic. We were just looking to make a paycheck. There was nothing magical about what we did, but we made the best of the circumstances and we have that shared memory. Management wouldn't let us take time off to go to a doctor, and I was mocked for trying to wear gloves. Jaba The Hut's boogers, buckets of jizz: we ran through the similes regularly just to keep our sanity.

That was probably the most revolting job I've ever had. I did other stuff at the same seaside factory: murdered urchins and packed their eggs, loaded crates of fish brought in by boat, painted and maintained  buildings, trucked the product to buyers. Management didn't give a shit about the employees. We worked our asses off for tiny paychecks, most of which at the time went toward booze and drugs. A lot of the guys partied hard. We also worked hard to earn that privilege, but it meant that we had to keep working. 

I paid my rent, my bills and tried to keep up with the rest. I never had any money left over, but I somehow managed to drown my brain in toxic brews just about every weekend. Picture pine trees, bonfires reaching the midnight sky, the sound of surf washing up on the rocks, the smell of marijuana and cigarettes, smiling faces and tattoos and tricked out pickup trucks. Then picture the blurry morning sunshine searing holes into your fried brain as you crawl back to work for another grueling day. 

This is just a snapshot of my work life. It feels like I've "done it all," when that is far from the truth. There is so much more that I want to do and don't have time in life for. That's part of the reason for my launching this blog.

I think others, like you, feel the same way. 

What is it like to drive a semi across the United States? Well, we do have a bottomless well of resources to help us find an answer to that question. There must be at least one or two "TV" shows dedicated to the subject. Hell, I think I found a link to a whole list of 'em here.

You may find out why an individual decides to pursue that endeavor, but what is it motivates that person to continue? Where is the magic? What is the reward outside of a paycheck and even the benefits? Does it feed the soul? Do you feel Of Value? It's the magic that I'm pursuing in these careers. 

Basketball players call this magic moment "being in the zone." Writers have another, similar experience when the words flow out like blood gushing from an open wound. Some will say, "all you have to do is open a vein," but those in the profession know it's never that easy.  When that indescribable does happen, though, it feels like magic.