What? Oh hi, my name’s Harry Sterling. Yea, Harry is short for something. No, I’m not gonna tell you what that is. Anyway, I’m 33, wait . . . 34 I guess. Old enough not to care about it much one way or the other. I was born and raised in western Nebraska, a piss-ant burg called Chaplin Hills, which ironically enough is flat as could be. My folks worked at the sugar beet factory, until it dried up in the late eighties or early nineties. Mom passed away in ’03, collapsed right outside the Safeway, probably pickin’ up some of dad’s instant coffee or something stupid like that. Goddamn brain aneurism, I know, it sounds made up. Mom busted her ass and never got much in return . . . but she never asked for much. I could never tell you how much she meant to me in words, so i'm not gonna even try.
I moved out to Lincoln right after mom died. Dad and I were never very close, the blood vessel that popped and turned mom’s lights out didn’t make us any closer. I did mostly factory work when I got out to Lincoln, Plastic factory, motorcycle factory. They paid ok, but . . . it was factory work. I’ve been installing satellites for five years or so, I’m my own boss and that’s pretty cool.
I brought my high school sweetheart, Susan White, out here with me; she wanted to go to the University. She didn’t finish, but that was ok with me. She was gonna be an accountant, which was kinda funny ‘cause she’s never been very good with money. She works at a bank downtown, the big one across the street from the hospital. She’s good at her job . . . I’m proud of her.
We got married and lived happily ever after . . . just kidding. We did get married though; most of it was good—most, but not all. She’s staying at the house and I’m staying on a friend’s couch. And yes, It’s as shitty as it sounds. I’m dealing with it the best I can, which is to say, not very well. It’s all I can do . . . ya know?
