Some Damage Comes With A Pension
three jobs, three bodies, one hierarchy of acceptable harm. we don’t eliminate risk. we assign it.
I’m driving through Oakland.
Women in lingerie stand on the street.
Cold.
Still.
Waiting to be chosen.
Behind them:
Violence.
Someone else taking their earnings.
Abuse on the job.
Kidnapping.
Police.
Pimps.
Every shift could cost them their bodies.
Or their lives.
Later, I drive back through Sonoma.
Men stand outside stores.
Hands in pockets.
Eyes scanning cars.
Waiting to be chosen.
Behind them:
Falls.
Crushed fingers.
Backs that won’t recover.
No insurance.
No safety net.
If they get hurt, the job disappears.
So does the income.
We call one survival.
We call the other work.
Both sell time.
Both use the body.
Both absorb risk so someone else doesn’t have to.
One is shamed.
One is normalized.
The difference isn’t morality.
It’s comfort.
Then there’s the third group.
Eight hours at a screen.
Inside.
Clean.
Quiet.
No bruises.
No blood.
But the body still pays.
Eyes.
Spine.
Nervous system.
Years spent sitting still so money can move.
This is the job we protect.
The one with doors.
With benefits.
With distance from visible harm.
I choose it too.
I don’t know how not to.
The house.
The health insurance.
The promise that if I endure long enough, I’ll be safe later.
Exit is expensive.
So we stay.
All three jobs have utility.
Pleasure matters.
Things need to be built.
Systems need imagining.
The harm begins when survival requires damage.
And protection is reserved for those whose work happens out of sight.
We don’t eliminate risk.
We assign it.
We rank which bodies can be broken.
And which damage gets rewarded.
No one is free.
Some damage just comes with a pension.