Pastoral Genocide


He Don’t Love Driving a Bus
March 16, 2008, 5:31 am
Filed under: Writing

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For thirty six years and nine months, my father – Alfred Gerhardt Brausch – sold assorted fruit drinks and overpriced, low quality beef hotdogs at the Vienna international airport (Flughafen Wien-Schwechat, if it matters). Through the modernizations and the cosmopolitan expansion of living, he would stand in the simmering white cloud of Halle C with a smile that almost certainly belied his inner dealings. But always, he would say: I love my job. It is who I am. And the people, his customers, they would come and go and come and go.

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