I worked painting apartments, moving furniture for my father's business, then, finally, as a retail clerk and manager for the Washington State Liquor Control Board until the W.S.L.C.B. lost their stores by voter referendum some 35 years later. The last five years before I retired, I worked as a "merchandise handler" for a secondhand store. The last two years of that job, I ran the "media", the book, section. I gave 100% to any job I worked once I'd punched in, and, you know, the more you put into anything the more you get out of it, but, still, in the end, they were, basically, day jobs, a means to feed and clothe myself and get a little medical coverage so that, in turn, everyone would leave me alone enough to write. Through most of my twenties, I didn't much care where I lived. Rented rooms. More than a couple basements. A trailer, once. I rented a room at my mom's a lot, although all of us kids did that in our twenties. She didn't mind at all and still owned the house she'd raised us in after the divorce.

     I can't remember when I first began to sign my name Dann rather than Dan or Daniel, but, I believe, I was still in high school. I did that, for, like, a decade, and, to this day, when I think of the man with my literary identity, his name is Dann.

     Or at least it is until I finish this essay. 

CONTINUE