It wasn't glamorous. The hours were long, the work was hard, and the smell... well, let's just say it took some getting used to. But for the first time in my life, I felt... honest. There was no hiding behind clever words or quick calculations. It was just me, the truck, and the rubbish.
Months passed. I worked hard, kept my head down. Slowly but surely, I started to feel like myself again – not the cocky kid I'd been, but someone new. Someone better.
Then came that incredible Monday morning I mentioned earlier. As I was making my rounds in one of the posher neighborhoods on my route, I noticed something odd.
Week after week, this one grand house always had a pile of racing newspapers and betting slips in their rubbish.
Curiosity got the better of me.
One day, as I was loading the bins, the owner came out. Tall chap, expensive suit, Rolex on his wrist. He looked at me like I was something he'd scraped off his shoe.
"Interesting reading material you've got there," I said, nodding at the racing papers.
He smirked. "I doubt you'd understand any of it, mate."
Now, the old Jonathan would've shot back with some clever insult. But the new Jonathan? He just smiled and said, "Try me."
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