Jojo Hanskin was a community college drop out. Jojo was always in the mediocre grade average, never stepping out of his comfort level to take something artsy, or something that might force thought. He lived on the second floor of his parent’s garage. Jojo worked at Saving Central a grocery store only in north east Montana. His life was unloading merchandise, stocking shelves, collecting stray carts in the parking lot and cleaning up multi colored spills of many different substances.
Jojo’s life was on a track, not a good track, but not a bad track either, to put it simply if his life had a magazine cover it would be a black and white picture of that orange plastic car track boys intricately set up in their rooms when they are young. He was that piece of that track that parents end up stepping on. The one piece left over after all the others had been thrown out because the neon orange track was the first to go when boys grow up. He was easy to understand and if you stepped on him with your bare feet you would curse and call him trash because he shouldn’t have been laying there with thumbtacks standing point end up on the floor in the first place.
Jojo drove an old brown minivan to and from work, even though he could have biked or walked. He lived one block away from his job, three blocks away from his old high school and light-years away from the gender-less deity, or as it shall hence forth be called the Great Maker, which had just picked Jojo out as the human races last chance. In short we were thus doomed.