tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-61933599040279935822024-03-07T23:16:33.738-08:00Raging Narcissism z.m.oliver@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01622907618080308162noreply@blogger.comBlogger10125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193359904027993582.post-29520452207895439342015-02-05T13:45:00.004-08:002015-06-22T16:47:47.506-07:00Rat .45<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Sully
and I were taking our lunches together in the windowless breakroom. We may have
ordered Chinese delivery. But more likely the case; we’d each just ordered down
to the horrible restaurant at the end of the strip mall (in which our clinic
was actually situated) and picked up a burger and… Well, Sully always loved
working Wednesdays at our clinic because Wednesdays meant ‘Wecky Wednesday’
down the walk at Boris’s Family Restaurant. The restaurant where the fries were
always under or overcooked, the chicken wings came out dangerously cold and
raw, the iceberg lettuce heaps of salads contained dead flies, and the
Styrofoam boxes used to serve takeout often melted right into the hotter of the
lunches… And yeah. This was the place everyone who worked in that clinic kept
going back to. And the patients even! And sometimes, from there, I even ordered
a hangover breakfast! Not that the omelets were any better. Almost worse,
actually. But with just enough hot sauce… Hot sauce makes everything better.
And there was this one breakfast that I used to get. The Southern Something or
Other. And basically, it was a couple of biscuits (store-bought and reheated
but actually pretty good), a bucketful of some of that thick, white, chicken
fried steak gravy, breakfast sausage links, ham, two fried eggs on top of that
and I think they actually served more toast as a side! And I kind of had a
thing for Russian Boris’s Russian daughter. She was about my age too. Not that
it ever amounted to anything. And not that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any</i>
attraction could <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i> be served up as
a good enough excuse for continuing to order from that place. Because none
could. And yet every one still did. I seriously knew a patient whose blood
pressure dropped while she was hooked up to the machine… And she was a disgusting
woman. And he was a completely obedient spouse. And they were both well into
their 70’s so… It’s not like there was any hope of changing shit around. They
once left a dog out in their car in the Florida summer (as they were
snowbirds). But lucky I went out front for a smoke and saw that thing. It would
have been dead in minutes! And wouldn’t ya guess...for the wife’s very next
treatment two days later; their solution to the problem was just bringing the
dog inside and letting it chill out until, I do recall Sully’s deep voice
bellowing, “Is there a dog in this medical clinic?!” So yeah. After that. No
pets allowed. Not that there even were any in the first place. But that lady
was mowing down on a Boris’s breakfast so hard… I believe it was pancakes. It must
have been because I remember it happening in the morning and that there were
chunks of pancakes kind of falling out of her mouth and because she always
ordered fried chicken in the afternoon. Anyway. She was in the midst of
feasting <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">while</i> hooked up to the
machine…something that most doctors would never allow for safety reasons but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">our</i> doctors did because they were
pushovers and whores and would do anything in order to keep a patient including
telling them they can eat on the machine thereby putting their health and
safety at risk which, it seems to me, is exactly the type of risk that doctors
should be there to advise their patients against to begin with. But again.
Whatever. The medical field is just a bunch of whatever’s that allow patients
to go on living comfortably in denial. But again…anyway. So this old lady’s
blood pressure goes low and she blacks out in her chair. And someone notices
(probably me) and I lay her back to get some of that blood back to her brain.
But something’s different this time. Usually I can just lower them back and
unclamp their saline bag and give ’em a couple hundred mils and they’re fine.
But not this time. Mostly because this woman was turning blue and unconsciously
spitting out huge, quadrilateral shaped chunks of Boris’s breakfast pancakes.
And all sorts of butter and syrup too. So a nurse actually got this vacuum tube
out…like they use at the dentist’s office to collect the remaining water from
out someone’s mouth. Like when he or a surgeon might say, “Suction,” to a nurse
and then they break the thing out. Not that most of that shit ever actually
went up <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">into</i> the tube in this
instance. In fact, most of the larger sized chunks of cake were removed from
her mouth by the fingers and then some of the shit further <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">down</i> was sucked out. But even then, most of those chunks just got
stuck in the thing and the nurse would then remove it, brush the bigger pieces
of half-chewed pancake away and then proceed again. I guess the logic behind it
was; rather than having to stick any more fingers <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">directly</i> down the throat which would open up (pun intended) the
possibility of, perhaps, accidentally stuffing even more pancake <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">down</i> there… The suction tool would
suffice to suck out what was already lodged halfway down her esophagus whilst
pushing the rest of the other shit down, finally, into this gross lady’s
stomach where it belonged. And when she finally did ‘come back to’, she was
coughing and still shooting bits of pancake dough all over the place. So when
ya think about it…a Boris breakfast almost fucking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">killed</i> someone! Everyone kept going back there though. But what can
I say? The food was at least pretty cheap.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 35.7pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And so we’re sitting there in that
windowless breakroom. It was a fairly sizeable breakroom which was nice. The
lighting, however, was the same as it was in the rest of the building; those
type of florescent bulbs that keep everyone looking like they’re glowing white.
Even black people somehow! And up by the ceiling, in one of the corners, is a
TV hanging there by some brackets and it’s set to a soap opera that neither
Sully or I had bothered to change. The volume is playing lowly. It’s actually
pretty nice background noise. Especially since Sully and I weren’t saying much.
We weren’t mad at each other or anything. Rather, it was just two dudes
relaxing with their food…trying not to think about the living workday taking
place just through that breakroom door and down the hall. And I could tell
Sully was happy because he always hummed to himself while he ate. Hummed to
himself and tapped his feet. Almost like he was doing a little dance. Wecky
Wednesday was treating him well.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 35.7pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mmm,” Sully sighed through his nose
in a sort of chewing, food-driven ecstasy, “I’m tellin’ ya, man? You never <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tried</i> one of these?!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 35.7pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Na. Not yet anyway. I’m always
tempted to but then I just go with the burger. It’s hard to fuck up a burger.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 35.7pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And he tilted his huge, Irish head
from side to side; considering my point for the moment, “Yeah, that’s true,” he
spoke with his mouth still half-full which, for some reason, just because it
was him, didn’t bother me, “But it’d be pretty hard to fuck up one of these
too. Mmm…yeah. Nothing but salt and fat. Seriously. I should have taken my
stethoscope and listened to my own heart before eating one of these things…just
to hear what it sounds like afterwards. I should really see a doctor.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 35.7pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just for the record here, Sully also
once wanted to weigh himself on the patient scale just before and after taking
a dump…just to see if he could shit out a whole kilo. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 35.7pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And that’s about the time that Craig
walked in. I had no idea what he was doing. It wasn’t his breaktime. So…let’s
just say that he was getting a cup of coffee either for himself or for a
patient. God damn needy-ass patients that they were. And Craig was kind of a…
Well, I’m not really sure how to even describe him but… Let’s start with the
physical characteristics. He was in his 50’s. Had to be. His hair was almost
entirely grey but for a few strands of pepper just barely hanging in there. And
the weird part was, it was shaped into this little boy’s bowl cut. He wore
rimless glasses. Usually a blue scrub top. But he also always wore white pants.
And they were scrub pants, granted. But always. White pants like…what the fuck?
He was a pretty skinny dude. And I actually liked the guy despite his having
quickly developed a reputation around there for being quite the space cadet out
on the patient floor. He was an army guy though. He’d made that much known to
everyone. As in; the majority of his career was spent in the army and I’m
pretty sure it wasn’t in any field anywhere <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">related</i>
to the medical.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 35.7pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sully used to tell me that Craig did
a pose but admittedly, until he’d mentioned it, I’d never actually noticed. “You
know,” he’d say, “Like when you’re talking to him and then he smiles and kind
of tilts his body with his hands on his hips? It’s a little pose. It is.” And
I’d never been able to think about it in any other way since. It reminded me of
a Leprechaun somehow or somebody about to dance a jig. Regardless.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 35.7pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So Craig walks in and starts filling
up a Styrofoam cup with coffee and powdered creamer. And it’s horrible coffee.
I know because I was the one who ordered it and drank almost two pots of it a
day. Seriously disgusting. And he says the usual, “What’s happenin’ guys.
Enjoyin’ your lunch?” And we give him the usual, “Totally.” Just pleasantries.
Just stuff to say so that an awkward silence didn’t ensue the second he entered
the room. “Sounds good, guys. I’ll see ya back out there.” And, “You know it,”
Sully and I both spoke mindlessly not even watching him as he left. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">as</i> he left, he said something else. Craig
did. It wasn’t mumbled so much either. That is, he spoke the words at a
perfectly audible speaking volume. The same volume he’d already been speaking
to us in. And we, to him. But it was just that moment… Not that I mean at that
particular point in time. But there’s so often a moment like that… Like when
people first greet each other for the day? Or feel obligated to exchange a few
phrases for the sake of comfortability…as was the case just now. And imagine
the two people are walking toward each other or something. And the first person
says, ‘Hello’. And then the second person says, ‘Oh, hey how’s it going?’ And
then the first person answers, ‘Oh, fine.’ But that just doesn’t seem to be
quite enough. To <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">either</i> party. And so
either given one of them will add something as they pass…as their backs would
now otherwise be to each other if each didn’t turn their shoulders and head. They’ll
add something open-ended and vague like, ‘Yeah. Well, we’ll see what happens.’
And both will smile and shrug and laugh a little…even if nothing they’d said
prior to that point could ever possibly lead up to, ‘Yeah. Well, we’ll see what
happens.’ And I don’t know about other people but I personally will wonder,
‘What the fuck?’ to myself as I turn back around and go on with whatever I was
doing <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">even</i> if I’m the one who said
the vague and open-ended piece! It’s just a thing people do. I encounter it almost
every single day. It’s like we absolutely <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i>
to leave things on a high note. And that’s just what Craig was trying to do.
Leave things on a high note as he left the room. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; text-indent: 35.7pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">A
minute or so went by. Silence resumed. Relative silence. Sully went on humming
his little tune, that is, and the soap opera went on playing low. But then the
humming stopped. The tapping of his little toes stopped as well. And if I
didn’t know any better, I’d have said that the TV had gone mute too. And I
looked up at Sully then only to see his piercing eyes already staring straight
at me from just behind a slightly lowered newspaper. And he asks me, “Did he
just say, ‘I’m just a rat with a .45 down in the hole?!’”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I had to think about it for a
second but then came up with, “Why yes, Sully. I do believe he did.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What does that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mean</i>?!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You know, I’m not sure really.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I mean, what the hell does that
even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">mean</i>?!” and then he seemed to
shrug in conclusion, “He’s an idiot.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He said he was in the special
forces or something. And then he was trained to be like a specialized driver.
Like for transporting important people and shit? In Germany? He lived in
Germany for a while. I know that much.”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Psssh. Yeah, right,” Sully rolled
his eyes, “He’s an idiot. I don’t doubt he was in the army but I’m sure they
were like, ‘Here. Guard this door.’ I mean, he almost infused bleach into
someone the other day. And that’s fucking hard to do!”</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know. That was freaky. The whole
dialyzer turned black.” </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Rat with a .45, my ass.”</span></div>
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<![endif]-->z.m.oliver@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01622907618080308162noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193359904027993582.post-1054621642811041772013-07-29T23:04:00.003-07:002013-08-04T12:09:25.659-07:00Aramark Coffin, Sysco Nails<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This is a
story about the worst job I ever had.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For
starters; <i>it</i> was to start at 7 a.m. and I felt the pain of that first
morning days before I was officially supposed to report for duty. I needed a
job though. Another job, that is. I already worked as a bartender in the
evenings and on weekends. That was a part-time, event based job, however, and
the pay wasn't quite cutting it. I barely had enough to make rent at the end of
the month and practically nothing left over for food let alone going out or
having any sort of good time. So with two jobs, I felt I would be back in
business. Not that I really <i>wanted</i> to work that many hours. I hadn't
really been looking for anything full-time. But hey, the shoe fit. I was to
start at 7 a.m. every fucking weekday and work until the afternoon. The hours
didn't and never would conflict with my other job but it already sounded like
hell. It sounded like hell before I even started. I had no idea just what kind
of hell I was in for though. It was the opposite of most situations where the
fearful anticipation is much worse than the actual. Quite the opposite.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Right around
Labor Day, I'd been hired primarily as a dishwasher. Jannie, the kitchen
manager, told me during the interview that they liked to train people at every
work station though. Obviously, it was in their best interest just in case
anyone ever called in sick. And it was in <i>my</i> best interest to get the
hell out of the dish pit every once in a while. That's what she told me. This
cross-training, however, never actually came to pass...for anyone! No one ever
left their station. But I wound up not minding. The truth is; I never wanted to
leave the dish pit. Ever. I hated even going out there to stock the shelves
with clean dishes which <i>was</i> part of my job. Quickly, I learned to do
this chore between breakfast and lunch when the cafeteria was closed so we, the
kitchen crew, could take our lunches and regroup. The calm before the storm.
Because the fact of the matter was; every single last fucking lunch I worked on
this job was insane, cuckoo-bananas busy. I used to wonder if it was the single
busiest restaurant in Portland and often, while I was back there in the pit, I
tried to think of one busier but could never come up with one. We fed thousands
of kids every day. Breakfast and lunch. Kids and professors and anyone else at
all associated with Portland State University. The kids were one reason I
didn't like restocking the selves while the place was still open. Another
reason however, and a more pragmatical one, was that it was also so packed out
on the serving floor that there wasn't any room to navigate the enormous 'clean
dish' cart. But I know I'm getting ahead of myself.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was a
Monday morning and it was still dark out when I rose. Two days before, my
girlfriend had accompanied me to the Target at Cascades where I purchased two
pair of black work pants; cargo style with extra pockets just above each knee.
When I'd talked to Jannie on the phone, when she told me that I was officially
part of the team, she said that uniform shirts would be provided the first
morning of my first day. If this job had one saving grace, it was that Portland
State University was basically on the same side of town that I lived; my
apartment being in Northwest while the school was in the Southwest quadrant.
The campus and this cafeteria were still only a half-dozen light-rail stops
away; a total of perhaps 2 miles and a total one-way commute time of less than
15 minutes...which wasn't so bad...I guess.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was also
still dark when I arrived at Ondine; a 15 story high-rise that included the
cafeteria on its ground level. The cafeteria itself consisted of a long kitchen
without enough room for two people to pass each other abreast...let alone with
hot pots or baking sheets in their hands. Then there was the serving area; a
space with sleek, black linoleum tile. This room was large enough for a couple
hundred kids at a time to cram themselves into lines at the various food stations.
And then there was the vast dining area with floor to ceiling windows along one
wall, plenty of television sets for the kids to veg out on, and a combination
of tables and booths at which to sit. The serving and dining areas were
designed well; I'll give them that. But when put together, the whole place was
more of a factory than anything else.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The front
doors were locked that first morning and, through the windows, I couldn't see
anyone inside. So I walked around to the back where there was a small parking
lot for students and employees who'd purchased parking passes. There was also a
set of double doors illuminated from within that led me into a food storage
area that, when including the two walk-in coolers, amounted to about the size
of a small house. There were boxes of vegetables and pallets of bread and buns
set everywhere. So many of them, in fact, that it was difficult to move around
in this room. Half a dozen people were trying to<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>slide past each other shoulder to shoulder.
They were making their way either to or from a time clock hung up on one wall.
And I, not yet possessing either a punch card or uniform, went to find Jannie.
This didn't take much effort. Her tiny cubicle and desk was literally right
around the corner next to three, deep sinks that they used to defrost all the
meat. She was an enormously fat woman with a tiny head who didn't seem to
remember having interviewed me at all just a few days ago.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are you
here for part-time or full-time?” she asked.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>During the
interview, I'd told her that I was looking for full-time work if the hours
didn't interfere with my other job which, as I've said, they didn't. Looking
back though, in the split second that it took me to answer her question, I
could have easily still gone the other way. I should have gone the other way. I
would have been able to pay my rent and have a little left over still. I'd just
been so broke and out of steady work for so long, though, that being able to
actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">save</i> a little money sounded
great. Had I but known.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Full-time,”
I said.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Great!” she
seemed surprised, “Well, let's get you a uniform.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Beneath her
desk, she had a giant box full of heavily knit, sky blue or maroon polo shirts.
They were individually wrapped in a thin plastic and she handed me two of them;
thankfully, both blue. Then she handed me a back brace and visor. The dorky
shirt, I could deal with. It; I'd at least been expecting. But these other two
items... Back braces, for one, I've never understood. They never seemed to do
much good to me but this may or may not be due to the fact that I've also never
been able to figure out how to properly assemble them. I find all their Velcro
straps and anchors and clasps intimidating and usually just give up and cast
the thing aside. And the visor, well...so far as that went... I hadn't had to
wear one of <i>those</i> mortifying articles since I'd worked at Arby's back in
high school. And here I was; 15 years later. Look how far I'd come. Jesus, I
wanted to die. I put the stupid thing on though. <i>And</i> the shirt. The back
brace, however, I just carried with me as I made my way down the narrow kitchen
corridor past all the stoves and grills and fryers and ovens. And through an
open doorway at the very end, I found the dish pit. And there, I introduced
myself to a man named Lester who was then supposed to show me the ropes.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He was a
huge man with a huge gut who wore a baseball cap rather than a visor. And there
was something about his accent, something about the way he over pronunciated
his words that led me to believe he was originally from the Midwest. This
morning, he was sporting one of the maroon polo shirts that had been faded to
an almost pinkish hue. Obviously, he'd been working here a while already.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Need some
help with that?” he was referring to the back brace I still carried in one
hand.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Uh...sure.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No problem.
Here. Lemmie see it.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And sure
enough; Lester really knew his fucking back braces. In less than a minute, he
had the thing rigged up to where it fit me perfectly.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just pull
the belt tight around your waist there...”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I pulled the
two flaps together until the elastic in the small of my back felt sufficiently
tense and then Velcroed them so they'd stay that way. And I've got to say, it
felt alright. The shoulder straps still didn't seem to do much of anything but
the belt definitely offered me some extra support.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You the new
dishwasher?” Lester asked.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Uh...yeah.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
alright then. This is your baby,” he said referring to the whole room, “Just
feast your eyes.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He knew he
was being facetious and <i>I</i> knew that he mistook this for wit.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just like he
said, though, I feasted. I took many minutes to take it all in...to let it all <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sink</i> in, rather. And after I'd done so,
I wondered just what it was that I'd done to deserve this. Was it just one bad
act that constituted this kind of karma? Or was it many all clumped together;
many that had been building up for some time. I seriously thought about walking
out right then and there and many more times throughout that first day. But if
it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> karma...not that I believe in
that sort of thing...but if it was; then maybe I did still have some sort of
debt to repay to the universe. And maybe I needed to nip that debt in the bud
before it compounded interest and grew any worse.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>How could
just a single dish pit be so intimidating and horrible, you ask? Well...where
start? The dish pit itself was right about the same size as my one bedroom
apartment. And, considering I lived downtown, my apartment wasn't that big. On
the other hand, considering that a <i>dish pit</i> even <i>could</i> be about
the size of someone's apartment spoke wonders to me that morning. I'd never
seen anything of the like. And the first impression I had, other than the quick
taking in of its general size, what that it was exceedingly bright. The
overhead fluorescents were bright but that was sort of a given. But it was more
the way that those overheads reflected off of all the metal in the room that
caused everything to seem ten times more luminous. The room was ablaze with
light and the shiny metal of hundreds of pots and pans and bowls and utensils
stacked up on shelves that reached well over my head. Chafing dishes and sinks
and counters and even the dishwasher itself was completely comprised of bright,
shiny metal. There was even some porcelain cookware mixed in there as well. And
off of each and every individual piece; there shone at least one spot which was
white in all purity. Pure, polished radiance that was already scalding my
retinas and I knew...I just knew that this effect would work to worsen my
hangovers every morning from here on out.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To
compliment all this metal; there was the noise. The racket. The constant
clanging and banging and scraping and shinging. Every minute or so, someone
would sneak up behind me from the kitchen in order to throw a piece of cookware
onto a four tiered rack (also taller than myself). They never just set anything
down gently...ever. Most of the time, mostly due to some built-up aggression
(I'd assume), the cooks and preppers would come in and toss or <i>slam</i>
their shit down with such vehemence… They hated this job. And many of them
hated their lives because of this job. They had to take it out on something and
that dish rack got a lot of it. Every minute or so, someone would sneak up and
chuck something onto its metal wires. And that 'something' that they chucked
would bang down with a deafening, reverberating sound that caused me to
inadvertently perk up on my tiptoes and my heart to thunder.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As if that
wasn’t bad enough, even more slamming and banging down of bowls and plates and
silverware was coming from the other side of this mechanical contraption deemed
a tray-er-ator (which I’ll explain in just a minute). But basically, when the
students were through using their dishes, they’d walk by on the other side of
this great, metal device and dispose of their own dishes with pretty much the
same ferocity that the kitchen staff disposed of theirs right behind me. I had
no idea what the students were so ‘agro’ about though. I personally think that
they just lacked the manners and good breeding to set items down without
creating a racket. And I stuck to this view today because I just couldn’t
imagine that these students could ever be so angry about anything on the first
day of school! Maybe they were just full of loose energy but I wasn’t about to
give them the benefit of the doubt.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On top of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that </i>noise, the dishwasher and
tray-er-ator themselves generated quite a bit. The tray-er-ator; a constant,
electrical hum. And the dishwasher; the sounds of jetting water and heavy,
shifting parts coming from deep inside the thing. Also, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lester</i> seemed to me to be producing an unnecessary amount of noise
while clearing plates, bowls, and silverware <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">from</i> the tray-er-ator. The plates and bowls, he’d slam against a
giant, green, 55-gallon trash barrel in order to remove any excess food. He
would take the plate and hang it in the barrel until his arm was about elbow
deep in the thing and then he would ring it against the sides like some sort of
upside down bell made of rubber and garbage. And he really seemed to love it!
Like a pig in slop; there was something about Lester that just seemed to belong
in this dish pit. They just went together.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s not so
bad back here,” he admitted. Then he lowered his voice some, “Jannie leaves you
alone for the most part. Plus, I get to wear my hat backwards and nobody says
anything.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,
that’s pretty sweet,” I agreed.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You can
stand here and start clearing dishes from the tray-er-ator if you want. I’m
gonna go down to that end and stack up the clean ones.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Totally.
Um…are there any gloves I should be wearing or anything?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Na. I don’t
even think we have any back here. They’d just fill up with water anyway and
your hands would be soaking in no time. Just wash your hands every time you go
from clean to dirty like I’m doing.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Right.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The ‘no
glove’ thing bothered me a bit. I didn’t like directly touching bits and pieces
of people’s leftover food. It seemed infectious to me and kind of disgusting. A
lot of other disgusting sensations hit me then too as I took over for Lester at
the steaming mouth of the dishwasher. The first was the smell. We’ve all
smelled it before; that sweet and sour smell of food garbage. A lot of it was
probably sour milk and such left over from…yesterday? Days ago? Even weeks ago.
Little patches of sour milk and food on the floor that had survived and
accumulated for months maybe just out of the mop’s reach. It was bad. I’d
noticed it when I’d first walked into the room but there was something about
having my face directly above that 55 gallon compost bin that really seemed to
accent it. The humid fumes; so putrid and strong that my face instantly formed
an involuntary frown and stayed that way. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Fumes also
rose from the sink just in front of the dishwasher’s mouth and one reason for
this is that it was plugged up and almost overflowing with an opaque, brown
water that could have easily passed for diarrhea. If the sink <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did</i> overflow, it wouldn’t have really
mattered since it was built directly into a wide, stainless steel counter
(complete with a waterproof guardrail) that wrapped around this entire side of
the room. Or…upon further examination, I supposed that the water would have
begun to run down the single hole cut into this counter that was supposed to be
used as an alternative to Lester’s ‘bell ringing’ method for removing food from
the plates. Rather, we could simply tap the plate against a rubber ring that
lined this hole in the counter and, with the green barrel set directly
underneath, the food would fall directly into it. I opted for this method and
scooted the barrel back under the hole without asking his permission. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is there a
disposal switch or something?!” I had to yell at him down at the other side of
the room; so great was the noise.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No
disposal!” he yelled back, “There’s a drain at the bottom though. You just
stick your hand in there and pull it out. You’ll probably have to keep doing
that about every 15 minutes or so.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Fuck. Well,
I couldn’t exactly have the water running into the barrel. It would probably fill
the thing up before too long and then be impossible to lift. So I just fucking
went for it. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>‘Ahhhhrrrrgggg,’
my soul cringed as did my fingers as I screamed this on the inside. ‘Hoo!’ I
actually shivered! And what my fingers found at the bottom was so much more
than just a drain’s worth of pulp. All the chewed food. All the saliva. All the
spit! Everybody’s collective spit in that one sink. It was sickening and I
tried not to smell this mushy substance as I plopped handful after handful into
the compost bin. I wanted to take a deep breath and hold it but was afraid I’d
puke. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Somewhere
out of sight and far away, presumably from her cubicle, I could hear Jannie
chewing out the cooks and other kitchen staff in a shrill voice that could cut
through anyone’s nerves. I decided then that I wasn’t going to put up with any
of that. This job was gross enough. It was degrading <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> because there’s anything wrong with being a dishwasher but
because of exactly how <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">many</i> dishes
I’d be expected to do in a single day plus a lot of other working conditions
that will be explained shortly. The rest of the kitchen staff just stood there
and took it though; the verbal abuse. She never used profanity and the only
reason for this is because she knew that that was the only slip that could get
her into any trouble with the company or the staffer’s joke of a labor union.
But she <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">would</i> get right up and scream
in people’s faces for…I’m not even sure. I guess I never paid that close
attention. For moving too slowly? I couldn’t imagine what else she’d have to
bitch about. But I was not about to let her or any of the other managers ever
raise their voice to me. I’d do a good job; the best that I could. And if they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i> talked down to me; I was going to
let them have it right back. What would they do? Fire me? Would they do me that
favor? Would they really shoot themselves in the foot so badly and have to
scramble to find someone who could even bear the burden of these dishes
physically let alone mentally and efficiently. I highly doubted it. The fact
that I was living out these scenarios on my very first day, though, meant that,
in my mind, I knew that I’d officially committed myself to this horrible place
for as long as… Well, for the duration of the school year, I guessed. After
that, the cafeteria remained open but was run with a skeleton crew. Lester told
me that they laid people off but would, if Jannie felt so inclined, hire them
back the following year.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once the
clean cookware had been put away, Lester came back over and kicked me back out
of my place…which was fine. I moved a little to the right and, together, we
both worked at pulling more plastic plates, bowls, and endless cups off of the
tray-er-ator; a machine inspired by one, simple concept. Torture.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To those on
the other side of this machine, though, it was probably nothing more than a
conveyor; a three tiered conveyor that was designed to slowly spin around and
around and around. Imagine us standing with our waists pressed up against the
stainless steel counter. We had to reach over the counter a couple of feet in
order to grasp items from off the tray-er-ator. Basically, it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> the wall on that side of the room.
It ran the entire length of the counter; from the dish rack to the mouth of the
dishwasher. And the tray-er-ator, which began at waist-height (as I’ve said),
rose to just over the height of my head so…just over 6 feet. So we couldn’t see
over it or anything going on on the other side of it at all. The ceiling sunk
down to meet the top of the tray-er-ator but this was mostly, I’m guessing, so
kids couldn’t throw full cups of soda over the machine with the intention of
hitting us.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
tray-er-ator itself was comprised of a chain of sections; each of them about a
foot in length. And attached to each of these sections, there were three trays.
One, low. One, medium. And one, high. The surface of these trays was made of a
terribly heavy sheet metal that, each and every day, I had to reinstall back
into the metal framework that held each one in place. And it was atop these surfaces
that the students were supposed to put their used plates. And they did for the
most part. When business became really busy (especially during the lunch hour)
there would be such a constant flux of kids all leaving the cafeteria at the
same time that these trays would ultimately and inevitably become piled with
shit to the point of overflowing. But also for the most part, I kept that thing
pretty well cleared in my time there. Once I got it down, that is. Once I
became systematic in this work, became organized, and got the hang of it. But
that wouldn’t be for quite a while. And it certainly wouldn’t be while Lester
was in there with me.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lester
wasn’t a bad guy. He may have been kind of simpleton and he was definitely
gross so far as getting dirty as hell by way of splashing dirty dishwater and
unnecessarily tossing food scraps in every direction. But deep down, he was
nice enough. However, I was having quite a problem standing just to his right
where, on the counter, there’d been placed a bus tub full of soapy water. And
in the bus tub, the used silverware was supposed to go until the tub grew full
and the silverware was run through the washer. And it didn’t matter if I stood
a little to the left <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">or</i> right of this
tub; there just seemed to be no way for me to keep from getting splashed every
time Lester threw a fork in there or something…which was often! Every few
seconds practically! Also, resting next to this bus tub, there was a rubber
rack where all the dirty cups went before <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">they</i>
could be run through the dishwasher. And, rather than pouring out any remaining
juice or soda, Lester would sloppily toss the cup in a slot…or sometimes just
anywhere near the rack. And, in this way, I was getting splashed with people’s
backwashed soda too. In the mouth sometimes. Next to it, there was a different
rack for coffee cups and…well, you can guess the rest. So needless to say, I
was fucking getting wet and covered in the spittle of hundreds of
students.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This went on
for hours and, just to break up the monotony, Lester and I took turns being the
guy down at the clean end of the washer. This meant that we stood about 20 feet
apart and had to yell to one another over all the noise if we needed to
communicate…but we rarely did. This job was pretty self-explanatory or, at
most, it required the half-hour’s worth of training that I’d just had. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s
that?!” Lester yelled over his shoulder.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I didn’t
say anything!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Like I said,
we were 20 feet apart. And that’s because the dishwasher was no less than 25 feet
in length. It took up most of the wall; the rest being filled by a few feet
more counter space down at the clean end for rubber racks of clean dishes to
slide out. And then, of course, that disgusting sink back down at the other
end. It was a locomotive! At least that’s what this dishwasher reminded me of.
It certainly seemed to ‘chug’ like one. And it, much like the tray-er-ator, was
basically a glorified conveyor belt at heart. Unlike the tray-er-ator which ran
in a circle though; the dishwasher obviously just moved in a straight line. It
was a closed machine mostly. And by that I mean; there was the mouth which was
always open and spraying the person standing next to it perpetually in the
face. And then there was the exit chute which also blew out a lot of steam. But
the machine was closed all along the sides and, once a rubber dish rack was
inserted, it disappeared and remained unseen until being spat out the other
side. There were three main compartments through which the rubber dish racks
went once either Lester or I slid one into the hissing, steaming mouth. The
only reason I mention this, since each compartment pretty much did the same
thing, is that sometimes one of the dish racks would pop off the conveyor’s
track leaving the situation in need of some manual correction. And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">if</i> such a rack needed correcting, there
were three hoods that could be opened; one separately covering each of the
compartments. These hoods slid straight up like the doors of a Lamborghini
(albeit; much less glamorous). And when they did; water vapor would begin to
billow out in such copious clouds that my shirt would instantly stick to me, my
hair would lie down flat, and half the room would become enveloped in a heavy,
steamy mist. When one of the hood doors was open, the dishwasher’s motor would
shut off automatically but water would continue to drip down from the top of
the now exposed compartment resembling some sort of ungodly, black waterfall.
And the water was boiling! If ever I had to correct a dish rack in there (which
was like every other day), then this water raining down upon my forearms would
leave little red blotches on my skin for days to come. And half the time, I
couldn’t just wait for the water to quit dripping. I was in a hurry! With the
unceasing supply of used dishes coming in on the tray-er-ator after being
deposited by the students; I barely had enough time to wash my hands, move down
to the clean end of the wash, stack the clean dishes onto a cart and put the
cookware back where it belonged, and make it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">back</i> to the dirty end before more plates and bowls began piling up
to such an extent that they were literally falling from off each tray due to an
excessive flow of kids who’d finished their meals. And this was the job, in
essence! Running back and forth from the clean to the dirty side of the room…
Constantly working my way around the narrow pathway that encircled the dish pit
and its giant island of dish racks in the center… I never stopped fucking
moving. I couldn’t. I’d be shooting myself in the foot if I did. The dishes
would pile up if I did. They’d start falling from off the tray-er-ator onto the
counter. Then the tray-er-ator <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i>
the counter would be covered in all sorts of dishes that I’d hopelessly try to
organize. My hands and arms became blurs like the wings of a hummingbird. And,
where the rest of this kitchen’s staffer’s feet stood still as they worked from
one particular station or piece of counter space, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ran</i> around that fucking room. All day. Every day. Because there was
no Lester to help me after that (not that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>
mattered since I worked more efficiently on my own anyway). But for both the
breakfast and lunch services; that dish pit was my duty. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of course, I
got a break though. If it wasn’t for state and national laws and a union
contract; Aramark could have really given a fuck whether I got one or not. So,
as I’ve just mentioned, it would seem impossible what with all the running
around that was expected of me and potential of pileup that I would ever and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">could</i> ever leave that room for the
half-hour’s time that was allotted me. But, as sweet serendipitous fortune
would have it, the cafeteria did close for an hour between breakfast and lunch.
It had to. The kitchen staff needed time to replace the types of food at each
station and I needed the time to take the clean dishes out to the serving floor
and stack them on the shelves so that the students could come back and do it
all over again…as did we. Coffee cups. Ceramic cereal bowls. Silverware. The
first couple of weeks or so; it hurt to grab these things as they popped out of
the dishwasher at one hundred eighty-five degrees. I never developed calluses
so the pain went away probably more due to nerve damage than anything else. But
stack these scalding dishes I had to; often without being able to wait for them
to cool down. I stacked them on a cart directly behind the shiny platform onto
which they slid out. It took me several weeks in order to get a nice system of
stacking down on this cart as well as with the dishes being pulled off the tray-er-ator.
But I did finally arrive at a point where I could stack them high and yet with
some sort of stability. And this stability allowed me to not have to take them
out, huge cart and all, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">during</i> one of
the meal services. It was damn near impossible to maneuver that thing around
all the kids. And, when replacing the clean dishes onto the shelves; it’s not
like they moved out of the way or anything. They were horrible, glassy-eyed,
open-mouthed… I’ll get back to them.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
technique for stacking dishes so that things continued to run smoothly and
efficiently was pretty simple and yet something that Lester had never thought
of. He was slow, disorderly, and unmethodical. He was a stupid rhinoceros and
he picked bits of food out of the cookware the kitchen staff would bring in.
And already, I could find myself hardly being able to wait until the next day
where he would be assigned a permanent station…doing something else. Come to
think of it, I don’t even know what that guy did after that first day! He was always
around, though, and always in the way.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">proper</i> method for stacking dishes, I
could have eventually written the book on. Had there been a book. But there
wasn’t. For such a huge operation, I doubted that there was even one policy and
procedure manual in the whole fucking place. But…hypothetically…assuming there
was; I would have added that the dishes should be stacked by type and never
mixed. Again, for stability’s sake. And, as a result of not doing this, I had
heard horror stories of these individually stacked towers of dishes wavering
and then toppling and then spilling all over the floor with a crash if the cart
should accidentally collide with an object on its way out to the serving area.
Dozens and dozens of nice, clean dishes; they’d all have to be washed again.
And I certainly wasn’t going to be having any of that shit. So…I’d stack
plastic soup bowls only with themselves. Glass plates only with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">them</i>selves. The multicolored plastic
plates with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">their</i> own. And so on.
Because they were all shaped uniquely and their weight differentiated greatly.
If you really want to get into it; there were even two different <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kinds</i> of plastic plates that were so
similarly shaped that, to the layman, they would have appeared exactly the
same…as they did to me that first day. But they weren’t! And so…those needed to
be separated and collated as well. I’d use this same technique pulling the
dirty dishes off the tray-er-ator since the serving wear, at times, could
really pile up there too. And this only made sense…to me. But try, for just a
moment, to imagine the Lester method if you will. Imagine a nice
foot-and-a-half stack of lightweight, plastic plates on a nice, clean dish
cart. And then imagine piling, on top of them, another foot-and-a-half stack of
heavy-ass ceramic ones. The shit would be so top-heavy that it, almost of its <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">own</i> free will, would <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">want</i> to topple. And glass plates
shatter. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>About the
only problem with my method was that it was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">so</i>
new…so <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">innovative</i> that the management
had never before seen anything like it. Jannie didn’t give a fuck. She would
have as soon as I spilled a cart full of dishes but, since this was never going
to happen (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">due</i> to these tactics of
mine), she never said shit. But she did have a couple of other goon, assistant
mangers working beneath her. And believe me; they made <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> job around there look respectful. And so there was this one guy,
Milton, who would come into the dish pit from time to time. He would scrutinize
the clean dish cart stacked about chest-high with clean dishes about halfway
through breakfast service. And I guess, despite their stability, the stack just
seemed too high for him. I did <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i>
want to take the cart out there while there were still tons of students about
for reasons mentioned above. And, for one reason <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> mentioned above, I was just embarrassed to show my face out
there. All the cute girls; so young with their whole futures ahead of them. And
all the douchebag jocks who’d never make it into the world of professional
sports but <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">would</i> grow up to be successful
business people… I just couldn’t face them a lot of the time despite the fact
that, deep down, I knew they didn’t notice me. They’d never remember me or ever
care who the fuck I was. But for some reason it pained me to have to look at
them and the way they carried themselves; their attitudes. I should have been
happy for them. So far as they were concerned; they were on top of the world.
And shit, I loved that feeling back in my 20’s. But now I was in my 30’s where
the word ‘pathetic’ was just beginning to sink in. Despite what I’d done!
Despite all that I’d accomplished! Despite all the worldwide adventures I’d had
already that those kids probably never would! Despite all that, I still felt
self-conscious about being their dishwasher. I couldn’t help it. And so when
that moron assistant manager asshole, Milton, told me that the plates were
getting too high and that I needed to take the cart out before the break, I
always replied with an, “Okay. I will in just a minute.” And he’d then go away.
And on the rare occasions that he’d come back and see that I hadn’t done it;
he’d just get one of the other staffers to. And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’d</i> usually just tell <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">them</i>
not to worry about it…that I had everything under control and that break was
coming up in just a bit anyway.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>An hour
before I was supposed to leave, Ed came in. We overlapped in this way for the
first couple of weeks or so. After that though, as soon as Aramark figured out
they could save money by having him come in just as I was leaving, we only
passed each other at the time clock. And that’s too bad because, unlike Lester,
Ed was the fucking man. More than a man! Some of the others even called him ‘a
machine’! No kidding. And in that hour, the two of us could finally clear the
dish rack still piled high with all the cookware from lunch. We could scrub the
pots that were soaking in the 3 huge sinks running along one wall. And we could
generally tidy the place into pretty good shape before the next wave of
cookware came in; the cookware from dinner service. That’s right. This place
was open for dinner too. And not just on the weekdays. This fucking place was
open and serving 3 meals a day, 7 days a week…which seemed unsanitary to me. It
seemed like they should at least take <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">one</i>
day every once in a while to really cleanse the place spick-and-span. To detail
the place! To get the little bits of food scrubbed from the surfaces
of…everything! Little scraps that had been there for weeks. Months even! To
‘de-con’ the place just like they used to do to the ‘cleanroom’ back when I
worked at Hemcon Medical Technologies. Back there, I guess a routine cleaning
was justifiable though. We were making medical products. Things <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">needed</i> to be sanitary. But in a
cafeteria, who gives a shit?<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ed, as I
came to find out a few days later, was a physicist. Or, rather, he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">graduated</i> from PSU last semester with a
physics degree in, to quote the rest of the kitchen staff, ‘record time’. I’m
not sure what that last part ever meant…‘in less than 4 years’, I’m assuming.
And all the while, during this ‘4 years or less’ while he was studying, Ed came
in and washed dishes for 8 hours at night. And boy, was he a character. This
kid would come into the dish pit, take over on the tray-er-ator for me, and
then just start singing at the top of his lungs pausing only to smile at me
insanely and ask me some equally insane question. So these first few weeks
would go as follows:</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If Mick
gets to heaven…before I do…comin’ for to carry me home!” he’d just switched
from a long, loud, operatic aria to this old, Negro spiritual which, while
slaving away, only seemed appropriate. He’d also incorporated my name (I think,
just to make me laugh). “Tell all my friends that I’m comin’ too! Comin’ for to
carry me home. Swing low…” he really did have a honey-sweet baritone. “You know
what, Mick?!” even his spoken words were always projected at a very high
volume.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s
that, Ed?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I was just
wondering…you’ve worked here a couple weeks now, right?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,” I
was down at the clean side loading the scalding hot plates and bowls onto the
clean dish cart.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
awesome, man! You’re doing an awesome job!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thanks, Ed.
I appreciate that. Especially coming from you.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, yeah?!
Why’s that?!” he asked innocently.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
because… You’re the guru. The master. The expert.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
true, Mick. That’s true.” But he turned around and looked very seriously at me
then, “I’m not always gonna be a dishwasher, ya know.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No. I know.
You’re a physicist. Everybody knows that. I heard you’re even looking into ways
to start up your own energy company or something like that.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
true,” he raised his eyebrows and stared at me in a fixed gaze, “But that’s not
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why</i> I’m not always gonna be a
dishwasher. The truth is; the dishwasher is simply <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in</i> me. Like if I even so much as <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">see</i> a dirty dish, I need to ‘do’ it. But that’s all gonna end
someday.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why, Ed?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Because,
Mick,” the tray-er-ator was beginning to overflow behind his back, “And I doubt
anyone has told you about this because we’ve really only been the two
dishwashers back here so far…ya know? The only <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">true</i> dishwashers, I mean. And so I feel obligated to tell you; one
dishwasher to another. Plus, I just have a feeling that it’s going to make your
day,” he smiled widely once again.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
listening.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m glad.
The truth, Mick, is that you and I are actually back here working towards a
cause. Now, this cause may sound like a dream. But if we all just keep
believing, well…I believe it’s a dream that can one day come true. We’re both
working for ‘the cause’. And ‘<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">the dream</i>’…is
that one day there will be no more dishes left to do.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That sounds
like a pretty nice dream, Ed. I believe.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I knew you
would,” and his eyes were black and lustrous just before he spun back around
again to work the conveyor.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For the
first few weeks, I smoked cigarettes outside instead of eating a lunch. Most
people ate quickly and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">then</i> smoked
quickly. But I just hadn’t been able to bring myself to eat any food yet. With
all the touching of the scraps and slop in the dish pit (not to mention all the
unpleasant odors); who the fuck could have an appetite?! Well, Lester probably
could. Actually, a lot of those guys probably could have eaten even if they’d
worked, in my place, back in the dish pit all morning. Most of these guys (and
some gals) seemed immune to how absolutely disgusting everything was. But, then
again, they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">weren’t</i> in my specific
position and never would be. They’d never have to deal with other people’s
cereal bowls still full of their nasty, leftover milk or see things like a wad
of chewing tobacco spit out onto a plate before that student ate his breakfast.
But I did. And I got to smell them too. It wasn’t the empty plates that I
minded so much. I could have taken those all day. But all the half-eaten shit
was just gross on so many levels. Fucking little gluttons. And they would fuck
up the food somehow. So, rather than just cutting off a nice piece of waffle,
what was left over on the plate resembled something that a human-sized fly
would have spit on in order to dissolve before slurping it back up. Also, the
syrup would cause the shit to really stick on there even after I’d tapped the
plate several times against the rubber bumper. Sometimes it required the use of
a fork to un-gunk it. And, should this be the case, I would use the student’s
fork that they ate with (since they were always readily available with the
plates) but try and succeed in not touching the actual surface of the plate
with the fork or spoon or whatever the utensil may have been. Because…I have a
thing. A quirk. A peeve that makes me shudder right in the heart. And this
kink, if you will, is this; I absolutely cannot stand the sound of silverware
(and probably even plastic silverware) scraping against plates. Even if it
consists of only one scrape like the single scrape it would have required me to
un-gunk that nasty, halfway dissolved waffle. It’s true! I can’t even stand the
sound of my own silverware scraping let alone other people repeatedly grazing
the bottom of a bowl in attempts to get that last half a teaspoon full of ice cream.
Ahh! Just writing about it is making me shiver!</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I can’t
stand excess noise of any kind though. Scraping silverware just hurts me the
worst. But even the clinking of coffee cups can freak me out. Those, I’d lie
down gently in their flat, plastic rack. So that, really, over all the other <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">necessary</i> noise going on all around me;
the only sound, virtually, that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i>
could be held accountable for were the tiny ‘shloops’ of the silverware as I
laid them (at an angle) into the bus tub of chemically infused water on my
right. I try to do everything with a certain amount of speed and grace. I am
the opposite of the Lester’s of this world. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And that’s
just it. I’m hypersensitive to shit. The shiny metal everywhere blinded me. The
horrible odor choked me. And I would literally jump a little every time someone
would come in there, unnoticed by me, and slam the bunch of pots and pans
they’d been using down on the metal shelves (where, granted, dirty dishes were
supposed to go) about ten feet from where I was usually standing. And, what
with the overall noise level in this dish pit, it was too easy for any of those
fuckers to sneak up on me…not that that was ever their intention. So I found it
sort of interesting when, as we were out back smoking cigarettes while the weather
was still sunny and nice, a group of kitchen staffers brought up my immediate
predecessor. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You should
have seen this girl, Mick. I swear, I actually think she was in a sorority!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,”
another guy agreed, “She lasted maybe…two weeks? If that. You’re not thinking
about quitting though. Are ya, Mick?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I think
about it every day.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
don’t. ’Cause <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> don’t want to have to
do that shit. And that’s exactly where Jannie would send me until she found a
replacement.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll keep
that in mind.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But
seriously, man! Every dish that chick fucking touched; she’d be like, ‘Eeewww!’
And then she used to complain that, even after she got off, she could never
stop <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">smelling</i> like the pit.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Duh,”
another guy chimed in, “Shower.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s not
for the fragile, that’s for sure,” said the first, “You either get used to
it…or you run away screamin’.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That last
part may sound extreme or overdramatic but it wasn’t.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
So I did everything within my
power to try and make the job less gross. Like the sink. I figured out how to
keep it from getting clogged. The solution was simple really. All anyone had to
do was just make sure that they got every last scrap of food from each plate
into the compost bin and bingo. The sink never clogged on me again. I wondered
if the sorority girl had come up with that much. Did she even make it that far?</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Look at
’em,” Lester said smiling while holding open the lid to a compost bin, “All the
blues, and greens, and oranges.” </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The green,
55 gallon bin had filled up with just the scraps from breakfast and he was
helping me take it outside to where some even larger compost containers were
kept locked up behind a chain-link fence. Pulling the trash barrel out to this
area wasn’t so bad. I could have done that on my own. The trick was that this
completely full, 55 gallon barrel then needed to be lifted up, flipped, and
emptied into one of the larger receptacles. They were 95 gallons. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You ready?”
he asked.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We each took
a handle, lifted it slightly with our right arms, brought our <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">left</i> hands down to grab the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">under</i>side of the barrel, and then lifted
it high enough to dump all of its wonderful contents on top of some other slop
that was already in there. The splatting sound it made caused me to shiver and
the smell…well, I’d been holding my breath for damn near a minute and
responding to Lester’s inquiries with different facial expressions only. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yep,” he
said looking satisfied as we placed the rubber bin back down again, “It seems
like only yesterday that we cleaned these things out last. Every year on the
last day of school. Bet you wish you’d been here for that! And boy, you should
have seen the maggots in these things…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Pooofff!” I
finally exhaled, “That’s the nastiest thing I’ve ever heard.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I mean,
David…in culinary school…don’t they teach you how to cut a pizza fast?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,” David
answered without any emotion, “They teach you precision.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Vedran had
been complaining about a co-worker who’d been working the station with him. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I mean,
Jesus!” he went on, “He dropped a plate on the floor and it broke, of course.
So then he goes and sweeps it up. But what do ya think he does instead of just
grabbing a dustpan?! He starts trying to pick the shit up with his hand!
Seriously! I don’t know what the fuck is wrong with this guy!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Martin, the
guy who didn’t know how to either use a dustpan <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">or</i> cut a pizza fast, was a newbie such as myself. And, as Vedran
had so graciously pointed out, he’d gone to and graduated from culinary school
like several other guys working the kitchen at any given time. And, while this
educational background distinguished them from the rest of us losers (as well
as the fact that they got to wear ‘whites’), Vedran had just brought up an
important subject; the difference between someone who’s been schooled and
someone with real world experience. Yes…even on the lowest of rungs that was
this cafeteria; this differential could be seen and measured. As for Martin
himself though; he looked like such a nice, fragile, and quiet type that he
(more so than myself even) just didn’t seem to belong here. His hands were so
pale and dainty and he, unlike David or any of the other culinary grads,
actually wore a chef’s hat! I felt sort of bad for him because, also unlike
David or any of the other culinary grads, I don’t believe he’d had time yet to
become properly disenchanted. Because, mustn’t that be what so many students of
the culinary arts think when they’re first enrolling in the program? That
they’re going to find themselves, upon graduation, working in some nice fine dining
atmosphere where they get to be creative put some of their own personal accents
on the menu? Well…welcome to the real world, sucker. Especially in this city
where culinary kids could be seen in swarms standing outside their various
schools (and there were many) smoking cigarettes downtown… So I guess there
were two open paths before Markboy now. He could either toughen up like me or
run away like that poor sorority girl I still wish I could have seen. Only time
would tell. Not that much time though. We’d know in a couple of days. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s
that?” Vedran asked me.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was
sitting on a milk crate and had been staring intently at my thumb. The fleshy
pad had been gashed from the knuckle all the way up to the top of my fingernail
and the cut was deep. “I fucked it up this morning. My hands just get so soft
back there from being wet all the time…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.
That’s a pretty good one,” he agreed, “I feel your pain.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. I do.
’Cause take a look at that,” and he displayed for me then the underside of his
forearm. There was a crusty, red burn on it almost the size of a baseball and
it appeared as though it was becoming infected. “It happens.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>How <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">often</i> would it happen though? And to
what extent? Because, it’s not like Aramark was offering up any medical
benefits. They couldn’t give a shit. They couldn’t care if my thumb bled all
over those dishes (clean or dirty) or if Vedran’s burn squirted puss right onto
those pizzas. My thumb <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> stopped
bleeding though. A lot sooner than I’d expected. That must have had something
to do with my hands being wet all the time too but, from a curative
perspective, I sure as hell couldn’t explain it. And that particular wound,
relatively speaking, was just on the surface!</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The more
alarming pain, especially at the end of my first day there, came from my back.
I remember making it back to my building and, while waiting a couple minutes
for the elevator to come down, I actually had to kneel like a baseball catcher.
The only other option was to lie there flat on the ground so fucked was my back
that afternoon. The job just wasn’t in any way ergonomically friendly. It was
my duty to stand there removing shit from that fucking tray-er-ator all day;
the top rack of which I needed to reach over the counter for almost on my tiptoes.
And it was this constant counterbalance that really put a strain on my muscles;
even from something so seemingly benign in weight as a plastic or ceramic
plate. The back brace though…I just didn’t feel that it did me much good. And
when I unVelcroed its strap from around my waist that first day; the relief I
felt was instant and amazing. Still…there I was kneeling down on the balls of
my feet waiting for that elevator. Other neighbors were beginning to gather and
wonder what the hell was wrong with me. So I made it a point to see how I felt
the next day after <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> wearing the
brace. And if they bitched at me about not wearing it; well, then I’d just have
to quit. They didn’t bitch at me however. Lester acted a little concerned but
that was about it. And sure enough, my back felt…well, not great. But better. I
could, at the end of the day, at least stand up straight. Shortly thereafter, I
threw the brace away.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Among other
articles I stopped wearing; there were my visor and nametag. Now the visor,
while sort of humiliating, was nothing compared to students knowing my actual
name. Jannie never said anything about their absence though. She saw me. She’d
noticed that they were missing. But she could also sense that I was perpetually
on the edge of quitting this job and had enough common sense to know that a few
uniform violations weren’t worth losing me over.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You know
how I know this isn’t real food?” Gunther asked me back in the dish pit one
morning. “Because it says ‘real food’ on the door.” He was dipping a piece of
toast in some apple butter and taking enormous bites. The kid sure didn’t seem
to have any <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">qualms</i> with fake food
though. He was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always</i> back there
eating. </div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
Probably seven different kinds of
cold cereal, two or three different kinds of milk, soy milk, juices, sodas,
coffee, tea, lemon infused ice water, orange infused ice water, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">cucumber</i> infused<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>ice water, whole fruit, fruit salad, a
selection of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>yogurts, granola, toast,
bagels, butter and cream cheese (of course), home fries, hash browns, scrambled
eggs, fried eggs, breakfast burritos, bacon, sausage (both patties and links),
oatmeal (that shit really stuck to the pot), cream of wheat, pancakes, waffles,
potato pancakes, whipped cream, strawberry glaze, miso soup, clam chowder, corn
chowder, let’s just make it any kind of soup, chowder, or stew, also any deli
sandwich that could ever possibly be conceived of (made-to-order), a salad bar
with an endless supply of veggies, dressings, sunflower seeds, and don’t forget
the croutons, stir-fry, mini chimi’s, a sorry excuse for sesame chicken,
broccolini, buttered peas, succotash, cauliflower, glazed and roasted baby
carrots, sweet potatoes, baked potatoes, roasted potatoes, mashed potatoes,
fettuccini, linguini, baked ziti, pizza, hamburgers, cheeseburgers, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bacon</i> cheeseburgers, burgers with blue
cheese, Swiss, mushroom, and onion, patty melts, tuna melts, grilled cheeses,
gyros, fried mushrooms, fried cukes, onion rings, pickles, French fries, curly
fries, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">waffle</i> fries, Tater Tots (also
fried), fried chicken, roast chicken, chicken parm, and chicken fingers, hot
dogs, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">corn</i> dogs, the ubiquitous
Reuben, Spanish rice, fried rice, white rice, omelets, weird pieces of meat on
sharp, wooden skewers that jabbed me in the fingertips as I tried to pluck them
from off the conveyor, enchiladas (which were really just burritos with a ladle
of sauce poured on it), crispy P.B.&J’s (Rice Krispies; to answer your
question), and Ramen noodle soup, sausage and peppers (my would-be personal
favorite had I ever eaten there), and my first exposure to orzo, Krispie
treats, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Lucky Charm</i> treats, Trix
treats, Cocoa Puff treats (!), a soft serve ice cream machine with both
chocolate and vanilla taps, and every fucking kind of pudding, pie, cake, or
dessert bar you can imagine are just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">some</i>
of the menu items served on any given day. And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i> of it was all-you-can-eat. </div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">because</i> it was all-you-can-eat and already paid for (which, to
these kids, essentially meant; free), I’d pull plate after plate from off the
tray-er-ator…plate after plate containing entirely untouched meals. Perhaps a
burger would have one bite taken out of it or a sandwich or an omelet or slice
of pizza. The really baffling ones were the meals with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">no</i> bites taken out of them. Maybe the kids just didn’t like the way
they were served or how the food smelled once they got it to a table. Who
knows? But talk about wasteful. This occurred countless times a day and it
really irritated me. At least there were the compost bins. They may have been
that cafeteria’s single, redeeming feature. It was just nice to know that all
this perfectly good (yet uneaten) food was going to make for fertile soil so
that new food could be grown and also go uneaten. I often wondered what a
skinny kid in India would think about it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Flip it,” Vedran
told a student standing only a few feet away. Apparently, the student didn’t
register that they were being addressed. </div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
If ever you want to see some dumb
looks on some numb faces; spend <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any</i>
amount of time on the open campus at PSU. Even while walking through the
kitchen, I tried not to peek out at them. It made the job just that much more
depressing knowing that I had to serve these animals. And that’s what I saw
whenever I did walk out into the serving or dining area; animals. Cattle
mostly. I saw cattle mindlessly chewing their cud. The ones that really got me
were the guys who must have had some really stern potty training. They chewed
so hard and with such concentration, I thought their jaws would come unhinged
as they stared fixedly at one of the TVs. Even soft shit like scrambled eggs!
And this is what got me more than anything. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">While</i>
they were chewing, their hand was working hard at stabbing up the next mouthful
of food with their fork! And the second they swallowed, the next mouthful would
be shoveled in there! It must have been the one time of day that these types
didn’t breathe through their mouths.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Flip it,”
Vedran said again. The student was trying to make a waffle which required them,
unlike anything else on the serving floor, to actually have to do something
themselves. That is; it was necessary for them to pour the batter in the iron
and then, when a red light came on and it began to beep, it was also the
necessary time for them to ‘flip it’. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was just
so apparent that these kids, before leaving home and coming to live here on
their own for the first time, were the kinds of kids who never did shit for
themselves at home either. Most of them had probably never done a load of
laundry let alone cooking of any kind and they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sure</i> as hell never had to do their own dishes. These were rich kids
mostly. Loud and arrogant and they all seemed to live in athletic wear. Poorer
kids went to community college and lived with their parents. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">These</i> kids lived here. And by ‘here’, I
mean; this very building! Because Ondine, in actuality, was a 15-story
dormitory with a cafeteria comprising the entire bottom floor! All the kids had
to do was take an elevator down and BAM! There they were (often in their p.j.’s
even). <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That’s</i> how far they had to go
for every fucking meal of their day. And by ‘had to’; I mean that too. This was
an all-freshmen dorm and, during this year, it was required that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i> freshmen have a meal plan in this
cafeteria and this cafeteria only. Breakfast, lunch, and dinner and, aside from
maybe a few classes in-between, it’s almost as if they never really left. They
came. They ate. And then they ate some more. And most of them, according to a
verbal survey taken by Ricky who worked one of the afternoon serving stations,
had no idea how much that meal plan even cost. The price was all tied together
as part of their student loans and, although somewhere I’m sure there must have
been an itemized line, none of them ever cared to check. Their parents probably
knew though. And Aramark <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">definitely</i> knew.
And that’s probably the only thing these students and I had in common. By
forcing the kids to eat here through some obscene deal with PSU; the company
was fucking them in the ass. They were also, unbeknownst to these kids,
screwing them out of a vital learning experience that’s probably more important
than most college courses. Traditionally, freshmen year is when you’re <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">supposed</i> to learn to eat on very little
money. It’s a time that a student can prove to their parents that they can
survive by cooking up pots of mac and cheese, Lipton noodles, Ramen noodles, or
slathering slice after hundredth slice of the cheapest white bread with peanut
butter and jelly. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Flip it,”
but the kid didn’t move.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s almost
a rite of passage! And when your parents come visit and take you out to dinner;
it feels like a real treat! A real meal! Real food (although, again, not
according to Gunther)! At Ondine though, in this cafeteria, there existed the
exact opposite of this concept and it was called ‘Parent’s Day’. No shit. As if
the place couldn’t get any <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">busier</i>
with all the freshmen who were forced to eat there, the upperclassmen who
sought the convenience of eating there, and even some professors! We also had
to deal with certain designated days like ‘Parent’s Day’ where the parents
would all flood in from the suburbs and join their kid for a meal. And on days
like those; they couldn’t even find a seat.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Also, by
taking advantage of the present economic situation (which was bleak); the
company could basically force me to do this horrible work for a few pennies
above minimum wage. So <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> asshole
hurt too. The students and I and our assholes. They were sore. We should both
just be thankful, though, that it wasn’t from the food.</div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
“Jesus!” Vedran said, “How the
hell are you in college?!”</div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
But the kid still didn’t hear
him.</div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
“Ahoy matey!” </div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
On extra busy days such as
‘Parent’s Day’ or ‘Prospective Student Days’ (when the cafeteria would overflow
with a few hundred extra 16-year old Korean girls); they’d let Ed come in early
to help out. He’d taken on a pirate persona for the day and could go hours
without breaking character. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How’s it
going, Ed?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He was
working the tray-er-ator when I came back from lunch and I was about to help
him with it when…</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Arrr,
matey. It’s going well. Going well. Everything’s shipshape. But you might want
to stand back a little because I have some horrible gas.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sounds
good,” so I took over on the clean side. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Arrr!” he’d
scream at the prospective student Korean girls who, from the other side of the conveyor,
would also scream and laugh.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Sometimes
Milton would come in and tell him to knock it off.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He’s a
genius,” Vedran would tell me when we were outside smoking cigarettes, “I mean,
seriously. In all rights, I think Ed <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i>
a genius. But you know what? He acts all happy and stuff but…I think he’s
really sad inside.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Vedran was
the class clown. He must have been throughout high school and probably still
was at PSU. Yes, he and Ricky were the only two students presently working this
job and what a personal hell that must have been for them. How conflicting! On
the one hand, since they were both attending this school; I’m sure they wanted
to support it and be proud of it in a way. But on the other; that must have
been really fucking difficult while working in this place. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>These two
were not, by any means though, the only two staffers with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ties</i> to this fine, educational institution. And this was the real
irony behind almost everyone working back in that kitchen save myself. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Most</i> of the workers at Ondine (again,
save myself and the two morning cooks who’d merely taken a two-year culinary
curriculum) had actually graduated from Portland State with bachelor’s degrees
and sometimes more! The dessert lady, for example, actually held a master’s
in…well, I don’t know exactly. Obviously something she couldn’t find a job with
and so…she was our dessert lady. But everyone. Every single last person working
in that cafeteria (at least on the day shift) held a degree besides me. So
really…perhaps I was the only one <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">deserving</i>
enough to work in this hellhole. I don’t believe that necessarily but that also
doesn’t mean it’s not true. Even Lester had a fucking degree <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">from</i> this university. So one really
funny thing they’d do (they; being the management here) was make a giant poster
board containing one of our employee’s faces and background information
(especially including their education) and post it in the center of the dining
area for all the students to see and read! Talk about humiliating. At the same
time, though, this was our only true revenge upon those arrogant, carefree, and
hand-to-mouth students in a way. It was a gentle reminder that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> read, ‘Look. Quit acting like you
know it all and that life is just going to be one sweet, downhill, coasting
cruise after another. These people are like you. They <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">were</i> you. And if you’re not careful and don’t go for a major more
challenging and in demand; this can and will <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">be</i> you too. Just wait.’ </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They never
dared to make one of those posters out of me though. Maybe it’s just because I
didn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">have</i> a degree. Or maybe it’s
because they knew that I’d flat-out reject it. I’d quit before that shit
happened. I seriously would. And, for one reason or another, Vedran’s smiling
mug never made it up there either. </div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
Vedran was Bosnian or Serbian or
whichever one of those two nationalities was victimized the most during the
early-90’s. He and his mother had come to the US then as political refugees.
And, since he was still 10 years my junior; that must have made him only a
small boy at the time. You’d never know all this just by interacting with him
though. His English was perfect. There wasn’t the trace of an accent. And he
could easily just be taken as one of those mischievous troublemakers who never
take anything too seriously. He was a good-looking kid and, from his pizza
station in the afternoons, he loved to flirt with all the young girls that
would come by. He’d even date them every so often and tell me all about these
sexual endeavors and conquests back in the dish pit…sometimes in the morning
too early.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You know
that one chick from Colorado?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You one
you’ve been flirting with?” I asked just to be polite.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah!
That’s her! Well, we went out the other night.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You don’t
say.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
right! And guess what?! She lives <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">here</i>!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She lives
in this building?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yep. And
get this. I fucking got laid in this building last night.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nice,” I
had to admit, “I’m proud of you, man. At least someone’s finally getting <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">something</i> out of working here. I mean,
other than a sorry ass paycheck every two weeks.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
true, man. That’s true. Don’t remind me of that shit. And hey…scoot over a
little bit, will ya?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Uh…yeah,”
and I did. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He reached
for my sprayer then. The overhanging one that I used to spray the last bit of
crumbs off all the dirty dishes.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And hey,”
he smiled with a devilish glint in his eye, “Don’t eat the meatball pizza
today.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Vedran had a
huge colander full of meatballs that he’d placed up on the stainless, dirty
dish counter and I’d wondered why the hell… But it quickly became clear to me.
As he reached for the sprayer and began spraying, it was obvious that the
Swedish meatballs left over from last night’s dinner service were about to
become the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Italian</i> meatball topping
for one of today’s variety of pizzas. And by the time he was done they all, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in</i> that colander, looked saturated,
grey, and revolting. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And hey,”
he added as an afterthought once he’d picked that dripping colander up by its
handles and was ready to leave again, “Have you ever tried the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">pesto</i> pizza here?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, good.
Don’t. It’s fuckin’ disgusting!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That was
back when I had a sprayer. There was a hose that hung down from the ceiling
just above the mouth of the washer and, attached to the end of it, there’d been
a spray gun. And it had had some power behind it; some serious water pressure
that had made pre-cleaning the excess shit (the shit that didn’t automatically
come off whenever I tapped the plates against the rubber ring that led to the
compost bin) off the dishes really easy. And not only that. There was also
something psychologically satisfying about spraying those fucking dishes off
with this gun that had even kicked a little. I could actually watch them as
they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">became</i> clean in a matter of
seconds. And sure, I had to run them through the washer anyway for
sterilization purposes. But still…there was something about blasting those
fuckers that made me feel really good. This sensation may have lasted all of
two weeks though. It wasn’t because I ever got tired of it. Probably, it was the
one piece of enjoyment that I ever got from this job. But the hose overhead,
that mother fucker of a hose that connected to my sweet, sweet gun; it was old
and the rubber was dry and, one afternoon as if it had chosen this particular
time to just give up altogether, it began springing pinhole-sized leaks at
various points along its length. And because these leaks were so small but the
pressure so great, they basically wound up squirting all over the place; one of
the most annoying of those places being my face. So I told the manger on duty.
I addressed this problem to him. It wasn’t Milton or Jannie but a third guy who
didn’t seem to work quite as many hours. He was pretty young. Young enough to
have just graduated from PSU with a hotel and restaurant management degree. And
now, here he was still spending most of his days on that very campus. He wasn’t
so bad though. But I could never remember his name. Rather, he was just sort of
a moron and he confirmed this to me that day by ‘solving’ this little problem of
mine with a large roll of duct tape. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t
think that’s gonna work,” I told him as he tossed me the roll.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. Sure
it will,” he obviously trusted his own blind ingenuity very much so, “Just keep
wrapping it around there and it’ll hold.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, look
man. I’ll try it just to humor you but…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He had
already left though. Or; I could only make out the back of him as he exited the
dish pit’s doorway. You stupid, stupid man who will be working here or at jobs
almost as bad until the day you retire…</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So I humored
him anyway. I wanted to see the look on his face when I called him back in here
to display the result of this idea of his. Mostly, though, I wanted to expedite
whatever process was necessary in just getting me another hose! And so I taped.
I wrapped that shit around the length of the hose as far as I could reach as it
rose up to the ceiling. I double wrapped that shit in many areas. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Triple</i> wrapped it even! And boom. There
it was still springing little leaks again almost the very second I turned the
water back on. Little blisters bubbled up beneath the tape’s surface which
caused the water to ooze out at first. But, once these tiny reservoirs had
reached their maximum capacity, the streams began to shoot once again with an
equivalent force…back at me…at my face. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Upon
bringing this manger back in, it became apparent that he didn’t know quite what
to do or think…</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just…tape
over it again,” was his actual suggestion.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t
think that’s gonna work,” I reiterated. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well…I
don’t know what to tell ya then. I’ll mention it to Jannie.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Great.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ed, that
night, must have had to deal with getting sprayed in the face too…all
throughout dinner service. By the time I came in the next morning though, and I
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> surprised at Aramark’s
expediency, the hose had been replaced…as had the spray gun attached to it.
That’s not to say, though, that my beloved gun had been replaced with another
gun. Oh no. Instead, in its place, I found one of those nozzles that resembled
a showerhead and was more equipped for watering plants than anything else.
Also…the water pressure was all but gone and I was left with no more than a
drizzle to work with. It was a sad day. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No more
‘spraying’ of the plates existed after that and, most of the time, I didn’t
even try. The dishes were often spat out, from then on, with food debris still
stuck to them. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i>, still being a
perfectionist, would bring these particular plates back to the dirty side to be
run through again. Ed, on the other hand (and I was surprised by this), would
just flick the chunks off with his finger or even scrape them with his nail…and
stack them on the clean cart.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
“Aw, Mick. You’re about to make
me cry now, buddy.” This was Jimmy. He was one of the evening cooks and a
really nice guy. He must have been right about 50 and, just by looking at him
and taking in his general demeanor, I could tell that he was used to working in
shitholes like this. He probably had for most his life. “And say…I don’t mean
to pry but…you seem like a nice, bright young man. What the hell are you doin’
workin’ in a place like this for?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t
know.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are you in
school?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No.”</div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
Eating the pizza around here was
obviously out. I guess, so long as Vedran was making it. But eating any of the
other foods, other than the raw vegetables from the salad bar, were out for me
too. There was no palpable reason for this beyond a paranoid fantasy I
harbored. It had somewhat to do with my other job which, this seems like a good
time to disclose, was also (it had happened at random) working for the Aramark
corporation. That’s right. Two jobs. One company. One, gigantic monster of a
company. It was so big that the left hand obviously never knew what the right
hand was doing. The people at my night job (co-workers <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">or</i> managers) had never met or even heard of any of the people at
this day job. In fact, if I were to tell the respective managers that each of
these different organizations was run by Aramark; they’d probably be surprised
to learn it. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There was
one, unifying quality though. Well…perhaps ‘quality’ is really the wrong word.
There was one trait that remained the same throughout this whole, global
corporation. Whether it be in cafeterias such as this, or behind bars such as
at my night job, or catering, or ballpark concession stands, or their linen and
laundry business; this company treated their employees like shit. And although
I’d worked for many companies and corporations that treated their people like
shit inadvertently or otherwise; Aramark was different. It was as if they
actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">hated</i> their workers. And
here’s an example:</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Many months
into this job, the clock in the dish pit would stop working. At first, I wasn’t
sure if I minded this or not. On the one hand, since there were no windows in
the dish pit, the thought of not knowing what time it was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">may</i> cause me to freak out. But, on the other, having that cheap,
little Office Depot clock on the wall above my head constantly, I’m sure, made
time seem to move just that much slower. The truth is that, most of the time, I
tried not to look at it anyway. But, for practical purposes, I did sort of need
it to know exactly when to go to lunch or leave for the day. And believe me, if
I were a few minutes late clocking out; I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">would</i>
hear about it from Jannie because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">she’d</i>
be getting into hot water from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her</i>
higher-up for having allowed me to be paid those few extra cents. That’s
neither a joke nor an exaggeration. So…I did what I thought to be the prudent,
rational, and responsible thing. I walked through the kitchen and back to her
cubicle and asked if she had any spare batteries in or around that desk
somewhere. And she didn’t even have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">time</i>
to say ‘no’ before Lester intercepted me.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nope,” he
told me, “We take care of that.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jannie,
without saying anything, turned back to her computer then. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?” and
I did an about-face to discuss the matter further with Lester.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We take
care of that,” he repeated, “We replace the batteries. It’s in our union
contract.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re
kidding.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No. It’s
specifically stated in there. And I should know. I helped negotiate it last
year.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And…” I
didn’t know quite what to say, “And you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">let</i>
them put something like that in there?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">We</i> put it in there actually,” and he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">actually</i> sounded proud of this!</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You mean it
was your idea?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well…I
guess we thought that, in doing so, it would open up the door to talks on other
types of benefits. Healthcare. Paid holidays. Paid time off. You know…stuff
like that.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, did
you get any of that?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We got paid
holidays.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But this
place isn’t open on any holidays.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“We were
open <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">half</i> the day on Labor Day.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wow. Well,
so you have some batteries stored around here then?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah, no
actually. I’ll have to bring one in tomorrow if that’s okay. Could you just
take it down and make sure it takes a double-A. I’m pretty sure that’s what it
takes but…just to be sure. I actually bought that clock last year with my own
money.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh my God,”
I sighed and began to rub my temples with my fingertips, “Look…I have to get
back to the dish pit. I’ll come let you know though.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sounds
good,” and Lester sounded very satisfied with himself, “And hey, if you’re ever
interested in coming to a union meeting sometime…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m not.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They had a
union at my night job too. A different union, believe it or not, supposedly
fighting for worker’s rights and better working conditions against this same
company…if <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> doesn’t help to
construe just how big and how many different tentacles this corporation had
sticking to this city. And that union, much like the one here representing the
cafeteria, was all but worthless from what I could gather. They were parasites
upon the very laborers they claimed to represent. And the workers (such as
Lester, many of the cooks in this kitchen, and plenty of people I worked with
at night) were fucked in the head for even looking at jobs like this in any
sort of long-term or serious light. But hey, I guess any way you slice it, we
still needed the money. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If I thought
that they were going to give me another spray gun with more water pressure just
because I asked for it, though, I had another thing coming. And that ‘other
thing’ would probably be the managers laughing out loud at me. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Maybe</i> they’d save it for behind my back.
</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was
because of this company’s nefarious nature and its inclination to abuse us
(especially so long as the economy remained at a standstill and the job market
all but a joke) that Jimmy offered me his sympathies that day for having to put
up with them in the form of a double dose. It was also because of their nature
(and just an overall Aramark overload) that I couldn’t eat any real meals made
in this cafeteria. There was often food at my night job; the leftover catering
from the Performing Arts Café. And sometimes I ate that as it saved me from
having to worry about putting a meal together when I clocked out of there at
ten ‘o’ clock. But that, for some reason in my head, is just where I drew the
line. The catered food was cooked and prepared at the Convention Center (also
run by Aramark). And so…figuring that if I ate my two main meals of the day at
work and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">both</i> of those meals were
basically a product of this horrible company; it’s like I would have become a
living, breathing Aramark. Aramark-man. That’s what they’d call me. And,
unfortunately, that appellation represented something a little short of a superhero.
</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Alternatively,
on my break from washing dishes during the day, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">would</i> eat the raw vegetables from the salad bar. Every day. That’s
what I ate. Mostly a ton of broccoli and cherry tomatoes. And most of the time,
I’d opt for ranch dressing but did also experiment with some of the other ones.
I still didn’t like eating there but at least the vegetables weren’t cooked and
hadn’t gone through the general processing that this kitchen staff was there to
facilitate. It hadn’t passed through their hands and I guess, in my mind,
that’s what made it okay. And even then, I didn’t like eating there because the
sights and smells and thoughts of globs of spit and chewed food from the dish
pit were yet so fresh in my brain and stuck to my clothes even. It grossed me
out to chew these vegetables and usually I had to put my mind somewhere else.
And lastly, I didn’t like eating there because of a principle. By using one
plate and one fork, I was essentially creating more dishes for myself to do. It
took me two seconds to rack them, sure. And these may have been the only dirty
dishes in the whole building that didn’t gross me out because they were my own
but… Well, like I said, it was just the principle of the thing.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh my God,
man. I gotta tell you about my morning,” Gunther was in the pit with me and
grabbing the porcelain pots that would contain the salad dressings later this
afternoon. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was about
a quarter to eight in morning. Both of us had basically just arrived. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> was still assembling some of the various,
metal components of the dishwasher before even turning it on and letting it
fill so… I couldn’t fucking imagine what the hell he had to tell me because the
day, in most respects, hadn’t even begun.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh yeah?
You mean something actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">happened</i>
to you already? All I do is get up, take a quick shower, and go.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. Me
too, me too. Pretty much. I mean, I eat breakfast too since the bitch won’t let
us eat it here. I eat a whole bowl of oats every morning. It makes me feel less
guilty about smoking weed the whole rest of the day…or some of the shit I eat
here.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Gunther was
about my age, I’m guessing. Somewhere in the late-twenties to early-thirty
range. He looked older, though, and that’s because it was clear that he didn’t
take care of himself. He was overweight and smoked as many cigarettes on the
job as he thought he could get away with. And, just for the sake of cementing
the fact that absolutely <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everybody</i>
back in this kitchen had their degree; his was in political science and he
rarely failed to remind me of this on a daily basis.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alright. So
what happened?” I asked feeling the camaraderie that can exist only between two
co-workers both working in such a shithole as this. I was glad that he had
something so compelling to tell and that he wanted to share it with me.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay. So I
live with my girlfriend, right? I think I told you that.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You did.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,” but
then he paused, “Have you ever lived with a girl?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay. So
then you know how it is in the morning. Like…if she’s in the shower but you
have to take a shit really bad. You know. Like it’s no big deal after a while
for your girl to see you on the can.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Um…yeah.
Totally.” And, while I had lived with a couple of different girls (one for a
year and one for <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">two</i>); I can’t say
that either of them had ever seen me taking a shit. Not that there’s anything
wrong with that, I guess. Relationships and how couples behave in them are all
different. Personally, I just didn’t want to be trying to fuck my girl later
that night and have her, in the back of her mind, thinking about just how nasty
a shit I may have taken that morning.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alright,
alright. So anyway…she’s in the shower. She’s behind the curtain and everything
and it’s steamy. I mean, it’s not like she can see the expression on my face or
anything.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I see.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But it’s
like…I don’t know. I take a dump every morning. It’s part of my routine. But I
try to stay out of my girlfriend’s way until she’s out of there. You know. So
she doesn’t have to take a shower while she’s smelling my steaming shit. But
this morning…dude. I don’t even know what the fuck I ate last night but it was…
Well, let’s just say it was movin’, bro. Fast. And so she’s in there and, of
course, the door’s unlocked and everything. So I just go in. ‘Hey, honey.
Really gotta take a shit.’ Ya know. And she’s like, ‘Okay. Whatever.’ But I’m
tellin’ you, I like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">barely</i> make it to
the can. Like I had to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">race</i>. And so,
long story short, I also have to sneeze all of a sudden. And so I do and, at
exactly the same time I sneezed, my ass just couldn’t hold it anymore. And
dude…I shat all over the fucking seat.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I
laughed but more for the reason that he had decided to tell me this story than
I found it as comical.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And dude…”
he was really cracking up now and even put his hand on my shoulder, “It was
fucking all over the place. And my girlfriend… Well, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> to clean it up right then because she usually takes a shit
after me!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude,
that’s insane,” I agreed, “I wonder what the fuck you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did</i> eat.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude, I
don’t know. But I’ll promise you, it probably wasn’t something from <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i> house. My girlfriend and I only shop
at Trader Joe’s. Ya know? I’m guessing it had to be something from here
yesterday. That greasy chicken or something just slid on out.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
crazy, man.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Isn’t it?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Gunther was
one of the gruffest, crudest people I think I’d ever met. I’ll admit, though,
that his humor and laughter was contagious around the place…and we needed more
of that. What we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">didn’t</i> need any more
of, however, was grossness. And it wasn’t his story that morning that grossed
me out so much as it was his overall way of being. I kind of did wish, though,
that the kids coming down for breakfast knew that, perhaps only half an hour
ago, this kitchen compatriot of mine was sponging up his own shit off a toilet
seat. I wondered if he’d even bothered to wash his hands. He probably did but,
knowing him just well enough by now, I still had to wonder.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He and
Lester. They were the worst as far as gross goes. At any given minute back in
that kitchen, Lester could be seen picking at any food (about to be served)
that you could ever imagine and dropping it into his mouth. Even shit like
chicken skin that had dried up and stuck to the cookie sheet during cooking. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Especially</i> shit like that actually. And
the scrambled eggs; when they came back every morning just after the conclusion
of breakfast service, I was somehow the one privileged enough to watch him
deliver the leftovers in their tray to the dish pit whereupon he would just
reach in there and grab an entire fistful, cock his head back and raise his
hand up like a crane, and then release his grip unloading most of these eggs
directly into his infinite <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">food</i> hole.
A few yellow crumbles, however, would tumble down his cheeks and fall to floor.
Some would actually get stuck on his shoulders. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Both he and
Gunther were also notorious spoon lickers. Anything that required stirring or
mixing also, somehow, seemed to require them licking an entire spoonful of
whatever that substance may have been just after the task was completed. With
Gunther, it was the salad dressing. He’d walk into the dish pit just to drop a
spoon he’d been using into the dirty utensil tub… And I’m not just talking a
tablespoon here. We’re talking about a full-on mixing spoon almost half the
size of his face… And he’d just be licking it. His tongue did <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">acrobatics</i> on that shit…and I had to
watch this. Spoon after spoon. Dressing after dressing. And one by one, he’d
again enter the dish pit to drop off that single spoon after having had his way
with it. Like I wasn’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fucking</i>
grossed out enough!</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was the
creamier ones that he was most into. The ranch. The Russian. And of course, the
blue cheese. He’d tickle his tongue on some of the others, though, and
proclaim, “Mm, that’s good ball sack,” while referring to the balsamic
vinaigrette. He also possessed a tremendous amount of nose hair that was so
wiry and bristly and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">long</i> that it
could be observed actually growing out of his nostrils as if consciously
(albeit futilely) seeking the nourishing sunlight! And I couldn’t help but
wonder how many of those wound up in people’s food too. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My falling
out with Lester stemmed from this particular variety of personal grossness. It
was a couple of months into the job and it immediately led to us not talking
for almost the duration. Having to watch him drop bits of crusty chicken skin
into his suck hole was one thing. I could easily look away and not quite as
easily pretend that I’d never seen it happen. But on the day that I was
carrying a tray of heavy, ceramic plates out to the serving area (sometimes if
there was only one leftover stack then I couldn’t justify taking the entire
clean dish cart out there again), he actually moved directly in front of me… He
moved so he was blocking my way with his fat fucking ass and, with every
passage being so narrow leading in and out of the kitchen, I was stuck! I was
stuck fucking holding that heavy stack of dishes and it was all because Lester
had noticed a cookie sheet on one of the back counters and instinctively moved
toward it without the least regard for what I was going to do with that tray of
dishes. And he’d seen me coming! He’d looked right at me! Right in the eye! And
he even smiled! And this cookie sheet, of course, still contained the remnants
of some kind of meat that had stuck to it. For a few seconds, all I could do
was watch on in complete disgust as he proceeded to try and scrape as much of
that shit as he could like some kind of animal. Then I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> to intervene less I drop the shit I was carrying.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey,
Lester. You think I could get by. Thanks.” </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My tone was
spiteful as he deserved. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sorry!” his
apology was sincere though. He realized that he was actually a disgusting pig
by birth and was apologizing for this. Unfortunately, I don’t believe there was
anything he could do to change this about himself.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That
incident pissed me off but, as I’ve just pointed out, it’s hard to loathe
someone so much just for being a pig innately…especially to the point of almost
never talking to them again. So yes, there was something else that oaf did
every morning that really pissed me off. He’d use the clean dish cart to take
the ice water dispensers out to the serving area in order to assemble them. And
he would always return that cart to the dish pit with like an inch of fucking
water in it! And through this act, also, he wasn’t even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">trying</i> to be a dick. In fact, I’d seen him take a bunch of clean
dishes out on that cart <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">while</i> it was
full of water. He didn’t give a fuck. He’d just stack them dripping on the
shelves…right in front of the students! And if I may digress for just one
moment here; I may have resented all of those students to the point of nearly
hating them. But there was just something in me that, when coalesced with doing
a job (<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any</i> job), required me to do
that job to the best of my ability. And in respect to this form of workplace
integrity; taking dripping dishes out to the serving floor just wasn’t
simpatico!</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And so I
asked him one day. I asked him nicely although the confrontation had been
building up in my head for so long that I kind of had to take a deep breath or
two while making an effort to control my voice so that it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">didn’t</i> sound as if I wanted to kill him…which I did. “Lester, could
you please not return the cart to me full of water. I’d really appreciate that.
Thanks.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, it’s
clean water.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Again, he
actually was not trying to rattle my chain here. He was merely a moron. And he
was already turning to walk back towards the kitchen when I stopped him,
“Lester…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He turned
around and I was proud for how assertive I’d become in my old age.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know that
that’s not the way you found the cart this morning. Because, just as I do every
morning, I already wiped it down with sanitizer and then <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dried</i> it.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The poor
fucker was afraid of me because he felt that I was crazy and might <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do</i> something to him. And he was right. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,” his
voice was tight when he replied but his tone reflected that he understood me.
We were clear but it still felt weird to me to have to give someone an order
who was at least 10 years my senior. And Lester didn’t want any confrontations
either. Mostly though, I could tell, that he thought I was just being a
grouchy, hungover, control freak, dick.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Speaking of
gross people though. I, on a more domestic level, found myself without a whole
lot of room to talk. It appeared that the dishes were already taking a more
chronic toll on me as well. In some professions, people are known for taking
their work home with them. In dishwashing, I found the opposite to be true. My
apartment that I’d once kept so clean and sterile looking that, often, people
didn’t believe I lived in it… That once clean apartment and my own habitual
hygiene were now jointly deteriorating. Dishes quickly became stacked in my own
sink as did silverware, my frying pan, and my single cookie sheet. My pot for
boiling pasta remained on the stovetop with little noodle guts stuck to its
bottom and sides. Sometimes I’d put off washing them until the weekend came.
Sometimes longer. And sometimes I even reused them as they were. Fuck it
though. I lived alone anyway.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey,”
Vedran grabbed my attention just as he was heading back into the kitchen.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey, if you
see a whole bowl of Cocoa Puffs come around on the tray-er-ator…it’s mine. Just
leave it on there.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“God, this
place <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">sucks</i>! I can’t believe I have
to sneak around like this just to eat a bowl of fucking cereal.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Where’s
Jannie?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“In her
cubicle. I should probably wait until she goes out to the dining room to eat
her morning baby but… I’m fucking hungry. Don’t they want me to have the energy
it takes to do my job?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t
know.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Really? I
thought all you dishwashers were supposed to be all wise and have all the
answers.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To which I
first responded by giving him an odd, austere sort of look. Then, “I hate to
disappointed you, Vedran, and ruin any preconceived interpretations you may
have had but…if I was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> wise, I
guess I probably wouldn’t be standing here washing dishes.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hmm,” he
reflected a second, “I guess I never really thought about that. See?! You are
fucking wise!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If you say
so.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not to
mention that you sort of outwitted the rest of us by working back here.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’ll have
to explain yourself on that one.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude, it’s
fucking nice back here.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To which I
gave him the same look. It didn’t sound like he was being sarcastic though.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Go on…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You don’t
have to wear your hat or nametag, for one.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, I
sort of pulled a power play on that one.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And that
bitch <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">never</i> fucking comes back here,
does she?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nope. I
haven’t spoken more than a couple of words to her in weeks.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that’s</i> fucking awesome. That’s what I
mean. It’s peaceful back here. And probably the best part now that I get to
thinking about it is; you don’t have to listen to that fucking music all day!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
true. There are a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lot</i> of sounds
coming from this room but music is not one of them. And, to tell you the truth,
I’m not sure <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how</i> I feel about that
exactly.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Feel <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">blessed</i>, man. Feel…blessed. To not have
to hear the exact same song at the exact same time every <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">day</i>! You know how many times I’ve heard Hotel California? Enough
times to want to kill myself.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know.
That’s actually the one that plays every day while I’m taking the dishes out.
For better or worse, it’s the only one I’m really subjected to in this place. I
know what you mean though. I’d heard that song enough times to want to kill
either myself or others way <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">before</i>
I’d ever started this job.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, you
get it. Now try to imagine that every song you hear, every day, all day, makes
you want to do the same thing.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,” I
had to admit, “That’d be pretty bad, I guess.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, just
think. We only have to put up with it for 8 more months.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Then what
happens?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Summer
happens, my man. And we can all legitimately get on unemployment. And we can
all tell Jannie to suck our fucking cocks goodbye. At least until next year.
Everyone says that they’re never going to come back here but… Well, this is my <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">third</i> year and I’ve seen all the same
poor fuckers in here every time.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
awful.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes it is,”
and he turned to leave, “Hey, I’ll be back in a minute. And remember not to
toss those Cocoa Puffs.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Thankfully,
the short conversation with Vedran this morning gave my mind enough to chew on
to last me through breakfast.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>First, there
was the thing about the music…or lack thereof. Out there in the serving area,
it ran on a loop through a Muzak device that sat next to Jannie’s desk. And
every day, those poor fuckers really were subjected to the same exact songs at
the same exact minute. And to make matters worse; most of it was Classic Rock.
Not even anything good either. As Vedran pointed out; it was mostly just radio
hits by the Eagles and shit. And, oh my God, Tom Petty. Imagine hearing
‘Runnin’ Down a Dream’ every day for months straight. I would get to anyone. It
would get to the students! I’m surprised they never complained. And maybe they
did. A lot of this protocol stuff was coming way down from Aramark corporate
headquarters though. I’m almost certain the Muzak selection was. And just to think
that at any other cafeterias Aramark ran across this country; the exact same
songs were probably playing at exactly the same time. I wondered whether the
Nazis would have appreciated this type of uniformity.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On the
flipside, music wasn’t allowed in the dish pit. And I’ll say it again. Music or
even so much as a radio playing an AM station bringing me only the news. It was
strictly forbidden. And I wondered whether the Chinese would have appreciated
this type of censorship and deprival. And that was the rule. It was probably
typeset in black and white right there in our fucking union contract. I knew it
wasn’t worth arguing about and so I never tried. But just how heartless? How
sinister?! Could anyone in corporate ever conceive of someone as forlorn as me
back there in the pit all by myself with only my thoughts to keep me company?
Or from going insane. Of course not. And this lack of any outside stimulus did
add to the torture chamber feel of the place. It was a dungeon. And it wasn’t
where <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dreams</i> went to die. It’s where
people went. I had received word that last year there were in fact <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">two</i> kids in here doing the dishes during
my shift. They were brothers from out of the country or something and
supposedly they were absolutely worthless. And crazy as it may sound, I was
actually sort of used to hearing shit like this. That is, this was not the
first time that I found myself doing the job of what two persons had done prior
or even after I left a position. And I always wondered if I should call the
management out on this. Should I ask them for twice the pay? Even one and a
half times would have suited me alright. They’d never go for it though. They’d
fucking get Lester back in here before that ever happened. They’d let the
dishes pile up so that Ed had to deal with them along with his own shift’s
worth later that night. Ultimately, they would find somebody to fuck over. It
just so happened that, for now, that somebody was me. </div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
At least those kids had had each
other to talk to.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Secondly, as
Vedran had mentioned, he’d seen the same staffers back here year after year.
And every single day, so far as I could tell, they bitched about their jobs
with an ever-increasing rancor. They hated Jannie a little bit more each day.
They hated the other managers too, of course. They hated the shitty wages they
were being paid. They hated the food. They hated the students (make no mistake,
please, I certainly wasn’t the only one who hated them). But worst of all; they
hated themselves and their lives, their own willingness to take more and more
shit, and their spinelessness when it came to even thinking about looking for
another job. And that’s just it! I think that this place had somehow frozen
every one of these poor fucks with so much fear that they were actually afraid
to get proactive about bettering their situation. Already, I’d heard people
talking about the summertime and how, after that, they’d never be back here. I
started hearing talk of that in September! Could they possibly believe that any
other place on Earth could be any fucking worse than this? Maybe. And again,
it’s not that the job market was very kind these days but I never heard anyone
talking about a job <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">search</i> let alone
having an interview. And as for me; well, I didn’t want to be a hypocrite. But
I’d just started this job and it did feel good to finally have that extra cash
coming in…the cash that I needed to pay rent without dragging my ass across
town to give blood. And so I told myself that I’d pick up the job search again
in another month or two. I couldn’t make it till summer. I knew that much.
Every fucking <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">day</i> was such a struggle
and my body ached. More than a few months here would kill me or worse… It might
break my mind in ways I couldn’t quite yet even imagine. I had a feeling it
could. Breathing in this stink. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was
morning again and things were just barely getting going. The first, small wave
of kids were finishing their breakfast and depositing their dishes on the
tray-er-ator. And that’s when I noticed it. One of those fucks had stuck a
dollar on his or her plate. It wasn’t sadistically stuck in there like under a
bunch of spit or even food or anything. It was just there; folded once like at
a strip club. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey,
Gunther.” He was gathering his porcelain pots for the salad dressing as he always
did this time of morning, “Check this out.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The plate
was just about to go around the ‘dark side’ of the tray-er-ator when Gunther
hopped over and grabbed it. I didn’t have to point it out or anything.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Somebody
put that there? It’s not yours?” he asked.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nah. I
mean, it’s not mine.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do you want
it?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We both
stared at the bill on the plate in his hand.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t
think so.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You care if
I take it?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alright,
I’ll take it then. Thanks, man.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. No
worries.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Lemmie know
if any more come back here,” he smiled.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I will,”
but I didn’t know if I would.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It sure
would have been nice to get tipped for doing this shitty job but I couldn’t
actually make myself believe that this person had stuck the dollar there in
good spirits and with some sort of honorable intention. Maybe I should have
just taken it though. Maybe that was the difference between Gunther and myself.
I should probably wish to be more like him. I should wish to be more like the
other people in this world who see money only as a currency; a numerical value.
Why did I have to be the kind who took it as some sort of nominal symbol? And
was I that insecure or self-conscious to believe that I was always on the blunt
end of a joke? And who cares if the placement of the dollar there <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> intended to be a joke? Who cares if
some rich fraternity fuck was snickering just beyond the conveyor and out of
sight? The subject had me thinking philosophically the rest of the day. But as
usual; where philosophy ends, the real world starts. And in the real world;
that frat guy was one dollar poorer, Gunther was a buck richer, and I was left
both eternally full and empty with the gift/curse of yet another something to
contemplate. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That was the
one and only dollar (or any form of money) that ever made its way around but
that’s not a good indicator of whether it was a joke or not.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mmm. I
brought ya your favorite. Chicken juice,” Alex said as he walked up behind me.
He was one of the chefs. That is, one of three people on the day shift who got
to wear ‘whites’. </div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
Days or weeks ago, he must have
entered the dish pit with a similar tub full of the same pink stuff and I must
have said sarcastically, “Oh, thank you. How did you know that’s my favorite?”
And ever since then he’d been keeping up this little joke between us. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So far, this
fall leading quickly into winter was the rainiest season I’d ever spent in
Portland. It also turned out to be one of the rainiest winters on record which,
in the Pacific Northwest, is really saying something. We’d turned the clocks
back by now which left it dark when I left the house and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">almost</i> dark by the time I punched out of here…not that it was that
much brighter when the sun <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i>
actually up. For all that heat and flame, it could barely penetrate the soggy
blanket of grey. Not even a white ball was visible up there most days. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So between
this weather and the dread of a long, oncoming winter and the breaking up with
my girlfriend whom I’d cared for deeply; I found an unavoidable situation
occurring in my head that can only be described as something like watching a
train wreck in slow motion. I was getting pretty weird and I was thinking weird
thoughts. For example:</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You know
what’d be really fucked up?” I asked Alex before he could leave.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The clear
plastic tub he’d just deposited on the end of the counter was the size of a
laundry hamper and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">it</i> contained about
a gallon (!) of pink, bacteria ridden chicken juice that probably one hundred
various chicken parts had discharged during the thaw process. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s
that?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well…I was
thinking. Did you know that Gunther, after chopping up all the fruit for the
day, brings in an identical tub with an identical looking juice…though not my
favorite?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t
think I like where you’re going with this,” he smiled, “But go on.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well…you
know how Ed comes in every day, lifts up the whole tub of fruit juice, and
drinks it right out of the thing? He loves it!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh my God.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
right! What if I did it, Alex? What if I washed the fruit juice tub and just
left the other one sitting on the rack? You think he’d drink it?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah…haha,”
Alex’s laugh was slow and forced as he tried to figure out whether I was
serious or not, “You know that might actually kill him, right?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh I like
Ed, Alex. Don’t get me wrong. But if that’s the only way to get a day off
around here then so be it.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You mean
like after being incarcerated for manslaughter?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Actually
no. I was just hoping they’d let us off for the funeral.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh Jesus,
dude,” and he really did laugh this time, “They’d never let us off for that.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah, sweet!”
Ricky walked into the dish pit one morning to gather some utensils, “The noise
is back!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And he’d
said this with such false enthusiasm that I just had to laugh.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He was right
though. The noise had made its triumphant return on this morning. Or; the sound
of screeching metal emitted by the tray-er-ator to be more specific. It had
been there my first few weeks on the job and had caused me many a major
headache by the end of the day. And I’m sure (I’d actually heard!) that the
only reason the management had it fixed was because some of the students were
beginning to complain. It must have really bugged them in the 5 seconds it took
to walk by the conveyor to drop off their dirty plates. I wasn’t complaining,
though, because at least they’d fucking fixed it. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And now it
was back.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And this
noise; it bothered me so much more upon making its return than it ever had
before. I guess that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">before</i>, I just
thought that that’s what the tray-er-ator <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">always</i>
did. But now I knew better. And if it had caused me a few headaches before, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">now</i> it absolutely made my eyes bug. And
it was fucking loud. And constant. And I actually leaned my head over so that
my ears could be that much nearer to the mouth of the dishwasher; it’s lower
frequency slosh and rumble sort of drowning out the other. I couldn’t stand it
much longer. Action had to be taken.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You have
any PAM?” I asked Alex who was busily thawing more meat out in the sink.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I knew that
they did. I just didn’t know where they kept it.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What for?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The noise
is back.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He sort of
chuckled upon discovering that this was my plan. He chuckled like he always
did; ambiguously, because he never knew quite whether to take me seriously.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sure. Yeah.
It’s over there by the oven.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sweet.
Thanks.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And hey…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah?” I
looked over my shoulder.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Let me know
how that works out.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, I will.
I figure I should know almost instantly.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And know, I
did.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To be
completely honest, I didn’t think it would work. I just couldn’t bear the noise
any longer without at least <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">trying </i>to
do something about it. And that ‘something’ now included at least half a heavy
can of professional sized PAM cooking spray. Pressing the little button-nozzle
and holding my finger down; I sprayed behind the trays on the conveyor and all
up in the dark cracks in order to reach the gears and moving parts that I
couldn’t necessarily see. And sure enough, the noise stopped after about 5
minutes and was never to return. It worked but I also didn’t care if a complete
PAM-related disaster would have occurred. Since one didn’t occur, though, I was
sort of forced to take this as yet another sign from the gods that,
unfortunately, my work here was not yet over. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Did it
work?” Alex asked as I returned the can to its spot beside one of the ovens.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You don’t
look too happy about it.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m
conflicted.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One night, I
went out drinking with a friend. Typically, even on a weeknight, I’d drink an
entire liter and a half sized bottle of red wine (the cheap stuff). I could
handle that if I ate afterwards and still get up in order to be there so early
in the morning. However, going out to a bar or two was kind of a different
story. Liquor sneaks up on me and suddenly I find I’m much drunker than I ever
remembered drinking. And anyway, I called in sick. It took forever, lying there
in the dark, to even find the cafeteria’s phone number. I had to search and
search the internet over my phone and even try a few numbers that led me to the
wrong offices. This is how attached I was to the job though; months into it and
I didn’t even know the phone.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When I
finally did get ahold of Jannie, she didn’t sound too pissed. She told me to
get better, hung up, and left me wondering why I’d been so afraid of calling-in
to begin with…why I felt the consequences would have been so much worse. Part
of me actually thought I’d be fired! Not that I would have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">minded</i> being fired. It’s just that being fired for calling in sick
for being hungover would have clearly been <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i>
fault and I certainly would have felt guilty and insecure with my own
alcoholism if that were to happen. Telling myself I wasn’t going to make it a
habit, though, I rolled over and went back to sleep. And, as it turned out,
that happened to be the only day that I ever called-in on that job. I just
hated the thought of wasting money even if they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">were</i> only paying me minimum wage.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Medieval,
sharpened swords and suits of chain mail armor. And absolutely positively no
hope. Not in the US today. Medieval times. Those who have no hope for
themselves. Raw survival. Shit, they didn’t even have any hope for their <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">kids</i> other than living past infancy!</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When my
alarm went off the next morning, I rose feeling refreshed. So maybe it’s not so
bad to take a mental health day every once in a while. I’d slept through the
majority of it, granted. But that also meant that I’d only have to work 4 days
this week and that really appealed to me. In the shower, I listened to sports
radio. Then I pulled on my uniform and made my way out into the cold, dark
morning. Down at the MAX stop, the brick sidewalks were slick with rain that
had frozen during the night. It was still sprinkling, in fact, and every
streetlamp glowed with a halo and appeared to be emitting some sort of fog.
God, how I hated getting up this early. It was fucking inhumane. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Getting off
at the PSU stop on Mill Street, I walked the couple of uphill blocks and around
to the cafeteria’s back door. I clocked in and made my way back to the dish pit
expecting the worst. They may have stuck Lester in there yesterday to replace
me but I knew how slowly he worked. And Ed…</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I hate
having any dishes up there on the rack,” I’d so often hear him say. He liked to
stay completely caught up; is what he meant. And then he’d smile at me,
“Well…hate’s a pretty strong word. So I’ll just say, I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">aspire</i> not to have any up there.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But he would
have been backed up last night. Lester would have had a shit-ton of stuff left
over from lunch and Ed’s aspirations, no matter how fast he worked and hard he
tried, would not have been achieved. And this would have carried back over to
me despite the fact that I knew about some sanitary, health department law
regarding dirty dishes left in dish pits overnight and how there should never
be any. Aramark would risk it though. What were they going to do, pay someone
overtime to stay late and do them? Oh, hell no. And since there was no way a
manger was ever going to stay late either…</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Something
caught my eye, though, before I got back there. Something in my peripheral.
There was something different about the serving area as I saw it through a
doorway leading out there. The shelves. There were some stacks of regular bowls
and plates on them but there were also stacks of…paper plates?</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey
Lester,” I’d talk to him but only if it was directly pertaining to work,
“What’s with the paper plates? And paper bowls too?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,” he
replied in that short voice that always sounded like he’d taken a deep breath
and was trying to hold it, “You called in sick yesterday so they thought that
was the only alternative.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No shit?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nope. I
went in there to wash the cookware but as far as plates and bowls go… They even
went with paper cups and plastic silverware.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No…way.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yep. Then
when Ed got here in the afternoon, they switched back to regular ones. That’s
why there’s a mixture still out there. We should probably work on getting those
off the shelves this morning.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alright,”
I’d been knocked back deep into introspection, “I’ll get on that. Thanks for
doing the cookware.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No problem.
Hope you’re feeling better.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I am.
Thanks.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I made
myself flat against the wall so that he could pass by.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Paper plates
and plastic silverware. I wasn’t sure what to make of this yet I knew there was
meaning in it somewhere. Did it have to do with job security though? I couldn’t
figure it out. And could the question of more or less job security be connected
with the amount of money that the company must have thrown away yesterday?
Because that many paper bowls and plates could not have come cheaply. And what
would the students have thought since, in Portland, everyone is such a wannabe
environmental activist? I hoped that they’d revolt against Aramark by notifying
the EPA or something. At least that would give me a funny fantasy to think
about all day; every different scenario that could ever possibly ensue when
some stereotypical G-man busted the door down, flashed his badge, and
ultimately discovered the secret cache of paper dishware hidden in an
indescript closet somewhere. At the very least, though, I hoped they’d run
something about all the wastage in the student paper.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At any rate;
this company obviously put a lot of stock in their dishwashers if the whole
fucking operation came to a halt in one of their one-day absences. And I found
myself with something else to laugh about today when I thought about asking for
a raise.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Victor? Who
the fuck is Victor?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was
towards the end of the day and Vedran had come back to drop off all of his
leftover pizzas which meant that the rest of the staff would be back to grab
one of these nice, stale slices. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Victor’s. I
said, ‘I hate Victor’s.’”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You hate
Victor’s what?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It used to
be around this time of day that I’d be badly ‘in the weeds’ and the individual
stacks of dishes would climb so high they’d resemble something straight out of
Dr. Seuss’s mindscape; multicolored discuses rising high above my head. But not
anymore.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This place!
Victor’s! I hate Victor’s!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This place
has a name?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My hands
were so steely, I’d accidentally hurt someone recently when gripping <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">their</i> hand for a shake.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,” his
tone conveyed that he didn’t believe anyone could ever be so oblivious without
actually saying ‘duh’. “It’s on the door.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I mean…it’s
not like I think you’re making this up or anything. I guess I’ve just never
actually come in through the front.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was better
than Ed now.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, but
you leave through there.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, but
it’s not like I ever turn around or anything. I’m usually running out of here
fast!” I laughed.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My back
still hurt though. Never as much as that first day but it was chronic just the
same.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
crazy, man! How long have you been working here?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Three
months. And it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> crazy,” I agreed,
“But the question remains the same. Just who the fuck is Victor?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My feet hurt
too. At this job <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> my other.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fucked if I
know. Some asshole, I’m sure.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Or is it,
do you suppose, ‘victor’ as is someone who is victorious?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The shoes I
wore here weren’t very quality not to mention that they squeaked with every
step. Still…I’m super frugal when it comes to certain things; clothes being one
of them. I wore shoes till they wore out. And already, I’d made some pretty
good headway on these. A hole was wearing into one of the tops where I could
just barely see my sock.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You know…”
and Vedran acted as if he took this very seriously. Perhaps he even did! Either
way, he pondered a good, long while before answering with, “I’ve never thought
of it like that. But then shouldn’t the apostrophe be moved like one place to
the right? You know, like Victors’ plural?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“God damn
it, Vedran. You’re smarter than you look, you know that?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s what
they tell me,” he smiled. “Hey, check this out…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Along with
the uneaten pizzas, Vedran had also brought back some unused balls of pizza
dough for composting. I suppose they’d been in the fridge for weeks and were
now well past their expiration date. Anyway, all of these balls were heavily
floured. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do it!” I’d
read his mind before he could even…</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>With two
fingers, he skimmed one of the dough balls and then rubbed them directly under
his nose until the entire area was blatantly white.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Which
reminds me,” I giggled, “It’s Friday!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>No one
around here actually needed any reminding of this. I was just setting him up
for the weekend mantra.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hookers and
blow,” he nodded, “Hookers and blow. Should I go out to the serving room like
this?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of course!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ya know
something, Mick?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s
that?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“This is my
favorite time of the week.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah
totally, man. I mean, we’re almost outta here.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No. I mean,
it’s my favorite time of the week <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">including</i>
the weekend.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I
couldn’t believe anyone felt the same way but I knew just what he meant. Vedran
went on to explain but little did he know; he didn’t have to. It was like…when
we clocked out of here today; that’s when the timer really started ticking.
That’s when the countdown began. The countdown to when we’d have to be back
here on Monday. That’s why there really was just something about these last
couple of hours in the afternoon on Friday that… It was like the farthest we
could ever be from the next workweek. And there was something very comforting
in that.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fucking
Nazis. You know they had a razor blade and just would mow them down.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This was
Martin speaking…not directly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">to</i> me,
thank God. It was first thing in the morning and it wasn’t uncommon for him to
come into the pit to retrieve some cookware. He was the daytime grill guy; the
mild mannered one who, during the first week, didn’t know how to ‘cut a pizza
fast’. And although he’d barely mumbled these words, he’d been close enough for
me to pick up on them; these words that he’d mumbled…to himself…that were so
uncharacteristic of him. Martin hardly ever said a word to anyone, in fact. And
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">when</i> he did; it was just about how
much he loved his family. He wasn’t really ‘one of the guys’ so to speak and he
never joked around with us about hookers and blow. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But hey, the
stress can get to anyone. And if Martin was posthumously pissed at the Nazis
for whatever reason; it really wasn’t any of my business because he clearly
hadn’t been addressing me. He grabbed his shit and moved on and we both went
about our daily business…for a few minutes anyway.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey,”
Gunther came back now to grab his salad dressing receptacles, “Did you see
Martboy today?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Was he
acting all fucked up?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Gunther
never beat around the bush.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well…now
that you mention it; I did maybe overhear him mention something about Nazis and
mowing people down.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude,”
Gunther smiled, “Come ’ere. Seriously. You’ve gotta check this out.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So I
followed him just outside the dish pit to where the first doorway let out into
the serving area. We sort of hid along the threshold and it was understood that
we were now spying on him.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fucking
crap,” Martin was still mumbling <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">while</i>
proceeding to set up his morning station at the grill, “Oh. Oh, you’d like
that, wouldn’t you? Fucking Nazis. You know they burned everyone. I’d fucking
burn everyone too.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Betwixt all
this clearly discernible anger, though, he was also laughing sarcastically. It
was quite frightening.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is he
tripping his fucking balls off?” I whispered.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude. I
don’t know,” Gunther whispered back, “But I saw him 5 minutes ago and he was
swatting at flies.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And I’m
assuming you mean flies that aren’t there?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude, I’ve
seen roaches and rat shit but I’ve never seen a fucking fly in here.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Interesting.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Down past
all the grills and cooking ranges, Alex and David were spying through the other
doorway. They smiled and waved to us but quickly scattered like mice at the
sight of Jannie coming around the corner. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, shit!”
Gunther exclaimed under his breath and was about to make like he was getting
back to work as well. Jannie walked straight through the doorway and into the
serving area though. Somebody must have narked on Martin. We could hear them
whispering to each other now but she remained just outside our line of sight.
“Now, it’s over. Dude, I wonder what she’s gonna do to him.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Drug test
him, I guess. Still…I’m seeing but I’m not believing. Martin just doesn’t seem
like the type of guy to drop acid or eat mushrooms even. Especially not on a
work night!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I guess
we’ll find out soon enough.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And so I
went back to work as did Gunther as did the rest of them. It could be expected
that we’d learn the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fate</i> of Martin
fairly quickly. The <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">reasons</i> behind
his strange behavior, though, we may never know. Maybe <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he</i> didn’t even know! Either way; I doubted that the other managers
would ever leak us this information. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Not even ten
minutes had elapsed before Gunther poked his head in again.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude! She
called him off the serving floor and now their talking in the walk-in.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wasn’t
sure <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why</i> Gunther felt so compelled to
keep me updated on this situation but I was glad that he did. The shit was just
too funny and too…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">interesting</i>. That
was it for this announcement though. And he left again immediately after having
made it.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>David was
the next one back there. We exchanged glances and then started cracking up. It
was apparent that whatever this little episode was, was the only subject on
anyone’s mind that morning.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, this
day’s getting off to a bizarre sort of start,” he smiled.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, you
said it.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And that’s
when the two of us heard a pair of footsteps running from all the way over on
the other side of the kitchen. Intuitively, I knew it to be Gunther. He was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">rushing</i> back here to give us the latest
play-by-play.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She did <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> send him home!” we could hear him
well before we saw him, “Guys! I repeat! She did <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> send him home!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hm. This <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> a striking piece of information.
We’d obviously all been wondering whether or not he’d be fired for showing up
to work so blatantly impaired. If not, it was almost certain that he’d be
written up as a consequence. But not to even be sent home! I’ve gotta say, I
did not see that one coming. What the fuck could Martin and Jannie have
possibly talked about in the walk-in cooler? What was his excuse?! And even if
he had a really good one like; he’d simply forgotten to take his antipsychotics
for a week…that still didn’t change the fact that it was his job to operate a
grill station and that he could be considered a danger to himself if not
others, e.g., between the breakfast and lunch shifts; David found Martin still
mumbling away to himself while attempting to slice onions and other hamburger
condiments with a large and ridiculously sharp knife. And I guess there’s some
sort of glove that they’re supposed to wear while doing this that would keep
them from cutting any finger off should they (meaning; any staffer who had to
cut stuff which amounted to basically everyone but me) misaim. Anyway, David
handed him this protective glove and I was happy to hear that Martin nodded a
subtle ‘thank you’ and did put it on right away. Talk about a liability. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The craziest
part about the whole situation, though, (aside from never discovering <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">exactly </i>what it was that had caused our
Martboy to flip out so badly) was that a few days later; he did it again! He’d
sobered up or whatever for the next few shifts and them BAM! In walks Martin
again, talking to himself first thing in the morning. And I guess Jannie could
have been pissed at him for having repeated the offense but…she didn’t send him
home that time either…or any of the other times which amounted to several more
occasions, I would say. So whatever his excuse was; it must have been a good
one.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>One thing
was for sure though. If any of us ever wanted to be sent home early again (on
purpose), we’d have to come up with something more fucked up than losing our
shit entirely. Because Martboy, unwittingly, had really set a precedent on this
one. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Fucking
Nazis.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Lester has
a girlfriend?” I asked, “Is she fat?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude, what
the fuck do you think?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, I
guess I didn’t really need to ask.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,” Nolan
shook his head, “You didn’t.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What day is
it?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You know
what fuckin’ day it is, Mick,” he was more bitter than normal even.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Noodle Bowl
Day,” I stated.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.
Thanks for fucking reminding me.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wasn’t
positive <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why</i> Nolan hated Noodle Bowl
Day so much. He just did. I think it had something to do with being swarmed by
Asians though. Each and every Korean student who ate here (which happened to
amount to no small sum) never passed up the oversized bowls of Ramen that he
served from his station on Noodle Bowl Day. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And he
added, “They’re gonna bomb me like fuckin’ Pearl Harbor.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I feel for
ya, buddy.” Then I had an idea, “What if, in the display plate you set out in
the lobby, you like…ya know…made it all fucked up looking so the kids would get
pizza or something instead.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mick,” and
he looked at me with perfect contempt now, “I could literally take a dump in
that plate and no one would notice.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, well
then you should definitely do <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fuck</i> couldn’t it be Enchilada Day?!
Fuck!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nolan was a
quirky guy. I seemed to commiserate with him more than anyone (which, in this
place, meant a lot) but there were a lot of details regarding his personal life
that I just didn’t understand. For example; he lived even closer to work than I
did (probably no more than a mile) and he not only persisted on owning a car,
but drove down here every day and actually paid for parking! Ten dollars a day!
Fifty a week! Two hundred dollars a month and it’s not like any of us were
making very much money here anyway.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He walked
away from me momentarily but quickly returned holding onto the handle of a
large, solid skillet. “Mick,” he said as if trying to recapture my attention
that he already had.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
Nolan,” I raised my eyebrows.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I need to
ask a favor of you.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Anything,
Nolan. Anything for you, buddy.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You see
this skillet?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, I
want you to take it…and just bash me over the head with it as hard as you can.
You can do it, Mick. I know you can. Because, ya know, you look like you have a
little heft to ya.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Often, I’d
make fun of Nolan’s weather-resistant clothing as we were clocking-in in the
morning. Everyone wore those shapeless, ridiculous looking garments with the
hoods and built-in bills. Everyone except me, that is. Still…Nolan was the only
one I felt close enough to rip on. And because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> always carried an umbrella, he’d call me, Mary Poppins. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You see
that plate, Nolan?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I see a lot
of plates, Mick.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, but
do you see <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> plate?” and I grabbed
it hastily from off the tray-er-ator.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The dish was
plastic and coral colored. It also had the slightest, whitened scuff along its
edge.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, I see
it now,” he admitted as I held it out before him.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It may look
like all the other plates, Nolan. But you see this little scuff right here?
That’s how I always know it’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i>
plate. I see it twice daily. I have a special relationship with it. You could even
say that I look forward to washing it. I look forward to just seeing it come
around on the conveyor again each day. Each day; slathered with new and
different food. I love this plate Nolan. This plate understands me.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For a
second, he squinted his eyes as if making some sort of diagnosis. Then, “How
many times do you think you’ve washed that plate, Mick?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well…that’s
a good question, Nolan. And I’m glad you asked. It’s a question that, for some
people, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">other</i> people…people who are
nothing like me and never will be… For them, it’s a question that might take a
lot of time and calculations to answer. But again…not me. I’ve washed this
plate one hundred thirty times, Nolan. And by the end of this school year, you
can make that number; three-fifty. I just hope it holds out,” and I began to
caress it’s smooth, round, coral colored edge, “Otherwise…well, I just don’t
know <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what</i> I’d do.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hang in
there, buddy. Christmas vacation is only a week away.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“One week
and two and a half days, Nolan,” I switched back from the emotional tone I’d
been using to express my affections for the plate to my curt and normal self,
“Excluding the weekend, of course.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You got any
plans?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Pssh. Not
really. Working my other job, mostly. It gets really busy there this time of
year what with the Nutcracker and this other religious show called the Singing
Christmas Tree or something. But it’s money. And it’s the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">summer</i> vacation that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m</i>
really looking towards. It’s what I’m saving for anyway.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Saving it
up for the last day, you mean?” and he seemed to get excited just thinking of
this, “And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that’s</i> when you’re gonna
tell Jannie ta suck it?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’ve
thought about this before, haven’t you?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. I’ve
thought about doing it for the past two years actually. But then…well, I guess
I’m glad I didn’t because what else would I be doing, ya know? A guy’s gotta
eat.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And park,”
but I didn’t wait for him to get the joke, “And no. If I was gonna quit, I’d
wait for the busiest day I could find…like one of those days when they have the
couple hundred extra high school kids here touring? That’d be perfect,” I
shuddered with pleasure, “They’d be so fucking fucked. But no…that’ not what I
meant either. I meant that I’m already saving <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">money</i> for this summer. Like…you know…aren’t you gonna try and get
out of town and do anything?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, like
go camping.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Exactly.
Like rock climbing. Didn’t you say you were into that?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, like
in<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">doors</i>.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh.
Like…you’ve never gone rock climbing outside?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh. I’m
really unimpressed by that, Nolan.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t
really care.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good point.
So anyway, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">since</i> I enjoy traveling so
much and try to get overseas at least every couple years or so…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Here’s what
I’m thinking. India.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, that
sounds like fucking hell.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And it
probably will be, Nolan. Especially in the summer. But, ya know… Fuck it. I
just need an adventure. Or at least just something to dream about while I’m
back here. I mean, there wouldn’t be any point to the dream, though, if the
goal wasn’t to make it come true. And there wouldn’t be any point to working so
many hours in this shithole and saving money if it wasn’t to do something
awesome. I mean, I’d just go somewhere else and work like an extra four hours a
day or something. Not eight!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You only
work seven here, Mick.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Same diff.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And why
don’t you just go to Canada or something?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“’Cause
Canada’s for pussies.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Bullshit.
That’s where <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’m</i> going this summer.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I just
looked at him. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Vedran was floating across the kitchen
on the morning before Christmas vacay. The kid appeared to have fallen in love
and now wanted to tell the whole world.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Guess whose
new girlfriend likes it in the pooper?!” he shouted rhetorically and smiled
with glee.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nice,”
somebody actually congratulated him, “And she lives <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">here</i>? Wait… Weren’t you dating another girl who lived here?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
right,” he confirmed, “It’s actually her roommate. Which <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> kinda weird. But it’s also kinda weird how, once again, I never
even left the building last night. And boys…I didn’t shower either.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh. Fucking
sick,” about six of us all jeered him at once.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, yeah.
You know you wish you were me.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This was an
exciting day and there was a buzzing energy around the place. For starters,
since most of the kids had already taken their midterms and split, the
day-to-day routine had all but gone out the window. Dishes would come back
around on the tray-er-ator but much more sparsely than on any other day I could
remember since the beginning. I was still kept pretty busy, however, with the
washing of just about everything imaginable from the kitchen. Seriously. Weird
stuff like some of the oven doors that I never, in a million years, would have
guessed actually detached from the ovens themselves. A lot of the shit, I just
ran through the washer and called it ‘good’. But other stuff, the management
wanted me to meticulously degrease with some sort of chemical agent, a roll of
paper towels, and a toothbrush. The oven <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">racks</i>,
for instance. And I relished in this job because it was like nothing I’d ever
done before in this place and because it had absolutely nothing to do with
dishes. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The kitchen
staffers weren’t exactly working their usual routines either. Ricky’s sandwich
station was open and, I believe, Nolan was also out there putting together
crispy P.B.&J’s. But other than that, whenever I peeked down that long and
narrow hallway, everyone could be seen with a spray bottle in hand and every
piece of stainless steel (which consisted of just about everything) was
starting to shimmer like it hadn’t since Labor Day. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>They brought
other stuff into to get run through the washer too. Even the managers were
helping which was the first I (or perhaps anyone) had ever seen the like.
Virtually anything…any piece of plastic that had been sitting on the floor for
months not serving a purpose. If it appeared to have traces of grease or dirt,
it was brought in for me to run through as many times as it took for most of
the grime to come off. With most of this random equipment, though, the lack of
cleanliness wasn’t even a question. That is, the majority of the shit was thick
with months’ worth of grime. Dustpans. Hard molded step stools. Utensils that
had been found hiding under major appliances for months. And most of these
items, at least on the parts that had been touching or closest to the floor,
carried with them something stuck to their surface. The rat shit, I could
easily identify. Those little turds just fell right off. But this…this was
something else. As disgusting as it was fascinating to look at; this crust resembled
tiny, little, dark brown barnacles. That is; there was a pattern to it that
left no uncertainty as to its organic nature. Roach eggs, if I had to guess.
Thousands of them. And, since I was already busy with the cleaning of oven
racks, these egg-encrusted dustpans and utensils and step stools went right
into the washer. And I knew that it was the machine’s job to sterilize
everything and that that was sort of its whole purpose. But there was just
something about running roach eggs through the very same water with which I
used the clean the rest of the breakfast and lunch plates. Also, we ran all the
garbage cans through that day; I actually had to scrub some of those and pour
the milky white liquid out of the bottoms.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>It stunk both literally and proverbially. And then there were the floor
mats. Apparently, running the floor mats through the dishwasher is a pretty
standard practice in most restaurants…on a nightly basis…despite how gross that
might sound. The idea, on a regular day, is that all these mats and any other
‘really nasties’ are the last items to travel through the washer before the
machine is drained for the night. Otherwise, no matter how pristinely sterile
the extreme heat during the wash and rinse cycles might render something;
there’s still a good chance that actual grit <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">from</i> the floor mats (from having spent all day on the floor) could
wind up stuck to the plates or the bottoms of any bowls that may have to be
washed afterward with the same shitty water. And I’d seen it happen with my own
two eyes; the water becoming contaminated with other substances not quite so
vile as roach eggs or floor mat sludge. It had happened to me once when I
didn’t rinse out a large container full of leftover honey Dijon mustard
entirely. The dishwater in all three compartments of the washer quickly turned
yellow and cloudy. And the dishes that I’d tried to run through it anyway came
out the clean end with those little, brown mustard seeds stuck to them by the
hundreds. But hey. Seeds. Eggs. What’s the difference?</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How the
hell do you ever take a shit back here?” Vedran had come back to start a
discussion and, just based on his body language (call it; the way he was
leaning his elbow onto the counter), I could tell that he had no plans of going
anywhere or doing anything else for a while…at least until he heard Jannie
approaching…and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">she</i> could be heard
approaching from the other side of the building. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, man.
Much as I’d like to, and as often as I’ve thought about it, I just think that
the Department of Sanitation may have something to say about it.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He cracked
up. “That’s a good one. You’re good. But seriously! With all the dishes
constantly coming back here… I mean, not today but that’s probably what made me
think of it. I mean, what the fuck do you do?! Go get Lester or something?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No. There’d
hardly be any point to that. In the time it took me to take a dump, he’d have
fucked this place up worse than if nobody had covered me at all.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You just
always go on your lunch break or something?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fuck no. We
get a measly half-hour for lunch and I’m not going to waste <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">any</i> of that sitting on the can…although
I guess I do just sit there and read anyway. But…that’s not the point. The
point is…have <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i> ever taken a shit
in that bathroom? I mean, I go in there routinely to take a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">leak</i> everyday but that’s different. It’s
uncomfortable. It’s an uncomfortable bathroom with all the kids coming in and
out of there. And even then, there’s only one shitter. And it always <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">smells</i> like shit in there. And part of
the reason for that is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">because</i>
there’s only one. And I just don’t want to sit in there for any duration of
time and breathe in people’s shit fumes.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude. You
just go like this,” and Vedran made a mask by pulling his shirt up over his
nose.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is that
what you do?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fuck yes.
If I have to shit, I have to shit, man. Even if it’s right in the middle of
making pizzas,” and he smiled here out the side of his mouth.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Jesus.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So I’ll ask
you one more time. What do you do? And don’t tell me you’ve never had to shit
back here before because I don’t buy it.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alright,” I
admitted, “Just…calm down. It’s true. It’s not every day but…I have had to take
a shit back here a few times. Sometimes really bad. But most days, I think I’ve
just sort of trained my ass…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But what
did you do on the other days?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t
know,” I threw my hands up in a demonstrative shrug, “There’ve been a couple
pretty solid feeling ones that I can remember. And with those, I just try to
crunch them down as best I can. You know. Kind of squeeze ’em and compact ’em a
bit.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I do. I do.
I’ve done it many times.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But then
there were a couple of other days where…well…where the shit wasn’t quite so
compact.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ah.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes. You
know what I’m talking about. The explosive diarrhea.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I do.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
anyway. On those days, and I repeat, there’ve only been a couple, mind you. I
don’t, man. I just really clench down on my sphincter and pray to God that
things would begin to settle down in there. Like…I imagine the shit trying to
get out and then hitting a dead end and then, not knowing what else to do, it
kind of freaks out and heads back up towards the stomach where it creates this
like fountain. Like a brown, diarrhea fountain of shit. And then, you know, I
still have to keep it clenched but it tends to settle and mellow out. Either
way. I shit the very second I get home every day. I swear to God, I barely make
it up the elevator.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Vedran was
about say something else regarding the faithful geyser that was my ass when
Lester came in pushing a food cart. And apparently, and I’m glad, Vedran didn’t
want to hear what Lester would have had to contribute to this conversation. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Rolling the
cart towards the counter and then past us without excusing himself or saying <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anything</i>, Lester caused Vedran to have
to move in order for him to get past and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i>
to have to move from my spot by the dishwasher’s mouth because I guess that’s
just where he needed to go. So Vedran and I both moved over towards the dirty
dish rack at the opposite end of the counter and just sort of watched him. And
it was weird because, rather than just spraying the cart down with bleach and
then wiping it down with a couple of paper towels, Lester actually lifted the
whole cart into the air, turned it upside down, and then reset it on the
stainless steel counter right next to the washer…right where I’d been standing
and always stood (it being sort of my station position) every weekday for the
past several months. And sure, I’d probably become a little territorial over
this spot but that could never explain Lester’s reasoning for cleaning the cart
in this way. He reached for the shitty, new dish hose they’d obtained for me;
the one where the water came out in only a drizzle. And with that piece of
pressureless shit, he actually proceeded to wet the thing down and…I don’t
know! That was about it! It took him 5 minutes but, after he’d veritably misted
the entire thing, he removed the cart, rolled it passed us again, and went on
his merry, non-acknowledging way. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And once he
was out of earshot, I just had to ask, “Now, was that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> necessary?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To which
Vedran replied with one of the most profound answers I’ve ever heard in my
life. It was an answer to not only this particular situation but to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i> those confounding questions of <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why</i> people do weird and fucked up shit
all the time. He said, calmly and rationally enough, “In his mind it was.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I felt
very satisfied with that and much clearer on <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">everything</i> from there on out.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
Everyone else claimed
unemployment for the next few weeks because, technically, they could. Christmas
break was just long enough to be considered, by that department, a short-term
layoff. And so everyone else could claim it but, having another job, I could
not. I wasn’t too pissed off about it though. The truth is that, without my
other job, I probably would have been really bored around the holidays that
year and probably kind of lonely. Plus, my other job was cake. It was also a
more social sort of job with there being so much downtime and often a group of
co-workers and I would organize a trip to the bar after work. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The best
part about Christmas break, however, was probably also the most obvious. Even
though the hours did begin to pile up with so many fucking showings of the
Nutcracker and the Christian choir thing…and although my feet did actually
begin to hurt… And despite the fact that those Christians didn’t tip for shit
and neither did anyone else in this season of giving… Despite all that! There
still weren’t any dishes for me to do. Not a goddam one. Instead of a dirty
dish pit full of eye-blinding aluminum and screeching metal, I had soft carpet
and the sounds of a live orchestra to work to. And instead of the smell and
humidity of slop and saliva, I was able to work these several weeks in the
aromatic atmosphere of freshly baked cookies. And to think that before I’d
started the dishwashing job, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> job
actually used to get on my nerves. But now…now it was like apples and cinnamon.
Like a warm little slice of pumpkin pie with a spoonful of Cool Whip. It was
somewhere warm and cozy with Christmas trees and lights inside, oversized prop
boxes wrapped up like presents and tied with ribbons and bows. It was a soft,
warm sanctuary from the white, winter days and the streams of sniffling
shoppers on the streets rubbing their mittens together and exhaling in foggy,
crystalline breathes. And it was located not even half a mile from the noisy,
disgusting hellhole that I’d have to return to much too soon. Or did I?</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yes. I did.
I’d come this far and tried to convince myself that I was now committed. This
was about India. Financially, it was a now a feasible trip. I’d planned it all
out. And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">if</i> I quit now and didn’t
take the ride, then what would I have? What the fuck would I have at the end of
this year? Nothing. Just another fucking year of…having survived. Another year
with an extra three and half months of agony mixed in there. Three and a half
months. It didn’t even sound so long. And let’s face it, in the grand scheme of
things; it honestly wasn’t. But it had <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">felt</i>
like doing hard time…or at least what I imagined ‘hard time’ must have felt
like. And the worst part was…the part that I tried to block out of my head more
than anything so soon as the thought tried to enter; it wasn’t even half over.
January. February. March. And those were some tough fucking months, especially
in Portland, even for people with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">decent</i>
lives and jobs. And then April. May. And half of June. I’d try it though. I had
to at least try.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s the
matter, Mick?” Nolan asked me in the dish pit sometime after lunch.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well. I’m
fucking here!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Aren’t we
all now, Mick. So suck it up.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And you
spit in my food.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?
When?” he took offense.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Today,
Nolan. Today. I was out there peacefully eating my salad just like I do every
day. And you came over and started talking to me about something. And you were
standing over me eating an ice-cream cone. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">And
I saw</i>…a tiny drop of spit fly out of your mouth and land on my broccoli. I
probably could’ve eaten around that particular piece but that’s not the point!
The point is that it all felt contaminated, Nolan. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> feel contaminated.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude, is
that true?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, but
don’t worry about it. And if it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i>
to be somebody’s spit, Nolan,” I added dramatically, “I’m glad it was yours.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, but I
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">am</i> worried about it.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ll get
over it! It just might take me a few days.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s not <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>. I’m worried about it because we
work with a bunch of disgusting fucks around here and I just don’t want you to
think of me as one of them.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I never
really did, man. We’d probably hang out even…if I wasn’t so antisocial.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, but I
<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">need</i> you to know I’m not one of them.
For me! For my sake!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude.
You’re nowhere close. Trust me. Did you know the other day I saw Vedran come in
with the leftover pizzas just like he always does…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And he left
them on the rack for anyone who wants a slice…just like he always does…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m not
gonna like this, am I?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I doubt it.
And then Gunther comes in, grabs a slice, takes a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">bite</i> from said slice, and then rather than tossing it into the
compost bin… You guessed it. He puts it right back up there on top of all the
other, uncontaminated slices! And at the time, as I’m watching him walk away, I
actually asked myself if that was just normal behavior and how people just did
things. I mean, I guess it is around here.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude, that
is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> fucking normal though. Why
didn’t you tell me and I would have beat his fucking face in.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Again.
Because, it’s just like I don’t even know what to react to and what not around
this place. Because I think I just have different sets of standards than a lot
of these fucks. And so <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">they</i> always
think I’m overreacting!” I took a deep breath, “I think I’m going crazy, Nolan.
Like finally, for the first time in my life, really starting to actually go
crazy.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You don’t
own any guns, do you?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Like…do you
see that face right there?” I looked towards the tray-er-ator.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,” he
seemed to understand, “You’re right. I think maybe you are starting to get a
little…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do you?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No! Jesus!
What face?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Right
there,” and I pointed to a plate as it rolled just past the center of the
conveyor now, “This one,” I picked it up, “This one with the fries on it.
Doesn’t it look like a face to you?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh yeah,”
Nolan scrunched his eyebrows and even bent down a little in order to examine it
more closely, “Do you think somebody meant to do that?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
that’s what I mean. They had to have, right? I mean, nobody just finishes their
fries and it winds up in… I mean, it isn’t just like a happy face or anything
either. I’ll bet you an art major did this.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,” he
continued to agree which surprised me, “I could see that.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But was I
leading him off the deep end?</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
pretty cool,” he went on, “What other shit do you find back here?”</div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
“All sorts of stuff. I mean,
sometimes when I look at the tray-er-ator through the corner of my eye, it
looks like every plate has a different little lucky charm on it…and I don’t
mean the cereal. And just earlier today, I found a heart made of brown rice. It
was actually sculpted so masterfully that I saved it in order to contemplate it
later. It’s up there on the rack if you wanna look. And then mashed potatoes
seem to be a popular medium but I guess that one’s kind of obvious.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Way</i> too obvious, Mick.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But
vegetables <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">added</i> to mashed potatoes
can be fun. You know….like little props? Like how a carrot makes the nose on a
snowman? I mean, don’t get me wrong, Nolan. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Some</i>
of the shit, I must be hallucinating for sure. The question is; how much of it?
And is there really any acceptable level?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, Mick.
No, there is not. Which is why I’m gonna get the fuck out of here…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“’Nother
wonderful day, my friends?!” Jimmy entered the dish pit just then. He was just
crazy enough by now to make it sound as though there were actual joy in his
voice.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sure is,”
we both answered.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Say, Mick.
Those girls still sending you hearts around on that there thing?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“They might
be, Jimmy. We were actually just talking about that. They either are…or I’m
just slowly going insane.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hmm,” he
seemed to think about this for a second, “Well, if they ever send any of their
panties around on there…will you lemmie know?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sure,
Jimmy. You got it.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And Mick?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Will you
lemmie sniff ’em a little?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He laughed
uproariously then while Nolan and I moved out of the way for him. Jimmy had
heard that we’d served bratwursts today and actually wanted to dig through the
scraps of compost for some…to eat! I guess, there’s a first time for everything
though. And that was definitely the first time I’d ever seen anything like
that. I don’t even know if a bum would have done that. I really don’t. All that
spit and saliva and gushy little half-masticated globs of what used to be food.
And yeah. There were some bratwursts down there too. Way down underneath all
that crap. I know because I’d dumped them there. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sorry,
Jimmy. I just wanted to wash the pans they were in. Next time, I’ll know to
save them.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, that’s
alright buddy. Ain’t nothing a little rinse job can’t fix.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But was it?</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Unbeknownst
to us all; Ricky, the deli sandwich kid, had been eavesdropping from the
doorway. He had a funny look on his face but I couldn’t be sure if it was the
sniffing panties-talk or the rooting around in a compost bin that had put it
there. Or both. Or neither! One could never tell in this joint. It could also
have easily been something a kid had done or said to him right outside. And
sure enough…</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“One of
those fucking little piece of shit assholes,” he spoke while carrying his
cutting boards over to deposit them on the dirty dish rack, “Just asked me to
cut the fuckin’ crusts off his bread!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah?”
Nolan asked, “Did you tell him to get fucked?”<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I told him he could do it
himself!” poor Ricky looked really exasperated, “I fuckin’ gave him my knife
and everything. And he did!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And would <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i> be the that sandwich?” I pulled a
plate from off the tray-er-ator and held it up for him to see. It contained a
slice of pickle and one entirely uneaten sandwich on wheat…with the crusts cut
off.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That mother
fuck!” Ricky slammed his cutting boards down then causing every other pot and
pan on the rack to rattle. Then he proceeded to nod his head in a quick,
nervous motion while smiling widely. Jimmy had already left the pit but Nolan
and I were watching him closely. Ricky was one of those staffers who (like
Nolan actually) was highly likely to crack. But he finally stopped nodding. His
eyes looked up for a minute and he stuck out his jaw as if trying to reconcile
something deep within his head. Then he simply shrugged and, just before
turning to leave, announced, “And that, ladies and gentlemen, was
Tuesday.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ecolab.
That’s the company that maintained the dishwasher. I’d seen some of their
representatives come in once or twice to either restock our dish soap or unclog
the sanitizer dispensers. And they always wore lab coats which, other than the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">word</i> ‘lab’ being in the company’s name,
nobody could really figure out. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>David nudged
me one time so he could talk right behind one of their backs, “I mean, it’s
like…they let <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> wear chef’s whites.
And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> seems kind of ridiculous…even
to me! But this. I mean, do you think the company <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">makes</i> them wear the coats and that they feel kind of stupid for
having to do so? I mean, they’re fucking repairmen!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So when I
saw the Ecolab guy walk into the dish pit wearing a lab coat one day; it wasn’t
this particular article that surprised me. I was, however, taken aback.
Honestly. It must have been one of the worst rattles I’d ever had in my life.
Because the guy…the Ecolab guy…just imagine looking up and unexpectedly seeing
this;</div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
He was a pretty tall guy. Big but
not fat. It was more that his shoulders were really broad and, in the midst of
my surprise, I had one of those weird moments where part of my brain
(presumably a part unconnected from emotion) goes off and automatically thinks
of something practical. And it occurred to me instantly that Ecolab must had to
have special ordered these coats for him or <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he</i>
must have had them altered. So his shoulders were enormous and the guy was
pretty big; that was my first impression. And the second occurred only a
millisecond thereafter. Moving up from the lab coat and the shoulders; we came
to the neck. And it was his neck that startled me mostly. It was his most sever
attribute but not his only (as we shall see). But basically, on both sides,
from his shoulders to his jawline; it appeared that two, Nerf-sized footballs
had been surgically implanted under his skin. They were huge tumors, obviously,
although I couldn’t even begin to guess at what kind. But they were disturbing,
looked painful, and caused me to wonder if indeed they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">were</i> painful or obstructed this guy’s breathing in any way. How the
fuck he was still working in such a state, and (most importantly) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how</i> in the fuck had they come to grow
there in the first place.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Thirdly,
there was the matter of his hair. It was thin but not just on top. Rather, the
thinness was evenly distributed throughout. Much of his scalp was visible and
shiny since, like most men with thin hair (and I’ve never understood this) he
appeared to use a heavy product. In this guy’s case; I would have guessed a
gel. Something that gave it a wet look but, in reality, I’d bet the shit was
really hard and crusty. But the craziest part was this thinning hair grew in
tiny little clusters…perfectly apportioned over his whole cranium. And each
cluster; it reminded me almost exactly of the wet tip of a paintbrush…like the
size one would use to do an 8x10 in watercolors or something. Teardrop shaped;
getting fat in the middle but ending in tiny, little points. So this combined
with the neck thing…</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And lastly
(and this is the part that really completed my terror when it all finally hit
me); there was a smell coming off the guy…like a mixture of breath mints and
cheap deodorant. There was definitely something pepperminty involved that I
didn’t like. And it was strong. The deodorant must have really been caked on
there and the breath mints smelled as though he’d just chewed a whole thing of
Tic Tacs just before walking in. But it was my reasoning <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">behind</i> these powerful and artificially fresh scents that disturbed
me most of all. It was probably just my imagination. Probably. And my
imagination, I’d come to find, could really run rampant back in that disgusting
dish pit. There was also a certain philosophy right here that seemed to ring
true: If one is surrounded by disgusting shit all day, then disgusting shit,
for this unfortunate individual, is often the first place the imagination
turns. So…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">in</i> my imagination, I
reasoned that this guy must have been wearing these different scents (and so
much of them) in order to cover another smell. A bad smell. An unnatural smell
that, sometime over the course of this guy’s life, had <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">become</i> natural to him. Like burning flesh. That’s what I imagined
it to be. Because, to me, he was a radioactive monster. In that lab coat, he
was a mad scientist involved in one of his own experiments that, somewhere
along the lines, had gone catastrophically wrong. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And he
didn’t even greet me! This mutant misfortune of a man didn’t say one goddam
word! He just walked right over to the clean side, hit the kill switch, pulled
a couple of stainless steel panels from off the washer, and began to tinker
with its insides. All right before the lunch rush was about to hit! Talk about
inconsiderate. But I guess this inconsideration sort of humanized him for me.
So suddenly, he was just another dickhead. And although still freaky looking; I
saw him more as just a guy with a medical condition or two than some smoking,
supernatural beast. Right in the fucking middle of lunch, he worked. For 45
minutes! And it’s not like I could very well go anywhere. It’s not like I could
run to take a shit if I had to because I still needed to be there to mind the
tray-er-ator. The downside; there just wasn’t anywhere for the dirty dishes to
go but up. And so up like Tokyo, I stacked them. I stacked those dishes so high
that day that they looked like something straight out of the Mad Hatter’s tea
party…all because this asshole couldn’t find a better time… No. I couldn’t
blame him though. I’m sure he probably called weeks in advance to tell the
management that the only time he could maintenance the machine was sometime
during the twelve ‘o’ clock hour and ‘would that be a problem’. And they were
probably like, “Nope. No problem at all. Come on down whenever you can. Middle
of the day sounds great.” I couldn’t blame the guy. The poor bastard obviously
had enough problems as is. But he could have greeted me or so much as nodded in
acknowledgment of my existence. There’s nothing wrong with a little etiquette.
Nothing wrong with having some manners.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Later on,
Alex came back and asked me whether or not I thought it was the chemicals that
did that to him and I told him, I didn’t know. I’d seen some of the other
Ecolab guys, though, like I said…and they didn’t look like that. They still
wore those stupid lab coats, sure, but… It was this guy in particular who was
the dishwasher expert. So again, automatically my mind jumped to certain
conclusions provoked by my environment no matter how illogical. Like, was there
something in the dish detergent? Or in that viscous, blue rinse solution
contained in that dispenser on the wall with the leaking slow drip that we’d
simply stuck a pan beneath? </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The dishes
had become pretty backed up by the time the guy left and I even heard somebody
yell back into the kitchen, “Mick’s in the weeds!” That had never happened. And
I actually had it under control but, since it was Vedran whom they sent in to
help, I wasn’t about to complain. He just smiled until his eyes were little
slits and continued to shake his head as he worked down on the clean side. He’d
stack the dishes onto the clean cart just as soon as I sent them through and
they popped back out again scalding hot. And I swear, the worse it got, the
busier it became, and the thicker they laid them on the tray-er-ator; Vedran
would just smile wider as is this were all just a big game to him. He was young
though. He wasn’t over 30 and working back here like me and, for him, I don’t
believe that even the faintest of ‘sadness’ had yet sunk in. He barely knew the
word! And yet he said things sometimes that were so well beyond his age. Who
knows. Maybe it was because he wasn’t born in this country. Maybe he wasn’t as
shallow as us. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You know
what this place is?” he asked me while stacking plastic cups that, for some
reason, only ever came in clear or red, “I mean, like really?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Enlighten
me,” I stopped what I was doing for a second to look across the room at him.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s a
coffin, Mick. It’s one humongous, gigantic coffin. And you know what these
are?” he held up a stack of the cups so that I could be sure of what he was
signifying, “They’re nails. And with every one of these little mother fuckers
that we stack…that’s how much tighter the lid gets.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You Slavs
really don’t sugarcoat much, do you?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He shrugged.
“What’s the point?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
Ricky was pissed off again. This
time, though, it had something to do with the management. As was customary, he
stalked into the dish pit in order to blow off some steam. And, with a hand
practically on his shoulder, Gunther followed him in like a mother trying to
sooth her girl’s first broken heart. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Come on,
man,” he proceeded to console him, “Is that how small-time a pimp you are?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Those were
his exact words and, to be honest, they would have made <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i> feel better. I would have started laughing and been unable to
stop! But not Ricky. He was just sort of a negatively charged kind of guy and
had been ever since I’d met him way back on Labor Day. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey, Mick,”
Ricky, still followed closely by Gunther, brought quite a large sauce pan over
to me, “I want you to take this and just beat me in the fucking head with it.
Please.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I used to
receive this request quite a lot actually. And I wanted to do it since I really
didn’t like Ricky and I knew he didn’t like me. I think it had something to do
with when, way back during that first or second week, he said something to the
effect of, “Well, that’s why I’m in college. I don’t wanna be a bum all my
life.” And I said something (innocently enough, I swear) like, “Well, that’s
great but what’s college got to do with it?” And from then on out, we were just
kind of dicks to each other. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I want to,
Ricky. I really do. And I would. But I actually have something that I think
might cheer you up instead. But if it doesn’t…and you still want me to beat
you…I just want you to know that, as a friend, I will. Out of respect.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Not waiting
for them to even ask, I reached on top of the dishwasher and pulled down a
comment card that had come through on the tray-er-ator that very morning…not
more than 10 minutes before, in fact. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What is
it?” Gunther asked but instantly figured it out, “Do kids really send those
around on that thing?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nope,” I
answered, “And I’m actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">surprised</i>
that they don’t. But this here before you is the very first one.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ricky took
it from me and held it close to his face in order to read it better. And
Gunther bent over it a bit too so that their heads were almost touching. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Poopballs!”
Gunther read triumphantly.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And Ricky
read the other part, “Fuck you! More sweet fries!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And we all
started laughing. Then we began to analyze it just in case there was any sense
to be made. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Did we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i> have sweet fries here?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. But
only one day that I can remember. They were experimental or something.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And what’s
with ‘poopballs’?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’ve heard
that term on a sketch comedy once, I think. But what it’s doing on that comment
card, I couldn’t fucking tell you.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who left
this?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I can’t see
on the other side of the thing, man,” I suddenly felt the need to speak the
obvious.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Man, I’ll
bet you wish a naked bitch would just come around on that thing one day.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I do. And I
have for quite a while. But I keep thinking she’d probably be kind of mangled
by the time… Well, you see how there’s very little space. She’d have to be like
a cephalopod or something.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A what?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Octopussy.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, Jesus.
Here comes Vedran.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What’s up,
boys? What the fuck are you all doing standing back here. Slow morning?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It is, sort
of,” I replied.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“More sweet
fries?! What the fuck is this?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, that
seems to be the question of the hour.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Whoops!”
Vedran picked a ceramic bowl from off the tray-er-ator, tossed it a couple feet
in the air, and let it fall on the tile floor where it shattered into a myriad
of sharp, little slivers. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, Jesus,”
Gunther slid passed him and began walking back towards the door, “So this is
where it starts. Vedran. You know I love you, man, but I don’t want to get
blamed for any of this. Ya feel me?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, I
feel you. You, fucking faggot.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m out
too,” Ricky said, “I’ve gotta go fart on whatever the fuck Jannie’s gonna eat
today.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s the
spirit!” Vedran was smiling from ear to ear as he shouted after them, “You know
what today is, boys! It’s the Final Countdown!” </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And here he
proceeded to sing loudly; the notes to that cornball song by the Swedish band,
‘Europe’. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Say it
ain’t so, Vedran. Say it ain’t so.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s so, my
friend. It is so. You knew it. I knew it. We both knew this day would come. I
just never actually thought they’d let me put in my two weeks!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. That
was kind of cool of them, I guess.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The fuck it
was! It’s just that bitch’s way of torturing me just that much longer!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You have
anything lined up?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Actually,
yeah. Jimmy’s getting me a job where he works nights and weekends. PGE Park,
baby! Gonna watch some baseball. Sell some fucking hotdogs.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not bad.
Sounds better than here.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fuck yeah,
it does.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Two weeks
ago, Vedran had been caught sitting down in the crowded student’s lounge in the
front of this very building just beyond the cafeteria’s entrance. Together with
what must have been a quarter of the dorm, he’d been cheering and hollering
along to the World Cup on the big screen…while ‘on the clock’ the whole while.
So Jannie gave him two weeks to find another job and leave on good terms which,
as I tried to tell him, was actually doing him quite a big favor. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You know I
saw your stalker the other day…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We used to
tease Vedran about this sandal clad, fat guy who used to stand there and talk
to him during breakfast.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude, don’t
even talk about that guy. I fuckin’ hate that dude so much.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude. I saw
him in the dining area. I walked right past him. And check this out. He had a
string of Thousand Island hanging from his beard. It was like right next to his
mouth. And it was just hanging there like a loogie or something that you keep
thinking is going to break. But it didn’t! It just kept wiggling back and
forth. And seriously, dude. It was at least a few inches long…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thank you!
But enough. Mick…I could have gone the rest of my life without ever needing to
hear that. And yet…for some reason you felt that I did. So thank you. I’m gonna
have that image in my head all fuckin’ day now.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Vedran!”
Yvonne walked through the doorway now, “What the fuck are you doin’ back
here?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She was a
new hire. And yeah…she was a sassy black chick. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I uh…”
she’d caught him off guard.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I uh, uh,
uh,” she mimicked, “Get your fuckin’ little skinny ass back there and start
makin’ some pizzas. ’Cause <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> ain’t
makin’ em. I’m makin’ other shit. Now, let’s see what kinda shit they want me
to make today,” and she unfolded a piece of paper containing an Aramark recipe
for macaroni and cheese or something. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alright,”
Vedran brushed her off, “Jeez. I’m leaving,” and he made for the door humming
the whole way, of course, the tune to the Final Countdown.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
right,” she continued behind his back in a perfectly normal speaking volume
that he was probably already too far away to hear, “You get your fuckin’ skinny
ass back there before I slap the shit outta you. And you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">know</i> I’d do it too. Don’t you, Mick,” she suddenly switched to me.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m not
doubting you. It wouldn’t even be a good fight.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Goddam
right, it wouldn’t. Hey, Mick?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How the
fuck come you don’t have to wear your visor hat? Jannie don’t say nothin’ to
you?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I just
never see her. She’s been back here like twice in the past 4 months.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, she
told me to wear that shit today. And I did. But do you know what the fuck it
makes me look like?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A slave!
Between that and this red fuckin’ McDonald’s shirt. I’m serious. I don’t know
how you all have managed to put up with that bitch. But her and I, we’s about
to get into it.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Like I
said, back here, I really don’t see her.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m about
to pimp slap that ho.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not to be
confused with the bitch slap.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Eggs-actly.
Mick?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
Yvonne.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I gotta ask
you somethin’ serious.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. Go
for it.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You want a
black bitch? I’m hookin’ Nolan up with one of my cousins and I just thought
that you might want in on some of that shit too.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Um…that’s
really nice of you. But I’m actually trying to get back with my girlfriend…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is she
white?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You got
somethin’ against black bitches?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“God, no.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And she
cracked up. “It’s alright, Mick. I’m just fuckin’ with you.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Phew. I’ll
let you know if I change my mind.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. You
do that,” and, after grabbing the cookware she needed, Yvonne passed Nolan on
her way out the door as he was making his way in.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Nolan wasn’t
after anything. He just didn’t want to be out there prepping for yet another
Noodle Bowl day. The stress for him was imminent and he already looked like he
was about to cry.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Call me
crazy, Nolan,” I said, “But I just never thought of you as the black girl
type.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m not.
But I mean…Yvonne’s pretty good lookin’. So hopefully her friend is too. It
can’t hurt. I’ve really got nothin’ else going on.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I thought
she said it was her cousin.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Jesus,
Mick. They’re all fucking cousins, dude.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
racist.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, it’s
not. I’m being serious. They all call each other ‘cousin’.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I thought
it was ‘brothers’ and ‘sisters’.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. I
mean, there’s that too.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, good
luck.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.
Thanks.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“With Noodle
Bowl day, I mean.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fuck you.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At the end
of the day, just as he was about to clock out and fly away from this place
forever, Vedran came back into the pit to break another bowl and tell me a few,
random words that didn’t make any sense at the time. He said I should go home
and punch them into a Google search. And so I did. And it led me straight to a
video clip of a barely legal Japanese girl shooting live, little eels out of
her twat. </div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
I was going to miss that kid. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You could
get promoted,” she suggested.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Shayla was
another new girl that they’d brought on to work mostly weekends. I’m pretty sure
that she was twenty-one but she definitely didn’t look a day over sixteen. She
was a cute, tiny little thing who must have grown up far from the city…way past
the last suburb where public education didn’t really exist. That is to say; she
was complete and utter trailer trash and even spoke with a twang. And yet she
had a nice personality.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
that’s just it, Shayla. I mean, it’s kind of hard to explain. But I don’t
really want to get promoted. I don’t think I could handle it out there.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jannie had asked
if, in order to break up the monotony, I wanted to work a couple weekends in
the afternoon and evenings. And I told <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">her</i>
that, in order to break up the monotony of my routine, I would do just about
anything. So here I was on a Saturday getting ready to close the place.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> got promoted!” her smile was truly
full of pride, “And I’ve only been here a week!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh yeah?
Well, I’m glad. You do a good job.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thanks!”
both her shirt and visor seemed three sizes too big.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Things were
dying down out in the dining area so they’d sent her back to the pit to help me
with the dishes. But it was pretty slow back here too.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For a while,
I just watched her. Fascinated. She’d brought a plate full of roasted chicken
back with her, placed it down on the counter amongst all the other dirty
dishes, and then proceeded to eat from it with one hand while pulling plates
from off the tray-er-ator with the other. I couldn’t stop looking at her
greasy, little fingers. How could this girl remain absolutely unphased by the
disgustingness of this environment? I mean…especially being a girl (not to
sound sexist or anything). And especially being as young as she was. Because
people harden as they get older and become less squeamish. But how could she be
so comfortable around all this slop and these smells?! Comfortable enough to
eat even!</div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
“You want a milkshake?” she
turned to ask me. She never did lose that glowing smile.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thanks. I’m
alright though.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are you
sure?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay. Well,
I’ll be right back then.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alright.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And when she
returned, the girl set her cup full of ice cream from the soft serve machine
(her idea of a milkshake) right down amongst all the dirty dishes and her
chicken and began to eat it with a spoon. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How old are
you anyway?” she asked me.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Old.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, you’re
not. I’d say you’re about twenty-four.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
thanks. I get that a lot so I must really look that young. But I just have good
genes, I guess.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do you like
to drink?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You could
say that.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And go to
parties?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nah. Just
drink.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I really
like this job. You get all the free food you want.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.
That’s one of the perks.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do you go
to school here?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No. Do
you?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,” and
for the first time, she actually looked a little sad, “I’m not smart enough to
go to college.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don’t say
that. You can go to college if you want to. And you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">are</i> smart enough. I can tell just by talking to you.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re
really nice.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.
Well…that depends on who you ask.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A while
later, as we were wrapping things up, Shayla grabbed a bucket and began mopping
the floor. And still, I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She just seemed so
content; still smiling and humming to herself even. Her skinny arms; barely
able to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">lift</i> the mop or move the
bucket. And yet her attitude. This girl was amazing!</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hobart.
That’s what everyone called the dishwasher. They referred to it by this name as
if it were a real person and for some reason that used to bug the shit out of
me. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Like,
“Hobart needs some more detergent.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Or, “Would
you run this sauce pot through Hobart really quick? I need it for the dinner
service.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hobart was
the name of the corporation that manufactured these washers. And, indeed, the
very name was molded right onto its metal casing…but it still bothered me and
for the longest time I couldn’t put my finger on ‘why’ other than I just
thought it was stupid. But then, one day, in about the middle of spring; I had
an epiphany:</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If the
dishwashing machine had a name…and I, the dishwasher, had a job title of the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">same </i>name… If both of us dishwashers
were referred as ‘the dishwasher’ then…was there really any difference between
the two of us at all? I was merely an extension of it. Another moving part. I
was a robot that they could pay less. Dishwasher: it was our name and
description all in one. It was the man and it was the machine. We were
inseparable components one, continuous conveyor that reached far beyond the
tray-er-ator. It began…let me see. Where did it begin? With the students,
obviously. It began with them out there feeding their fucking faces. They had
to come into the serving area for food though. But what if they didn’t have to
do that? Imagine a conveyor that <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">began</i>
in the serving area. It would be like one of those sushi-go-round places. The
kids could sit out in the dining area and have this extension of the great and
single machine bring them the food of their choosing. And they could sit there
and eat and, once they were finished with that particular dish, they could
simply set it back onto the conveyor which would eventually lead back to the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tray-er-ator</i> that would eventually lead
back to me. I’d take the dirties, place them in the dishwasher… And oh! What if
the conveyor <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">actually</i> began at the
clean side of the dishwasher. These dishes, in a chain-like, mechanical
fashion, could be brought through the kitchen where the plates and bowls would
be filled with slop where they would make their way back out into the dining
area. There was still one problem though. The students. As beneficiaries of
this grand and solid apparatus; we, the workers of Ondine, needed to think up
and then construct some sort of invention that would allow the students to
never have to leave. If they never had to stand up and go anywhere then we’d be
able to feed them around the clock. Let me see here. What could it be, what
could it be? I’ve got it! Toilets! Toilets installed underneath every one of
the seats! They could flush or not or just be like those campground toilets
over big, septic holes in the ground that, when the shit hits the bottom, it
goes; clop, clop. Either way. They could sit there. And eat. And shit, of
course. And maybe even do a little homework. My God. I needed to tell a manger
about this idea quick. It was almost too perfect. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Maybe it
wasn’t necessary though. The kids <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i>
been getting noticeably fatter as things were already. I wished that we would
have started doing a time lapse, video experiment at the beginning of the year
just to see how each one of them widened. No joke. I’ll bet it was pretty
significant. Twenty pounds apiece at least. They’d been going at it through
almost three quarters of the school year now and showed no signs of stopping. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was
somewhere around this time that the dishwasher broke. It was in the afternoon
and, thankfully, just after the major lunch rush. I’d been feeding various
pieces of cookware into the machine’s mouth when it started to smell. I kept
feeding it, though, rather than pushing the stop button. Call it; curiosity.
But it wasn’t ‘curiosity’. It was sadism. I knew the fucking thing was sick and
possibly dying. But I also knew that we were bound together and that, perhaps
by killing Hobart, my job around here as dishwasher would die along with it. It
was worth a try and I really had nothing to lose aside from the weight of this
long, metal limb of mine like a cancerous tumor; malignant and doing its best
to suck my soul. So I kept feeding it cookware and certainly didn’t alert
anyone to the scent of an electrical fire about to catch. And about 5 minutes
later, it started to smoke. And still, I wasn’t going to tell anyone. And I didn’t.
I wonder if I would have had there been any open flames. Probably not. I may
have even just stayed there feeding it dishes. Maybe I just would have decided
to go down with it.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mick?! What
the fuck?!” Milton, the douchebag manger’s fat fucking ass, had randomly come
into the dish pit. Well…‘randomly’ meaning; it had nothing to do with the smell
or the smoke. The fucker had probably come in to tell me that the stacks of
clean dishes were getting too high again. Six months later and he was still power
tripping on that. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?” I
turned around slowly and then just played dumb, “Oh my God. Hey, Milton. I
think there’s something wrong with the dishwasher.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah! No
shit!” he yelled frantically over all the general dish pit noise, “Turn it
off!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The kill
switch is over there on your side, man.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And sure
enough it was since he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> walked
straight into the clean dish area which, as I predicted, was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">probably</i> because he <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> had every intention of chiding me for the stacks being too
high. Fucker.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The second
he mashed down on that red button, a lot of the noise in the room stopped. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Jesus,
Mick. Didn’t you smell that?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I think
that, after working back here for so long, I’ve actually taught myself to shut <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">off</i> my sense of smell when I walk in the
door every morning. Sorry,” I smiled, “But hey, it’s three ‘o’ clock so I’m
gonna get outta here. Don’t guess that any dishes will be getting done
tonight.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?”
already, Milton was barely listening. He’d lifted a few of the metal flaps from
the various washing compartments and was attempting to seek the source of the
problem. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I said, it
looks like it’s had it.” Then I just left.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That night I
tried to convince myself of something; that I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wasn’t</i> part of the machine washer after all. Or, if I was or had
been, it was high time that I worked my way back towards being a human again.
The machine had broken but I had not. And that very concept worked to stir
something awake in me as I dreamt, per the norm, of the dish pit sometime in
the wee hours of the morning where, half-consciously, I hoped that my alarm had
at least another half-hour before going off. It can only be described as my
spirit or my life force or my happiness or hope. There was a pinhole of light
at the end of the tunnel now. I could see it like the tiny, open shutter of a
camera lens. It was unwavering.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Much as I’d
tried to separate myself from the machine in my mind during the night though;
when I walked into the pit the next morning, I saw that they’d immediately
switched to paper plates and plastic utensils for last night’s dinner service
and now, still, for breakfast. The creepy Ecolab guy was in there and he had
some panels close to the floor removed from the washer…panels that I’d never
seen removed before and the car-like engine parts therein. He wasn’t in there
with me an hour before wrapping it up, however. And again, he didn’t say
anything to me but just turned the washer back on and walked out. But there I
was still removing the remaining paper bowls and plates from off the
tray-er-ator, tossing them into the composting bin, and thinking to myself;
when I called in sick, they switched to paper plates that day. And when the
machine phoned one in yesterday afternoon, they’d done the exact same thing.
The only two days since I’d started working here that they’d resorted to paper
fucking plates. So maybe we weren’t that different after all. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Since most
of the kids had finally become too lazy to wake up and eat breakfast (despite
the fact that it didn’t cost them any more to do so), the mornings back in the
pit had become much more relaxed. In the afternoon, it’s true, they seemed to
make up for having missed that meal by putting away three times more than they
normally would have…which made the lunches suck just as much, if not more, than
usual. But the mornings had become calm enough to where I could actually
squeeze in a round of Angry Birds or two before having to re-pocket my phone
and clear down the tray-er-ator again. Towards the end of breakfast, there’d be
a little rush, of course. And then came in the cookware used to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">make</i> breakfast; two carts full. All of
which had to be washed before I went to lunch. But the first couple hours
say…they actually weren’t too bad. Until the day that Milton came in and saw me
with my phone, that is.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mick.
There’s no phones in here. You know that.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m not
talking on it. Just playing Angry Birds. I’m pretty addicted.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don’t
care. Put it away.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If it were
Jannie talking to me, I probably would have. But I just really hated this guy.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There’s a
war going on, Milton. And it’s serious. A war between bird and pig. And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do</i> you know what’s going to happen if we
all just stand by and let the pigs win? Because…well, I guess I don’t either.
But it can’t be good.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If you need
something to do, I’ve got things for you to do,” he came closer to me now and
stood by the dirty dish rack; still empty at this hour.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,
Milton. Ya see. That’s really not gonna work for me. I mean, I may have a few
moments right now. Not many. But a few. And I can’t very well <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">leave</i> the dish pit just in case this
thing starts overflowing unexpectedly. I mean…it’s unlikely but you never know.
But more importantly…I still get my ass handed to me every afternoon. And I
like to think that I’ve earned this little time in the morning.” </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
that’s not the way I see it,” he put one hand on his hip and the other on the
counter so he could lean. He also made the ‘test me’ face.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alright,
Milton. Then how about this. Minimum wage equals minimum work.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My
girlfriend, who’d had more minimum wage jobs than anyone I’ve ever heard of,
taught me this little philosophy. It was hers and I’m not saying that I totally
agreed with it. But it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> something
to say to that fucker just then that would hopefully get him out of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>my face. And if he threatened to send me
home…I’d already made up my mind. I’d tell him that I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wasn’t</i> coming back if that happened…and mean it. I’d come too far
to have to put up with this shit. They all knew I fucking did an awesome job
and that I only <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i> called in sick
that once. So <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fuck them</i>. I didn’t
deserve this and I wasn’t going to take it. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m telling
Jannie you said that,” was his answer as he turned quickly around and walked
even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">more</i> quickly back towards the
kitchen. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, you
do that man!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He didn’t
come back though. And we both knew that Jannie wasn’t even in the building that
morning. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Later on
that afternoon, after the word had had time to spread, the guys came back to
congratulate me on standing up Milton’s fat, hipster, douchebag, bearded face.
And they laughed when I told them that, even though Jannie had finally made it
in and had been back for hours, she never came in to talk with me. And she
never did. At least that lady had sense enough not to fuck up a good thing. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">weeks</i> later, the other manager…the
nerdy, glasses guy who was just more of a dimwit than anything else; <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he</i> came back into the dish pit for some
reason. Who knows. There was probably some slip and fall safety disclaimer that
he wanted me to sign without reading. But anyway. Even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he</i> came back into the pit and laughingly repeated my, “Minimum wage
equals minimum work. Milton was so fucking pissed off about that. He wrote a
full page report on it. It took him all afternoon. That’s pretty funny though.
And Jannie never said <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anything</i> to
you?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nope.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My walks to
work were more pleasant these days. It was light in the mornings now, even
clear sometimes, and almost warm. Also, the trees all along 5<sup>th</sup>
Avenue were in full bloom and I could smell them as I passed. Such a contrast, they
were, from the wafting aroma of greasy bacon and eggs that seemed to billow out
that cafeteria’s back door. It was easier to get up in the a.m., I guess. And
we were close now. All of us who’d made it. We were each exactly one month
away. And as Vedran may have put it; it felt to all of us like ‘the final
countdown’.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You haven’t
been eating those beets, have you?” Gunther asked me just before I went to
lunch.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. I
like ’em. I mean, I know they taste like dirt. But they’re nice and cold and…I
don’t know. I heard they’re good for you.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude,” and
he leaned in closer so that he could whisper, “Didn’t anyone tell you?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I’m just
gonna say ‘no’.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude. Come
’ere. You gotta check this out.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And so I
followed Gunther to the counter where he did most of his work. It just so
happened that the industrial style can opener was also kept on this counter;
the same one used to open any and every can of food or ingredient in this
kitchen. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He picked up
the rectangular dish of stainless steel that each different kind of vegetable
was served in over ice at the salad bar and, without saying anything further,
held it up for me to see. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What is
that?” I asked seeing a weird, little substance at the bottom through all the
purple juice, “Are they spoiled or something?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, dude.
That’s shavings from the fucking opener. It’s busted.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wha?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So I looked
a tad more closely and sure enough… The little bits of debris that I’d seen at
the dish’s bottom and had mistaken for something more like… Well, I don’t know.
Like something that had separated from the beets or the beet juice from the can
having either expired naturally or being left in the heat or something. But
what I was <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> looking at (and now
that I knew, I could see them quite clearly) were little slivers of metal that
had been shaved off of the can’s lid upon opening. And this was no small can of
beets. It weighed six and a half pounds and had a lid about 8 inches in
diameter. And that much lid meant a lot of excess shavings.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I ran them
through a strainer but these still made their way in there. And there’s even
smaller ones dude. Ones that you can barely see.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How the
fuck long has this been going on? I’ve been eating those all week.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“About a
week,” he judged it, “Give or take. Or, I don’t know. It’s been about a week
since <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> first noticed them.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh my God.”
Suddenly, I imagined those little shards grinding their way through my system
as my poor kidneys and liver attempted to process them. Oh Jesus. Then I
imagined myself sharting out a bunch of blood right into the seat of my pants
as we stood there. Or worse! Pissing a bunch of blood right before one of those
sharp, little shavings ripped and tore its way right out of my dick! “And the
management knows?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Shh. Yeah.
I know that they’ve known for at least a week because I told them about it as
soon as I noticed.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And they
haven’t fucking done anything about it?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She told me
she’d order a new one but…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh my God.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And it’s in
all the food, dude. Anything that you think may contain an ingredient that came
here in a can, don’t eat.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Jesus. I
can’t even believe I’m saying this right now but…what about the students?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To which he
just shrugged, “I haven’t heard about anyone <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">dying</i> yet. Or coughing up blood or anything. But I was thinking
about telling the student paper anonymously or something.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,” I
nodded, “I think that might actually be a good idea. I mean, there’s just
certain shit that we can’t let them get away with. And how can they even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">think</i>…?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Telling him
about the can opener?” Nolan interrupted us as he was making his way from the
serving area into the dish pit. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s fucked
up,” Nolan agreed. “Hey, Mick. You know what else is fucked up?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Evidently,
he wanted to stop and talk rather than continue his quest for cookware. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Your girl,
Shayla.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I work with
her three times and all the sudden she’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">my</i>
girl?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You said
she was cute!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I didn’t
mean it like that!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
apparently she’s quite the little sperm receptacle.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?! Oh
please. Oh no. Just…please. Tell me it wasn’t Josh. Anyone but him. Please?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, then
I’d be telling a lie.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, Jesus!
But he’s just so white trashy!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So what? So
is she.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know! But
oh! Come on! What the fuck is going <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">on</i>
today?! Don’t you realize that if <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">his</i>
sperm so much as even made <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">contact</i>
with one of her eggs the whole fucking universe would implode?! Did you ever
even stop to think about that? And now it’s up to us, Nolan. We have to save
it. It’s up to us to save the universe!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude, I
doubt he wore a condom. It is fucking Josh we’re talking about.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Fuck! Fuck,
fuck, fucking fuck! Poopballs!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There! I
finally found the right term to properly express my frustrations.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Haha,”
Gunther laughed then, “More sweet fries, fuckers!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey!”
Jannie inevitably peeked her tiny head around her cubicle way down at the other
end of the narrow kitchen, “That’s enough with the language, boys!” Then she
suddenly switched to a sort of sarcastic, singsong voice, “And I know you all
have stuff to do.” This was her way of warning us. The next step would be for
her to get out of her seat and then we’d <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">all</i>
get berated. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So the three
of us scattered like roaches and went about our daily business until lunch and
then through the afternoon. After the rush, just as it was about time for me to
go home, Ed came into the pit to take over for me on the night shift.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How’s it
goin’, Mick?” his smile was as huge and insane as always.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Great.
’Cause I’m gettin’ outta here now. How about you?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well…last
night was pretty rough. But that’s just how it goes, I guess. Sometimes I win.
And sometimes the dishes win. And last night…the dishes won.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sorry to
hear that, buddy. And not to change the subject or anything…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s
alright. I wasn’t looking for sympathy.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good.
Because I never would have given you any. I mean…you’re a science and math guy,
right? It’s just survival of the fittest. To get all emotional over the dishes
winning… Well, it would be…”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It would be
crazy,” and his eyes then conveyed something resembling an inside joke; like he
knew that I knew that we <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">both</i> knew a
lot about crazy. ‘You’re just like me,’ they seemed to say, ‘And just like you,
I don’t know if we’ll ever bounce back from this…no matter where we land
eventually.’ And it was all true. We both knew a lot about crazy. And why
shouldn’t we? Not to blow my own horn or anything, but I did always consider Ed
and I to be the two most intelligent people working in this dump. And we were
the fucking dishwashers! Not that any one job around here was that much better
than the next. But the two of us; we were stuck in a room by ourselves all day
and just left there to go crazy. It’s no wonder he sang out loud at the top of
his lungs. It’s no wonder he fucking talked to himself constantly. It’s no
wonder to me because I’d started to do the same thing! A couple weeks ago, I
even caught him sifting through the compost for leftover chicken. Just like I’d
seen Jimmy do a couple months ago. Jimmy; the old and broken guy. And so I had
to wonder… It would be dangerous <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i>
to wonder… At least I could still fucking wonder! Is that what was next for me?
Were we three; Ed, Jimmy, and myself all on the same path to nowhere? Or worse.
To a giant, fucking compost heap! We had to get out of here. Ed was young.
Younger than I; so it definitely wasn’t too late for him. But me; I wasn’t so
sure about. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> had to get out of here.
At the end of the year, I needed to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">run</i>
the fuck away and never come back. Jannie had spoken already about keeping me
on in the summer if I so wanted. The cafeteria then, as Lester had pointed out
to me on my very first day, would only be open a few days a week…and for
half-days at that…and even <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">then</i> it
would be completely dead without 90 percent of the student population. And I’d
said ‘yes’! I really was trying to save to go to India still and I’d said
‘yes’! Because this India thing; it wasn’t just a pipe dream. It was the single
reason I’d stayed at this job all year! So many fucking days went by where I
just wanted to quit…or not come in. I wanted to just stop showing up, break off
all communication with the place, and then just be fired <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i> way. But I didn’t. Because I was slowly saving up enough money
and now I was close. If it weren’t for that dream, I would have just gone back
to giving blood. Because I’d rather sit in that white trash hell of a waiting
room for hours upon hours and then be stuck with a needle twice a week than
work in that dish pit any day. To be fair, though, I also would rather have
bled to death through my dick. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But here,”
I shook my head back from out the clouds, “This is what I wanted to show you.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There was a
plate that came around on the tray-er-ator. It came around some afternoons…I
wouldn’t even say ‘most’. And not that it was ever the exact <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">same</i> plate every time. But it was
obvious that the same kid had put it there. He or she would take a full glass
of soda and place a plate over it. And then, while holding them tightly
together, this mystery person would flip them upside down so that the soda
didn’t spill. It was pretty interesting although I wasn’t quite sure whether or
not it was supposed to be a prank. Like; did the kid think that I wouldn’t
notice that the cup was still full only to lift it thereby dumping soda all
over the place. I also, for absolutely no reason that I could think of,
suspected the culprit to be Ed himself. I don’t know why but the idea just
popped in there one day and wouldn’t go away. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You ever
see this?” I asked him now pulling the entire plate off the conveyor; the cup
remaining unlifted so that the soda couldn’t spill.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wanted to
read his face. It’s not that I thought Ed would go that far out of his <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">way</i> to do something like this. But I
knew that he always ate a meal in the cafeteria before his shift and would have
had to drop his plates off at some point. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh yeah,”
his face lit up even brighter than before, “I’ve seen that. And it’s a great
application of physics but, other than that, just sort of an all-around dick
thing to do.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hmm. I
didn’t pick up anything discernible. Either way; I wouldn’t have been mad even
if he’d come right out and admitted it. That’s not why I was testing him
exactly. Actually, I don’t <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">know</i> why I
was testing him. Call it; intrigue, plain and simple. I found Ed to be an
intriguing character. He interested me and I wanted to know more about whatever
it was that made him tick. I wanted to know why, a year after graduating with
one of the more challenging bachelor’s degrees one could ever earn, he still
didn’t have a better job. Not necessarily a job in physics even. But just a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">better</i> job. And I wanted to know what
sort of project Ed was always working on as he’d sit out there in the dining
area eating lunch. Often, he’d take up a large table and wraparound booth all
by himself. And there, while grabbing a bite off his plate here every once in a
while, Ed would proceed to work on these giant sheets of paper that reminded me
of blueprints or schematics of some sort. He was definitely designing
something. And he went to work on the actual pieces of paper with rulers and compasses;
gauging and measuring. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do you know
what the future of energy is, Ed?” I asked, to him, seemingly out of nowhere.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,” he
never stopped smiling <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">or</i> making eye
contact, “What?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Static,”
I’d remembered John Galt’s invention from Atlas Shrugged; the one that could
change the world.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Static?
Static electricity?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s just
what I figure, man. I mean it’s everywhere, right?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It is,” he
nodded and I could see him thinking about it a little.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>God, I just
hoped that kid would hurry up and change the world already. For his sake <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i> for ours.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>EEN! EEN!
EEN! EEN!</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That was the
fire alarm and it had startled the both of us considerably. It was loud, yes.
And as fire alarms always do, it began suddenly and seemingly from out of
nowhere. But there was also the fact that…well, I can’t speak for Ed. But <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I’d</i> certainly never heard one go off in
this place before (which <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">is</i> sort of
surprising since this was a dorm after all and I figured these fucking kids
would have been pulling them all the time). But the truth remains; I hadn’t. I
didn’t even know what the routine was supposed to be.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alright!”
and again, somehow, Ed was able to seem even more animated than before.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Aren’t you
worried about the dishes piling up?” I asked the sensible question.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The kids
have to leave too. So there’s no new plates or anything,” was his equally
sensible answer. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So I
followed Ed out into the back parking lot where the rest of the staff was
already gathered. I think every single last one of them was smoking a cigarette
and watching the 15-story building intently. Everyone was hoping they’d see
either flames or smoke. Something. Just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">please</i>
let that son of a bitch burn to the fucking ground today. None of us would ever
have to come back… And it wouldn’t even be our fault. But we never did see any
smoke. And about 10 or 15 minutes after the fire truck arrived, word spread
that some dumbass had just burnt some microwave popcorn in one of the dorm
rooms. Still…it was really nice just sitting out there. The sun was shining for
one of the first days of the whole year and spring was definitely in the air.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
This was it. This really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i> ‘the final countdown’. It was the
last week and we were halfway through it. And in some weird, Stockholm syndrome
sort of way, I didn’t want it to end. Because <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">then</i> what would I hate? My other job that, up until now had seemed
like such a paradise of employment compared to this? Yeah. That’s exactly what
would happen. I would start nitpicking over shit that went on there and start
hating it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">real</i> fucking quick. But
this was only natural. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It’s
breakfast,” I was telling Nolan, “So it doesn’t work quite as well. But you’ll
get the idea.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And how
long did you say you’ve been playing this?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Two or
three months.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You’re
insane.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I am insane,
Nolan. And I realized that when the management had to come in here the other
day to tell me to stop laughing so loudly.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Was Ed in
here with you?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nope,” I
smiled, “Just me. But anyway. So it goes like this. The game is called ‘Oh my
God, I can’t believe that’s all from one kid’. And it kind of works on a point
system. So check this out. See this pile coming through on the tray-er-ator
here?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay. Just
look at it. There’s two plates there, two bowls, a coffee cup, a soda cup,
and…oo! What’s that there underneath everything else? That’s right, Nolan. And
exhibition bowl from your own serving station as well. So…what’s wrong with
this picture?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The little
fucker took all that shit and didn’t eat hardly <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">anything</i>. That’s what’s wrong.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And I’ll
agree with you there. But…for the sake of the game, we’ll say that what’s wrong
is that there’s only one set of utensils. And that would in<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fer</i>?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He had to
think about it a moment, “That it’s all from one kid!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Exactly,
Nolan. Exactly. And so once you’ve <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">established</i>
that’s it’s all from one kid… And believe me, this little example here is
absolutely nothing compared to some of the shit I’ve seen… And so once that’s
been established, you can officially tally up your points. To keep it simple, I
usually just do like one point for each piece; utensils not included. So…let’s
see here. With two bowls, two plates, and two cups. And who,” I started to
really put on the game show host voice here, “could forget about that one
nearly hidden exhibition plate? That brings us to 7 points in the first round
of…say it with me, crowd. ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe that’s all from one
kid!’”</div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
“But if you’re not playing
against anyone, how do you know if you’ve won?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s a
good question. A really good question actually. But maybe that’s why I’m
finally showing you. So that you, Nolan, can <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">be</i> the next contestant on…?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I got it. I
got it,” and he changed the subject on me, “You hear that Ricky got fired this
morning?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Shut up!” I
had actually <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> heard that one, “For
what?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Who knows.
I think they said it had something to do with his attendance but I don’t know.
Who the fuck fires someone over their attendance record when there’s fucking
three days left?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Two and a
half, my friend.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Two and
three quarters.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Agreed.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But all
they really did was seal his not having to come back here next year.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“God,
wouldn’t that be nice. Just to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">know</i>
you’ve burnt your bridge with this place… What a relief that would be.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And so it
was…Aramark was officially trimming the school year fat much like the students
would have to do if they ever wanted to fit into their swimsuits this summer.
They’d fired Yvonne too pretty recently. I guess, she’d finally ‘gotten into
it’ with Jannie. And Gunther, after having to deal with the can opener caper
weighing on his conscience…well, I’m not sure that that was the reason exactly
but the timing was sure right. He requested to be transferred to the Smith
building (another PSU place of dining but more in the tradition and style of a
food court) and got really into the union. Also, another girl had quit
seemingly at random. And it would have appeared that Aramark had left
themselves severely short-handed (even if summer was right around the corner, a
cafeteria couldn’t operate with just a dishwasher and one other guy) but for
the…<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Did you see
them out there?” Nolan asked me.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You mean
the two ‘newbies’ chopping fruit?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. I
must say, I did notice them,” and I smiled, “And it looks like they finally did
it. They finally replaced us with real, actual Mexicans. Well…some of us
anyway. But I’m sure you and I won’t be too long to follow.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And indeed,
the two people I’d seen (a man and a woman) <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i>
been speaking Spanish to each other as I passed. Not that that’s to say they
were illegals by any means. But it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">did</i>
kind of make you wonder. Aramark was a huge, international corporation that
couldn’t afford to get caught employing a bunch of illegals slaving away for
below the minimum wage. And during the school year, there were too many kids
about and too many ears. There was a student newspaper circulating and… My
point is; it certainly wouldn’t take too long before somebody called them out
on it, the company became exposed, and suddenly there arose a national scandal
(which is exactly why ((and the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">only</i>
reason why)) this company chose to hire us white boys and pay us the <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">very</i> bare minimum). But now that summer
was nearly upon us and there <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">weren’t</i>
nearly so many lurking eyes and ears... Would they be so bold? And I’d <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">love</i> to bust them on it if so but, at
the same time, wouldn’t want my conscience held accountable for this poor
couple being sent all the way back to Mexico.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’d be
fine by me,” Nolan said looking pretty resolute about it and I was glad to
finally see this sort of resolution in his face.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He turned to
leave then while I finished up and went to lunch.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Despite its
being the term’s last week, I could tell this afternoon was going to be a busy
one. Kids began to roll in before I’d even finished eating my salad and, by the
time I got back to the pit, the tray-er-ator already had shit falling off of
it. And although finals were scheduled to run throughout Friday, I presumed
that a decent portion of the kids would probably finish the last of theirs up
today. Maybe they had already. Maybe they just wanted to squeeze in that one,
last meal. And while it may not have been free exactly; they wouldn’t have to
pay for it for approximately four more years so… To them; it was several
lifetimes away.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Twenty
minutes later, the rush really started to pick up and even back in the dish
pit, I could hear how loud it was out in the dining area. A lot of these kids,
as I’d suspected, had finished their last tests and had quickly shifted into a
pre-celebratory mode where they’d strategically stuff their guts to capacity
before going out tonight and drinking. And I couldn’t blame them. I would have
done the exact, same thing. But that would be me Friday night; just two days’
time. Well…two and a half. And I don’t care <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">how</i>
hard the year was for these kids; for me it was harder. And whereas <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">they</i> were going to get drunk, <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">I</i> was going to make it my mission to get
blackout, shitface obliterated. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>If I could
only make it ’til then. Jeez. What the fuck was going on today? The
tray-er-ator was already so crowded and overflowing with dishes that I could
barely keep up. And, although disappointed, I certainly didn’t have time enough
for keeping any meaningful sort of score at ‘Oh my God, I can’t believe that’s
all from one kid’. And that’s about the time that Milton came in.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mick,” he
came pretty close to me and tried to make a lot of eye contact…not that I could
focus on him very well what with the tray-er-ator and all, “Somehow some
plastic utensils got mixed in with the regular ones. So I need you to go out
there and pull all the plastic stuff from the silverware cups.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I
actually had to stop (only for a second) and turn to look at his face before I
said anything. “I’m pretty busy back here, Milton. As you can see. But I’m sure
they’ll just use up the plastic stuff or they won’t. No big deal, right?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Actually,
Mick. It is sort of a big deal. Jannie’s boss was just out there making the
rounds, she saw the plastic stuff, and she said that she wanted it pulled. And
so now I’m asking you to do it.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, I
appreciate you asking me and everything but I’m afraid that’s just not going to
be possible right now,” and I went back to work, fast as I could, on the
tray-er-ator, “Can’t you get someone else to do it? Oh, that’s right. I forgot.
You guys got rid of everyone else. Seriously, though, Milton. You see me? I
can’t walk away from this thing. But if <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">you</i>
have enough time to stand back here, then you <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">probably</i> have enough time to go out there and grab the stuff
yourself. Just sayin’.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alright,
Mick,” his smile; I would have to describe as ‘tight’, “I’m no longer asking
you. Is that what you want? Now, I’m telling you. Go out there and pull the
plastic utensils. From <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">both</i> stations.
Or you can go home for the day.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, ya
see. It’s like this, Milton,” and I stopped what I was doing again, “It’s just
that…if I go home for the day, I’m <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i>
coming back,” and I smiled tightly too.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That’s fine
with me,” and he didn’t even think about it or anything. Jannie had probably
given him the green light to go ahead and fire anyone this week.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I replied
with a shrug that was neither angry nor frustrated nor sarcastic. This was
simply to be the effect that Milton had caused and it’s not like I hadn’t
warned him. “Ok.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And while he
stood there, I calmly turned around, walked past the clean dishes and past the
last rack of clean utensils…I took my rubber apron off and hung it on a rack,
and then I proceeded to walk through the kitchen on my way to the time clock.
One of the chefs, David, seemed to recognize what was going on and he followed
me back into the storage area where I was about to swipe my card for the final
time. He didn’t say anything but just nodded his head and smiled. And I did the
same. The rest of the guys, I never saw again. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I didn’t
want to leave that way necessarily…despite the fact that I’d been entertaining
the idea literally every day, all year. But I just didn’t want to quit. I
wanted <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">them</i> to fire me. And in time,
I was able to convince myself that they basically had. And what was the big
deal anyway? With only two more days to go, it’s not like there would have been
that much more money on my last paycheck anyway. And even if I would have
stayed on to work the odd day or two during the summer, that also wouldn’t have
amounted to much (monetarily speaking). I’d just have to be that much more
frugal before embarking on my trip. And I’d have to live that much more poorly
in India. But I’d already had enough saved for my plane ticket. That was the
important thing. And if there ever was a place that one could go long and far
on very little money; India was it. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was only
a couple hours earlier than usual that I’d walked out the door that day but the
sky seemed brighter and this wasn’t only a psychological effect. After leaving
at practically the exact minute every day for a year, the subtle shades of
daylight can actually seem quite drastic. And the feeling of being early for
something came over me. Early or like I had a couple more hours with which to
spend my time freely before having to get up at the crack of dawn again and go
back to that horrible place. But this was just conditioning. I’d leave my alarm
on, however. Not because I planned on going back there and begging for my job.
And not because I thought Jannie would call me tonight to try to do the same.
Nothing of the sort. Rather; I’d leave it on so that it could go off so that it
could wake me up so that I could turn it right back off and go back to sleep.
And those brief moments before I did, I suspected, would be some of the most
blissful of my life. </div>
<div class="Standard" style="text-indent: 35.45pt;">
Stopping at a street corner, I
sent a text and then proceeded to walk in the direction of my neighborhood.
Taking the MAX wasn’t necessary today. I could walk at my leisure whether I had
to work tonight or not. I honestly forgot if I did but it didn’t really matter.
Without having a fulltime job any longer, I could walk wherever the hell I
wanted…and would. I enjoyed it so much more than public transit. There was just
something about the lack of white trash on the light-rail that agreed with me.
That and being able to take in an abundance of fresh air. I stopped at
Cameron’s to buy some books to take with me on my trip. And I remembered then
something else that Nolan had said to me that morning.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If there’s
any day to quit, Mick, this would be it.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He’d said it
when we were talking about all the layoffs and cutbacks and firings that the
company had done recently. And he was right. On a nice, busy day like that… I
just hoped they didn’t pull him in there and make <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">him</i> do the dishes. Nah. What am I saying? They probably made the
Mexicans.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After making
it home, I just sat in a chair for a little while in silence. My head was
silent too. Then I stripped off my clothes that I knew I’d never wear again;
the black, pocket-pants and the two, baby blue polo’s I’d been issued on my
very first day. They’d held up surprisingly well without a hole in either pair
of pants or either of the shirts. But my shoes… My shoes which had been brand
new upon starting that horrible job… My shoes with their thick, non-slip rubber
soles. They had holes. Two gaping ones just beneath the balls of my feet where
my socks showed through. Two huge holes from basically walking from the dirty
side of the pit to the clean; back and forth, a line of only about twenty feet.
And if I hadn’t been so careful all the time to keep the floors nice and dry, I
would have come home with soaking feet at the end of each day. And that would
have been just another hardship that, to me, sickly, was worth enduring just to
save a little bit of extra money for my trip. Before doing anything else then,
I walked down the hall to my garbage chute, threw the shoes in it, and listened
as they fell the nine stories down into the compacter.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This story
contains no exaggerations or embellishments. And I only say this because I want
to be very clear about the point I make next. It is absolutely no exaggeration
when I say that, in the entire fucking year that I worked there and all the
horrible days I had, all the sweat that I poured, all the cuts that I suffered,
and all the disgusting shit that I had to put up with (not to mention my nearly
perfect attendance record)…it is no exaggeration when I say that not once, not
one single time, did any fucking manager ever say, “Thank you,” or tell me,
“Good job.” Not a once. So if anyone ever wanted to know what Aramark is all
about, that statement probably gives a better idea than any other description
in this whole rendition. And it <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">fucking</i>
pissed me off that I still worked for them at night but…well, I’d do something
about that when I got back. </div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It’s both
funny and interesting that today, two years later, I can easily recall and
re-smell the grossness of it all but, in that same vein, am <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i> able to feel the painful boredom.
And it was the boredom that was agonizing. It was this boredom that was the
most <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">challenging</i> part of my day. And
it was just the tortuous <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">thought</i> of
this boredom that made it so hard to get up and keep going back there every
time my alarm went off. I guess it was the people that kept me going most of
the time and the funny little things they’d say. Things that, while stuck back
there by myself all day, I had tons of time to analyze and break down and go
over again and again and again until I knew that they’d stick with me forever
whether I liked it or not. And there was this one thing that, day-to-day since
then, has probably stuck with me most of all. Ironically, it came from that
oddball manager. Not Jannie or Milton but the other guy. The guy whose name I
couldn’t even remember. But he was back there in the dish pit one day for some
reason or another…and I distinctly remember him talking about the Weebles; a
kid’s play toy from the 1970’s (they may still be around, I’m not positive).
Anyway, they’re these little plastic figurines and they’re egg-shaped with a
weight in the bottom which renders them impossible to knock over; they always
just pop right back up again. Their advertising slogan, in fact, was ‘Weebles
wobble but they don’t fall down.’ And it was this slogan that the manager said
was his personal philosophy. “It’s like people keep <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">trying</i> to knock them down,” he said, “They flick ’em and hit ’em
and they really take a beating. But they always get right back up on their
feet. Or…well, I guess they don’t really have feet. But you know what I mean.
And I just thought to myself one day. <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Be</i>
like the Weebles. And that’s kinda how I go through life.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Ed was in
there too and he began to laugh both hysterically and maniacally at once. And I
wonder today if he took that slogan to heart too and, if so, if it’s still with
him. Maybe. Maybe not. Ed and I were sort of like the Weebles anyway. We never
really had to <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">tell</i> ourselves to
behave in such a way. Landing back on our feet (or egg-shaped bases as it were)
just came naturally. That’s why I also wonder sometimes where he is and what
he’s doing these days. Changing the world, hopefully. And hopefully not from
the dining area of that awful place. He’s out of there though. It’s not like
I’m keeping tabs on him or anything but he’s out of there. I’m certain of it.
I’m certain that the cause had finally caught up with the dream for him too.
And that for him, just as it had happened for me, there were no dishes left to
do.</div>
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<![endif]-->z.m.oliver@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01622907618080308162noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193359904027993582.post-75696411570763070902013-03-10T19:29:00.002-07:002013-04-13T17:08:05.036-07:00Grocery List<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<div class="Standard">
<span lang="DE"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I'm
really glad that self checkout aisles are present nowadays in pretty much every
major grocery store. Granted, there's still a clerk there sort of overseeing
everything but I never feel like they're paying that much attention. Not that
I'm ever buying anything <i>that</i> bad. I mean, I did say 'grocery store'.
But there are certain items and/or combinations of items that I'd still be
embarrassed to take up there...to a regular cashier, that is. Food items even.
I eat pretty healthily during the week but I like to pig-out on the weekends. I
don't need anyone judging me for that. And while some of this judging may only
exist in my head; some of it is still definitely for real. People talk. Especially
in the breakroom. And who knows? One of these guys or gals might see me out on
the street and think, 'There goes that guy who <i>only</i> bought a case of
beer and three different kinds of potato chips <i>with</i> three different
kinds of dip. I know he went home and just binged on that shit.' Which I did.
Granted again, people really shouldn't buy or do things that they're not proud
of. But hey; everyone's entitled to a little vice and debasement once in a
while. I'm also a closet meat eater.</span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span lang="DE"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Other
items, sometimes, you only need one of. Girls have to deal with this a lot when
it comes to their tampons. With me, it's usually a big pack of toilet paper
though. And when you don't have a lot of money; finding extraneous items to mix
in with the one item you actually went there for can be an unecessary financial
strain. Still...if I walk up there with <i>only</i> a big pack of toilet paper
(or even a little one); I can't help but imagine that everyone is picturing me
wiping my ass or something. Just like when a lady in sweatpants <i>only</i>
brings up a big pack of tampons (or even a little one); <i>I</i> can't help but
think, 'Man, that bitch is really flowin'.' And so the self checkout helps to
make this process just that much easier on the purchaser...which is great.
Because grocery stores aren't like sex shops where the clerks are completely
used to people buying dildos or pornos. There's no shame in that because that's
exactly what a sex shop is for and everyone is in there to buy something to do
with sex. But a grocery store is too public. There are just too many different <i>kinds</i>
of individuals in there to ever feel comfortable buying <i>only </i>a huge jar
of Vaseline. Not to mention, the lights are so bright. Personal lubricant, by
the way, remains one item that I won't even take up to the self checkout. I buy
KY online. No joke.</span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span lang="DE"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Another
reason that I wouldn't consider any of the sentiments above 'sheer paranoia' is
because stores really do keep track of your shit nowadays. Like...I want to use
my Safeway or my Fred Meyer card because that's the only way I'll get the
fucking discount. But then they know everything. Forever. And if they choose to
study those purchases; they can probably figure out shit about me. For
instance, Fred Meyer may opt to send me some coupons for vitamins or dietary
fiber supplements after they've tracked my selections and learned that, as an
overgrown child, I still really don't like to eat my vegetables. And I might
actually be apt to buy those vitamins. For all they know, my doctor just told
me that I was anemic or something. If I had a doctor. Which I don't.</span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span lang="DE"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A
great example of this type of purchase tracking is that story that came out
just a few months ago about the girl whose pregnancy was outed to her father by
the kinds of coupons Target was sending her in the mail. Basically, they sent
her a personalized coupon flyer ever month which I assume they now do for
anyone who regularly pays with their 'Target card'. And <i>her</i> particular
personalized flyer, the one her dad unwittingly intercepted from the mailbox,
advertised numerous items (with pictures) that they now figured she'd be
interested in buying. In this case, the items pertained mostly to her concealed
pregnancy. Items like; cribs and diapers and shit. The truly beautiful part
about all this though, from a marketer's perspective, is how Target was able to
determine that she was pregnant in the first place. Obviously, if the girl was
trying to keep this pregnancy a secret then she wasn't buying cribs and diapers
and shit already. Rather, through some complicated computer algorithm, Target
determined that the odds of her being pregnant were pretty good by other items
she was buying in combination with each other. Less obvious items such as;
unscented lotion and certain vitamin supplements and even items that would seem
even more random if they didn't happen to be blue or pink. The truly amazing
thing about this type of profiling though, and this is where I sort of drift
from the original news article, is just how far they're about to take it...if
they haven't taken it that far already. I predict that in the very near future,
merchandisers will know this girl is pregnant before <i>she</i> even knows.
Meaning, I believe that there are certain items that this person might buy
subconsciously before even realizing that she's got a bun in the oven. Just the
thought of this really freaks me out. It freaks me out that corporations and
agencies could potentially know something about you before you even do. And
what if it doesn't have to be something biological? What if it were something
psychological? What if an organization could tell that you were depressed
because you bought a whole bunch of candy and ice cream to go with your gallons
of alcohol? What if they went even further and could somehow generate lists of
potential terrorists or serial killers or child molesters based on items
purchased that are less obvious than nitroglycerin, lye, and My Little Pony's
respectively? I'm sure such profiling already exists. It's just that it's going
to become more detailed and all-encompassing. Omnipresent even.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span lang="DE"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So
let's digress a bit...all the way back to my usually being strapped for cash
and therefore buying only items that I need right there and then. This incident
occcured over 10 years ago, mind you, and the most interesting part (to me) is
that I would never have been able to muster up the courage to do it again. One
reason for this is that I live in Portland now which looks like a big city but
is actually a small town...or at least it has that feel. Like; I'm always
running into people I know on the streets. And I don't even know that many
people! I see the same people too in different parts of the city. And even if I
don't know them personally; I'll say to myself, 'Oh, there's that one dude from
that one time or place. I know I've seen him a couple of other times too.
Wonder what he's doing on this side of town today.' So I figure people do the
same thing when they see me; observant people, anyway. People with moderately
functioning memories. In other words; the people that are worth worrying about.
And they probably say, 'Oh. There goes that one pretentious looking douche bag.
Wonder what he's up to today. Probably just being a douche.' And so forth.
Whereas in Florida (where I lived at the time of this occurrance); there are so
many people crammed into the greater Tampa, Clearwater, St. Pete area that even
in my own neighborhood or usual circles, it seemed I never saw the same person
twice. Which was great. I loved the anonymity. It allowed me to feel less
embarrassed and somewhat relieved the worry of having to go in and buy the only
two items I needed that night. Condoms were one of these items. I guess that
that was predicatable enough. I remember stopping into a Walgreens on my way
home from work with the feeling that I was in some sort of a hurry...like there
was a date with a potentially new girlfriend that I was late for or something.
Otherwise I probably would have just gone directly across the street to
Eckerd's or Rite Aid or whatever it was at that time in order to purchase the
other item on my list. The condoms; I remember they kept behind the counter for
the very reason that they were a commonly stolen item for the very reason that
they can often be embarrassing to purchase...especially from an attractive
member of the opposite sex, I found. In this case, though, there were not one
but two people behind the counter. One of them was an attractive blonde. The
other; just some nerdy looking guy. And thankfully, thank God, there weren't
any other customers in the store this evening...at least not any anywhere near
the front cash register.</span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span lang="DE"><span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
other item, I had to walk down an aisle to find. And I held it in my hand but
kind of low as I approached the counter. I then asked for the condoms by
specifying the color of the box and addressing neither of them specifically. It
was the girl who turned around to retrieve them though. Apparently, this was a
team effort. A two man job. And because of this, the guy remained at the
register ready to ring up my other item (prematurely, in my opinion). We're
talking only a matter of a few extra seconds here but they were full of shame
and feeling like a creep. I tried not only to not make any eye contact with
either employee but...there was something more to it than that. I tried not to
make eye contact with anything at all...if that makes any sense. Like; I sort
of had to fall back into myself. I had to pull back from reality a bit. I tried
not to idenitfy the counter as being a counter or the store as being a store.
Then I tried to go all Alan Watts on that shit by telling myself that the
counter <i>was</i> me...as was the store...as were my items...as were the
people working in it. And if everything was one; then what did I have to be
embarrassed about? Nothing really. I tried these approaches all in the matter
of those few extra seconds that it took her to retrieve the condoms while the
guy rang up my other item; the dog treats. Needless to say; neither of those
approaches really worked. I hope my dog appreciates what a great owner I am,
though, because I practically ran the fuck out of there.</span></div>
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<br />
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This didn't happen on my <i>very</i>
first day. But it was within the first week. Perhaps, a Thursday or a Friday.
In fact, now that I get to thinking about it, I'm almost certain that it was on
a Friday because the residual stink of it all sort of ruined my weekend.
It made me not want to ever go back. To <i>ever</i> show my face again within
that singular block of a building (that must have spread an entire acre) that
comprised every department and every employee that <i>was</i> Hemcon Medical
Technologies; the prospering company where and with whom I'd just started a
job.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On my <i>first</i> day, as well as
the following two, I'd done nothing but sit in a cubicle all by myself and read
through the most tedious training manuals available...in digital form, of
course. For eight hours a day! Twenty-four hours total of nothing but scrolling
down a screen and reading through document after document (most of which didn't
even apply to me or what was to be my position within the company). Most of
which contained a lot of technical jargon and referred to environments,
situations, and instances that I could only begin to guess at. And this is what
the manager wanted. It's what he'd told me to do. He mentioned that I should
probably take some notes but also made it clear that there was to be no test
so... I only found myself wishing that there <i>would</i> be some sort of test
at the end of all this! So that I wouldn't have been staring at a black and
white screen for three whole days and all for nothing! But unfortunately, this
wasn't the case.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Fuck. Now that I <i>really</i> get to
thinking about it; make that 3 ½ days! Because the first half of that Thursday
also began with me seated in the cubicle 'taking notes'. And I <i>tried</i> to
search for this manager's motives in putting me through all this ennui. I tried
to fish for some sort of time frame in which I might have been expected to
finish all this...'training'. But all he kept saying was, “Don't worry about
it. Maybe we'll get you into some hands-on tomorrow.” And the only reason he
said <i>this</i> even was because I would ask him periodically, “Do you think
there's anyone who could use any help in the lab right now? Or manufacturing
even?”</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But anyway. Skipping right ahead to
that Friday; I found myself rounding out my first, long-ass week with the
company and finally putting in my first few hours of actual on-the-job
training. And the job...well, let's just say that the job <i>title</i> read as;
Lab Services Technician. I'd been hired through a temp agency and, according to
them, my duties were to be assisting in laboratory practices and helping them
to clean any leftover lab ware. So I'm thinking; beakers, test tubes...shit
like that. When, in reality, what I came to find were carboys. Now...for those
of you who don't know what a carboy is (and don't feel bad as I didn't even
know until starting this job); allow me to offer a brief definition. In this
particular case (as I believe they can take on many materials and forms); a
carboy is a giant, plastic bottle shaped like one of those old milk carafes
with two loop-handles up near the neck. Or...imagine your standard BBQ grill
propane tank but about twice the size. And these used at Hemcon were composed
of some seriously thick plastic; thick enough to cause them to weigh around 5
lbs. each even when they were dry and empty. And I hated them instantly. This
wasn't at all what I had signed up for but it <i>was</i> a job...and I had no
other.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And my 'job' cleaning lab ware
entailed these carboys almost entirely.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To put it succinctly; Hemcon made
bandages. Special bandages that claimed to staunch even arterial bleeding. But
as most of us know; the process that goes into producing a marketable good is
anything but succinct. It can be lengthy and messy and tedious at times and at
Hemcon this was definitely so. There can be much dirty work involved (and I
mean that in the more literal sense of the term). And the majority of this
dirty work was now to be assumed by yours truly. And here I thought this whole
time that I was being hired based upon my extensive medical background. Wrong
and wrong again. When, in fact, they had probably hired me because I appeared
strong to them and looked (mistakenly) as if I had a good back.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So those carboys became my life.
They were considered to <i>be</i> the 'lab ware' and I was considered to be the
guy to clean them. Outside and in and with the aid of several different
brushes, some nontoxic detergent, and three enormous sinks. Dozens of them
sometimes would be there waiting for me whenever I arrived; each one slathered
in a chitin gel which is the fancier and more scientific term for the ground up
shrimp guts that were actually used in the the making of these special
bandages. And this gel had already been very refined, it's true. But it still
smelled like shrimp and like brine. But this is beside the point and I
apologize. And of this smelly gel, I am not even complaining.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I'm not really complaining about
anything so far as this job was concerned and how it relates to this story.
Rather, I'm merely trying to stress that it was highly physical work and that,
after cleaning and brushing and lifting and stacking those carboys, I utilized
a giant, industrial steam cleaner to wash and sterilize many racks full of the
heavy, iron molds also slathered in shrimp guts and also used in this bandage
manufacturing. And how, after that, I myself was probably <i>already</i>
smelling particularly briny on that first half of my first Friday with the
company.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For just over four hours, I'd
cleaned those carboys on that day (and the iron molds). But then, as was the
nature of this job, there was nothing left for me to do (and wouldn't be) so
far as the cleaning of further 'lab ware' was concerned. And so, as I was told,
it would then be part of my duty to spend the remainder of the day in a
department appropriately named, Labeling, where I would assist in the<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>packaging of said product after it had come
out the other end of the 'lab' and had been freeze-dried and, in a 'clean
room', had been individually sealed in foil pouches about the size of one's
hand. And so it was into this labeling room that I went on that first Friday
somewhat smelly and stinky already after having performed my duties as a Lab
Services Technician.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And at Hemcon, if I may digress for
just one second, every last department within the company (and I do realize
that I have mentioned this just briefly above) were contained within this one
building. One super-huge building out in Tigard enveloping all executive level
offices, all research and development facilities, all of sales and marketing
divisions (which, at the beginning of their downfall, <i>I</i> even began to
participate in), all of manufacturing, all quality control, and lastly; all of
the labeling and packaging of the product. And even the shipping! They even had
that under control via a giant warehouse attached. And the product would be
sent from us directly to all of the company's customers which, at this point,
mainly consisted of the US military until our lovely Hemcon was outbid by a
similar manufacturer of a similar product and so fatefully lost their contract.
And <i>if</i> you should ever find yourself wanting to know a bit more about
this Hemcon Medical Technologies; simply Google them to find all the
information and more (less literary) stories about this seemingly promising
company that would have been such a wonderful and much needed solid in this
shaky local economy and how, from the start, they had done nothing more than
infringe on someone else's already existing patent...but enough of all this. My
only point here was to infer that, in this singularly huge building, the
atmosphere was at least supposed to be that of a close-knit family all working
to together to reach a similar cause; that of its expansion until there was
enough capital on the table to make a public offer<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>whereupon all of us would mutually and
ultimately benefit in the profit sharing rewards.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So as I walked into this labeling
room of perhaps only about 40 square feet; I found myself eager and yet
exceedingly nervous to meet this new 'family' of mine which would, no doubt, be
a very close part of my life for some time to come.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There were probably 8 of them in
there sitting on either side of the room at one of the counters lining each
wall. Say...four people on one side and four on the other. Something like that.
And they were relatively spread out...just enough. Each person had just enough
space between him or her and next guy for two plastic storage bins; one on
their left and one on their right. The one on the right containing foil pouches
that they had already labeled. The ones on the left containing pouches that had
yet to be. And directly in front of each of these people was a long roll of
stickers (also about the size of one's hand as it was their aim to cover almost
the entire front and back of the pouches). And this was the job. Each plastic
storage been contained something like 150 pouches. The person would label them
all with the stickers designated for the fronts. Then they would do the backs.
And then they would reach for another plastic storage bin sitting on a cart in
the middle of the room and begin working on that one. Forever. Unceasingly and
indefinitely. And most of the people working in this room now had been hired to
do this and this only. There were a couple others like me, however, who had
already finished their work in the warehouse or wherever for the day and had
just come in to help out. And I found myself instantly and increasingly
grateful to be a Lab Services Technician and only a <i>part-time</i> labeler.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How's it going, everybody? Nice to
meet you all,” I introduced myself as Troy, the guy who'd been teaching me how
to clean the molds and carboys, helped me find a seat and a plastic storage bin
full of foil pouches to call my very own.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>All of the people working in this
room, save one middle-aged lady, were in their mid-twenties...and I found this
a bit intimidating. They all looked up and smiled and said 'hi' and everything
but, since I was also in my mid-twenties at the time, this made them my peers
and some instinct within me caused me to feel like I might be judged by them or
like maybe I had to try to act cool in order to impress them or something...to
get in early with the 'in' crowd. And, believe me, I know how silly this sounds
even as I'm sitting here writing it. But it is the truth. I'm not <i>sure</i>
if I'm just more self-conscious than most but this is probably so. And I really
did want them to like me and not think I was a nerd or anything. Because they
all looked like cool people. Close-knit workers as I've said. But also like
friends who went out to the bar afterwards.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At first, applying the stickers was
sort of difficult; they were thin and wanted to fold back on themselves.
Bubbles forming underneath them were also a problem but Troy told me not to
worry...that I'd get the hang of it after my first couple hundred or so.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But I <i>was</i> worried about it. I
wanted to do a good job and for these people <i>not</i> to view me as a dunce.
But it was pretty obvious that I was still fucking up every other one as there
could be heard the bubbles popping as I tried to smooth the stickers out
against the pouch or the equally obvious sound of me ripping one back off
entirely in order to try and replace it...which never really worked out. Those
fucking stickers continued to stick to my thumbs and fingers and, before very
long even, I had a small pile of unusable rejects right next to me.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don't worry,” Troy told me again,
“Especially about the front ones. The back stickers each have a specific lot
number on them so we try to use every one of those. But even then...it's really
not <i>that</i> big of a deal.”</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thanks, man. I appreciate that. I
just feel so dumb, ya know? Like, who would have ever thought it would be so
difficult to just apply a freakin' sticker?”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You wanna know the trick?”</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Definitely.”</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The trick is you gotta use your
whole hand. Just peel that puppy off, take a little bit of an aim, and then
just <i>smack</i> that thing on there. You're just going too slow. I mean...you
know what I mean. You're just trying to be too precise and <i>that's</i>
actually what's messing you up.”</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alright,” and I tried one his way
then...and it worked! “Hey, thanks man. Good advice.”</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Anytime. I'm pretty confident,” he
said completely deadpan, “That sometime before these next three hours are up,
you'll not only have it down pat; you'll be bored out of your fuckin' mind just
like the rest of us.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Amen Troy,” and, “Ain't that the
truth,” some of the other kids backed him up.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And these kids...these personalities
I could already guess are what made the job tolerable. It was the ongoing
stream of conversation as the voices spouted out while, however, nobody ever
really looked up from what they were doing or turned to look at who they might
have been addressing. And it seemed fun like a game that I'd be good at. I
didn't really <i>know</i> any of these personalities quite yet and would so
resort to only answering questions if spoken to directly. But soon. Soon, I
hoped to be just one of the gang; peeling stickers and talking about new
movies, talking trash about the company and talking trash about each others'
mom's, 'chiming in for the day' and laughing with them...so this group seemed
to me. And laughter was key because this was a factory sort of work without an
actual assembly line. Laughter was an outlet through which everybody could go
on staying sane; an outlet that this group had naturally achieved and seemed
very good at sustaining throughout the countless storage bins full of labels
and foil pouches.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just before Troy had taught me his
trick to labeling, though, I had begun to notice that an unwanted entity had
sort of crept into this small room with me...and for once, it wasn't my
exceedingly dark personality. For once! And for perhaps the first time ever; it
seemed to me like I <i>could</i> have made a good first impression and that
these kids <i>could</i> have liked me almost instantly. And at least by the end
of the day, it seemed, that I could have been labeling my pouches and cracking
jokes with the rest of them...which was unusual. Normally, it takes me eons of
time to come out of my shell (which, ironically, is <i>when</i> people usually
start to accept me). Weeks sometimes. Months. The better part of a year as it
has happened. But not this time. This time, I may have had a chance. If all but
for that one, unwanted entity. <i>It</i> being my body odor.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now, when I'd first stepped into the
room; I'd smelled. It's true. But I wasn't worried about <i>that</i> particular
brand of stink. I'd smelled of sweat and of the workout I'd just given myself
cleaning all those iron molds and carboys and typically, once I cool down and
dry out again, this type of smell begins to dissipate shortly thereafter. But <i>this</i>
smell, unfortunately, is not the one I am referring to.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just before Troy had shown me his
trick to sticking, I had begun to become aware of my nervousness in the <i>failing</i>
of my being able to properly stick a sticker and it was this temporary
inability, perhaps, that had acted as the trigger. Or maybe not. It's good
speculation at any rate although, and I realize, sort of irrelevant. But it was
during this brief time that I'd begun to notice that tainted sort of vapor
arising and becoming ever stronger and more pungent each time my armpits
separated themselves in attempts at applying another sticker. And his <i>act</i>
of coming over, however noble and effective it may have been, only seemed to
catalyze whatever this horrible function was that happened to be going on
inside my body. In the acidity of my blood? My lymph nodes? Definitely my
apocrine sweat glands, though, with the perfect dash of undesirable adrenaline
mixed in there to boot.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And ever since I had begun to notice
it; this BO was only on the increase. And like little, brown clouds as I
imagined them to be...like tiny, little smoke signals each time that one arm or
the other ever separated itself from my torso; the odor would rise up again in
stronger force until arriving at the point where I could not only detect it but
felt immersed in it and knew for certain that its traces could at least be
picked up from several feet around me. And yes. Lamentably, these boundaries
would and had already crossed over into the personal zones of those two
currently working on either side of me. And like well-bred and decent people; I
was just sure that they were pretending not to notice. But had they become
quieter? Had they purposely minimized their own contributions to the
conversation going on all around us in attempts to also minimize their
breathing. So that they wouldn't have to take in any more of this awful stench
than they absolutely had to?! It certainly seemed so to me. And since I was
prone to not participating in the conversation just yet (especially under these
present circumstances) and <i>since</i> I<i> </i>found my own core, as it were,
now stewing in its own juices, I was quiet and keenly aware of all that was
going on around me. The low music. The stream of conversation. Pauses in the
conversation. The sound of every, individual hand peeling off their stickers
(of those next me and of those across the room even). I was suddenly aware of
every single second ticking by as this seemingly solid and noxious fume generated
only by myself had wafted and begun to settle in even the far corners of this
small room. No region was now left unexposed. Untainted. Or uncontaminated. But
what could I do?</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Before I answer that, though, please
allow me to rewind again if I may for just one second.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I don't wear deodorant. I hadn't
since high school. And other than partially believing it to be nothing much more than a pasty carcinogen, I also just never really saw the point. In fact, even back in high
school; I think that what I <i>really</i> found appealing about deodorant
itself was its cologne like scent. And, since I didn't wear cologne either;
perhaps, I believed then that it was the scent of the deodorant stick that
through pheromones or whatever, would ultimately attract the ladies. But I'd
never really <i>had</i> body odor. At least, none such as an attack like this
one presently plaguing me in the labeling room. My scent had been just never
that strong. It did come about once in a while, though, surely. And I'd noticed
that it usually came on when, the previous evening, I had probably eaten more
than my fair share of meat. It was never a major problem such as this, though,
and had never resulted in such a situation. And, just to be fair to meat, I did
also notice a slight rise in my own personal gaminess after eating processed
foods such as those boxes of Lipton noodles with the packet of powdered
seasoning or those horrible boxes of scalloped potatoes which I have no idea
why I keep on buying. But basically; poor people food. The food that I've
reduced myself to even up until this point in my life.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But I do recall that on that last
Thursday evening; the evening leading up to the point of this odoriferous
predicament...I must have splurged a little and grabbed some fast food on the
way home. This <i>was</i> uncharacteristic of me but, perhaps after cleaning
all those carboys that evening for the very first time and only then realizing
how physical this job was actually going to be...perhaps, after that, I'd
simply felt too tired to cook anything. Also, and this is something that I've
neglected to mention thus far; this job took place on a swing shift which meant
that I didn't even get out of there until just after midnight...which was a bit
different for me. I was used to working more of a mid shift and had, for years,
practiced a pretty strict routine when getting home around seven. First, I take
a nap. And then I'd stay up half the night drinking and writing or reading and
finally making myself something to eat. But not even getting <i>off</i> until
midnight? What was I supposed to do? Come home and take a nap until like four
in the morning or something? And <i>then</i> start drinking? I suppose,
rationally, this shouldn't have made any difference. Either way, I was working
a full eight hours and had relatively the same amount of time between alarm
clock buzzers. But there was just something about starting to drink while the
sun came up and <i>then</i> having to still go to work (even if I did take a nap in
between) that bothered me. So...while getting used to this new routine
(whatever it turned out to be); I'd decided to take it easy on myself by
grabbing a hot, steaming bag of greasy Jack in the Box.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Poor as I was, I usually hit the
value menu pretty hard almost always opting out of a combo meal. I don't drink
soda so... So, I believe that my usual order went something like: 2 Jumbo Jacks
and 4 of those deliciously oily, mystery-meat tacos. And I probably tacked one
more item on there just to make it an even five dollars. Then I drove home,
chowed down on that shit, washed it down with something like nine beers, and
proceeded to take a shower. Then I went to sleep! And I always go to sleep
right after chowing down just like they say you're not supposed to. And how I
haven't had a massive heart attack by now is perfectly beyond any of my best
guesses but this story has less to do with my heart and more to do with my chemistry.
All night, that toxic food had a chance to churn around in my bowels and
combine with my stomach acid until settling somewhere deep down in my guts. And
all the while I slept; those hamburger patties, those mayo slathered buns, and
those disgusting, wilted pieces of lettuce that they always threw on top of
there bubbled and broke down metabolically until my very blood was heavy with
sugar and fat.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Part of the problem, I'm sure, was
that the shower that I'd taken shortly after stuffing my face was also the only
shower I'd take in the next 24 hours. I'm simply a night shower-er. It's always
been my routine. Although, I have to admit, that it's never really come back to
bite me in the ass quite as hard as it did in this instance. Because, hard to
digest as it almost always is, that Jack in the Box meal caused me to toss and
turn and sweat under the covers. For eight hours almost, I sweated it out under
there; the covers quickly becoming a dank hotbox of rankness...my junk and my
armpits beginning to show symptoms even then that I should have noticed first
thing in the morning if only I'd been listening. If only I'd known! If I'd
known then I would have risen and given myself a quick 'whore's bath' with a
wet washcloth and rubbed some bar soap under my arms. But I <i>didn't</i> know.
And I wasn't thinking clearly enough first thing in the morning to be able to
predict such a catastrophic event of this social and professional nature.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Which is why I began to hear
giggling come from the other side of that labeling room. Stifled little giggles
which made them all the worse. Their suppression was meant to save me my
dignity. It was the act of them needing to express themselves without being
outwardly rude. And I even heard one of them say to the other...“I think I know
what you're laughing about,” through his teeth although not quite under his
breath.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I think I do too,” the other guy
answered through his teeth as well.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And, for the life of me, I couldn't
tell whether they were speaking this way (through their teeth) in order to seem
more incognito or whether they actually didn't want to activate their
noses..even as far as taking in one sentence's worth of breath.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I tried even harder then,
desperately, to hold my pits together and it must have been completely obvious
to anyone looking that my torso had grown completely stiff and that my arms
were moving from the elbows only. But this tactic, of course, only served to
make matters worse. This tactic allowed zero air to be able to escape from that
region at all and for the stench to be able to heat up even more like a couple
of tiny ovens were attached to me. But then, inevitably, I'd have to lean over
in order to peel off a poorly stuck label or something and the two, yellow
clouds (as I now imagined them) would just come pouring out in an even more
concentrated form thereby dusting the room anew like a crop fumigation. This
space encompassing all of us; perfectly humid with only me. It was probably <i>sticking</i>
to other people now. They'd probably be able to smell it clearly even after
they'd returned home!</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Um...alright,” I stood up and spoke
mostly to Troy, “I'm gonna take a quick leak. I mean...if the boss asks where I
am or something. Um...I'll be right back.”</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I could just hear them all
saying (in their minds), “Take your time, new guy. Take all fucking night if
you need.”</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But they didn't say this, of course.
Troy only replied with a, “Cool, dude.” And, in a way, their collective silence
on the matter only made it all the more mortifying.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I hadn't wanted to get up, despite
the fact that this move may have seemed the most practical from the get-go,
because I hadn't wanted them to be able to talk behind my back. Not to mention,
I'd wanted to spare myself the embarrassing return I now must inevitably make.
Hey, guys. I'm back! Did ya miss me?! They would, undoubtedly, look up at the
clock then and curse God himself that there were still something like 2 more
hours left.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I should have just nipped it in the
bud though. When I'd first noticed that my smell was becoming offensive,
perhaps just over an hour ago now, I should have excused myself, said something
to the affect of, “Man, I'm sorry guys. I fuckin' stink after cleaning all
those carboys. Whoo, what a workout. I'm just gonna go rub some soap or
something under my armpits and I'll be right back.”</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That's what I should have done...but
I'd hesitated. And, stupidly enough, that's still what I was off to do just
now...I'd only prolonged it, increased the embarrassment 50-fold, and
ultimately scarred any good impression I could have ever made on these people.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>There may have been a bathroom on
the manufacturing side but I didn't know where it was. But also, I just needed
a little bit of time and a lot of space...to cool down. And, fortunately, the
building at this hour (aside from the labeling room of course) was all but
completely dead sparing me the further awkwardness of stopping and having to
talk to somebody who would certainly detect the foulness and perhaps even <i>proceed</i>
directly to the labeling room where this condition might be addressed even
further and <i>further</i> fueling the conversation that was now, absolutely,
taking place while I was away.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once in the bathroom, I did take a
leak and then...from the dispenser right in front of the sink, I squirted huge
globs worth of the foaming pink hand soap onto a paper towel and attempted to
work it vigorously underneath each arm. I wished to God it was dish soap
though. Or just something thicker. Because this foaming stuff...it just didn't
want to stick to me in the way that I needed it too just then. It didn't <i>coat</i>
my armpits as much as it did; just wash them out. Plus, with all the greasy,
fast food sweat already built up under either one of them; this particular pink
substance seemed not to be able to dry against my skin as there were already
two, huge pools of wetness present beneath each of my t-shirt sleeves. And
underarm perspiration was just another element that I was so unused to dealing
with! The plain visibility of this wetness, though, did prompt me to do something
else that I'd been questioning ever since this little fiasco began.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In my satchel, in a locker about
halfway down the hall to the labeling room on the manufacturing side, I had an
overshirt that I was accustomed to wearing here...especially since all I'd done
earlier in the week was sit in a cubicle on the more administrative side of the
building. And it was this overshirt that I went for now. And this also may seem
like something that I should have done earlier...and it wasn't that I hadn't
considered it. There just seemed to be a lot of drawbacks. For starters, the
most impractical of these drawbacks had to be that adding an overshirt to my
ensemble would only increase my body heat. And if even by only a few degrees;
the results could be disastrous...even more so than it was already. And even if
I buttoned up this overshirt all the way; it's not like the knit cotton that it
was comprised of would ever really help to <i>contain</i> the problem. The air
would still get out. Through the collar and through the untucked waist. And, of
course, right through the material itself in little, pulsating bursts of
effluvia; it would escape. It could <i>not</i> be contained. Because it was, in
fact, completely out of control. Plus, for some totally irrational reason, I
just didn't want the other kids to notice that I'd changed into something new.
That I'd added another garment in attempts to cover up my putrid companion. I
felt that this was openly admitting my guilt and would thereby cause me to
somehow feel even more shame when, in reality, the others <i>probably</i> would
have appreciated me having at least <i>tried</i> to make some sort of effort.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But there was nothing I could do
about it now. I had to put the overshirt on; so ridiculously large had the
pools of dark grey dampness under my arms become after all the wiping and the
soaping. And I wasn't about to let them think for one second that these pools,
suddenly so much larger, were actually of even <i>more</i> sweat that I'd
somehow perfused in the ten minutes real time that I'd actually been away. I
just prayed to God that the soap would work. Because if it didn't; I felt that
there <i>was</i> a strong possibility of me saying 'fuck all' and abandoning
this job altogether. Who knows? Maybe I could work at Jack in the Box. They'd
probably hire me up pretty fast. And...free food. But seriously. To have to sit
in that torture chamber any longer... A chamber that had become tortuous to the
others also...and all because of me! This was the absolute worst! Maybe I could
just flee the scene for tonight and return, perfectly deodorized, on the
morrow. But no. I'd just started this job. It wasn't even my first week yet!
And I didn't want to make a bad... Nevermind.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I didn't work though. When I
reentered the room, a couple of people looked up and nodded to acknowledge my
presence but nobody said a word. There was music playing, as there had been,
over a pretty nice stereo system and everyone just acted as if they were super
intent on doing their work. And maybe there truly were as we, from what I'd
heard, were supposed to have this entire lot labeled, packaged, and ready to be
irradiated by the time we left here at midnight. So, not wanting to draw <i>any</i>
attention to myself if that were even humanly possible, I quickly and quietly
made my way back over to my stool and work station and instantly began to
resume what I'd been doing. Labeling.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And it didn't take very long.
Fifteen minutes perhaps. It was something close to that, I knew, being now
keenly aware of the clock. I felt like part of me was caught in one of those
Chinese finger-traps. Like the more I willed myself to stop secreting whatever
this neon green, chemical garbage inside me was; the more it seemed to drip.
Like it was somehow rooted in my own anxiety. Causing it to exude. And
yeah...like 15 minutes was all it took before that foaming hand soap underneath
my arms must have dissolved; my pits feeling all the wetter and more
uncomfortable now for having so much as <i>attempted </i>to amend the
situation. Wet and sticky and excruciatingly annoying to even <i>want</i> to
hold my arms closed anymore. Like they were caked together with batter even
when I pulled them apart! And I wanted so badly then to take my hands and just
rub them with anything to soak up some of the excess perspiration. With
absolutely anything in the room that might have been available! A piece of copy
paper even. Anything! But I couldn't. Whoo! I was shivering with
heebie-jeebies.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And the room stunk up again much to
everybody's increasing frustration. No one ever said a word, though, but I
could just tell. There was something about their demeanor, their sighing, and
their grunting even. And I'd already exercised my only options. And now, for
certain, there was nothing I could do.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So together, we all drudged it out.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After another 20 minutes was up, the
labeling was all finished and it was then our collective duty to stick all the
foil pouches in boxes and then stick all <i>those</i> boxes into <i>bigger</i>
boxes for shipping. And this wasn't good for my plight either as it meant
getting up and moving around more...more physical activity and one that
required me to stretch my arms the whole while. And it was fucking awful. For
everyone. So awful that, before these <i>larger</i> boxes were even finished
being packed, someone suggested to Troy that he take me out back just to show
me how to properly recycle all the cardboard. I knew it was probably a bit
early to be taking out the trash though. I'd never done this before. But I just
knew.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As chagrinning as such a suggestion
might have been, though, it was actually well welcomed by me just to <i>have</i>
such a made up excuse designed for the group's aggregated benefit. It offered
me the opportunity not only to leave the room again...but to get outside and
perhaps dry out and become a bit refreshed in the cool, night air. And Troy was
cool about it once we were out there and taking turns at re-piling all of the
day's used cardboard into the large, metal receptacle.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He said, “Man, I'm really stinkin'
tonight.” And he even lifted his own arm here and brought his nose closer in
feigning an estimation of his own, nonexistent scent. “I totally must have
forgotten to put on some deodorant today. I'll have to remember to do that
tomorrow for sure, ya know?”</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And there wasn't even a trace of
accusation in his voice.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. I'm pretty sure I have a bit
of that going on myself today. I'll have to remember to do that too.”</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>How humiliating!</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But this was Troy's way and he
turned out to be one of the best people I've ever met.</div>
<div class="Textbody" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I must have redeemed myself
somehow. Because, just a couple of weeks later, I did start going out to the
bar with all those guys after work. And nobody ever said a thing.</div>
z.m.oliver@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01622907618080308162noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193359904027993582.post-84720185370545131722012-09-12T23:59:00.002-07:002012-11-12T21:29:50.417-08:00Union Town?<!--[if gte mso 9]><xml>
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<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Pittsburgh,
Pennsylvania. The Steelworkers. Now, that's a fucking union. Just say the name
and you feel powerful. Say the name and it conjures up images of molten metal
and badasses working by the sweat of their brow. Labor and industry. Factories.
Harsh, unforgiving conditions and jobs that are seriously dangerous even today.
But I can't even imagine what it must have been like to report for duty in any
of these dismal places before the first union. The regular workday would last
anywhere from 10 to 16 hours. Overtime didn't exist and neither did sick
pay...or medical benefits for that matter. And the odds of losing a limb (or
even a life) in these places were pretty high since safety regulations, from
the management's perspective, were nothing much to worry about...<i>if</i>
there even were any! And <i>if</i> someone were to have accidentally melted
their arms off; it was, of course, <i>their</i> fault somehow and a willing and
able <i>two</i>-armed guy was always lined up and ready to take his place. And
it is <i>this</i> unfortunate mentality, management's idea of the readily
dispensable worker, that still exists today.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So how the
hell does this apply to Portland; a city that couldn't be further from
Pittsburgh if we tried. A city that, nowadays especially, conjures up images of
scenesters and punkers and crazy ex-hippies...of yuppies who'd become sick of
their careers...and of course, everyone's personal favorite; the California
transplant such as myself. A city full of folks who'd either chose to move here
or stay here for the reason of seeking an escape from society's traditional
norms. And anyone who'd been here for a few years had long since said, 'fuck
you' to the system. Because Portlandrriqueños, at least a greater percentage of
them than the average national urbanite, valued living over money. And in part;
this 'living' meant working a nice, cushy job. Something part-time or
event-based or both. Something that wouldn't too badly distract the fair
citizens of this fair city from the finer things in life. And I certainly don't
meant to imply that Portlanders don't work hard...just not as hard as steel
workers. And that's not necessarily a bad thing. But why the fuck then would we
need a labor union? Well...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It all
comes back to that idea of the readily dispensable worker. A concept that, in
and of itself, rings truly enough. Because, at their place of employment, <i>anyone</i>
is replaceable from the guy scrubbing toilets all the way up to and including
the president of the United States. There's always <i>somebody</i> who can do
the job just as well. And if they don't already know <i>how</i> to perform said
job; you can bet there are people determined to learn. Which again, in itself,
is a good sign. This steady supply of readily available laborers shows that at
least Americans are still willing to pull up their shirt sleeves. However, the
idea of the readily dispensable worker turns rotten whenever the notion is
exploited. Which, in the midst of this bleak economy with its deplorable
unemployment rate, it <i>is </i>exploited almost incessantly. Anyone is replaceable,
sure. But, from any given managements' perspective, the question on their minds
is; just how easily?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>All too
often, this is where the exploitation of laborers begins. Because the concept
of the readily dispensable worker cuts right through the bullshit. It cuts
right down to the core of employment itself whether viewed from the
management's angle <i>or</i> the worker's. Through the management's eyes; an
employee will be expected to break his/her back for minimum wage and not a
penny more...with a smile on their face! Because <i>both</i> manager and
employee know that even a low-paying job (like the one specifically about to
pertain to this story) is in high demand in a such a dysfunctional economy as
the one we all now find ourselves living in...<i>especially</i> in Portland
where the rate of unemployment continues to skyrocket. And in this way; the
inert economy helps to make half the management's decisions for them. In this
way; all any given manager has to do is sit back with their arms folded and
wait for any one of their subordinates to make a complaint or (God forbid)
stand up for themselves or show the slightest backbone when being mistreated
and...SNIP. It's just that easy. Because why the fuck <i>would</i> they want to
deal with any employee who won't allow him or herself to be railroaded,
misused, and treated unjustly when they know perfectly well that there are
plenty of other potential employees to choose from; some with master's degrees
even who have their resumes out and ready?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So why have
a union in a town where part-time, event-based, and temporary jobs seem to
reign? Maybe so the companies can't get away with it. So they can't go around
firing people on the thinnest little whim...for standing up for themselves, for
refusing to perform duties well outside that person's job description, or even
for just asking questions in general. The list could go on and on because no
matter how self-explanatory one's job may be; each and every modern workplace
remains a giant grey area where shit is constantly popping up...shit <i>not</i>
listed in the official employee handbook (even a handbook as purposely vague as
the one handed out by this particular corporation). So, if for nothing other
than to prevent the higher-ups from going on an occasional firing orgy, the
union is necessary. It's necessary to keep them in check. And for that alone,
the dues are worth it.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But enough
of this essayist bullshit. Let's just dive right in, shall we?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Woodman's
office was small as it was windowless as it was depressing. Suffice to say
that, any normal person forced to work in such a dreary dungeon day-to-day and
for any length of time, would have definitely killed themselves long ago. But
maybe he wasn't very sensitive to his surroundings. Or worse. Maybe he'd just
become used to it. Either way though; I was glad when his boss, Brendan,
overrode Woodman's original decision and opted instead to use the boardroom down
the hall. Because, other than just being dark and gloomy, the first two
meetings in this series of three had already taken place in Woodman's office. And
I believe that if the 7 of us agreed on even a single thing that day; it was
that we were all pretty well sick of that stinking venue. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The purpose
of this final meeting was to was to grieve the fact that I'd been terminated
from the company in a way that the union and I felt was wrong and unjust. And
supposedly, based on what Clara had told me out on the sidewalk mere minutes
ago, we were here to plea our case for the first time since the firing was made
official...and they were here to listen to us. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But <i>why</i>
would they hire me back?” I'd asked her, “I mean...just so I have some sort of
idea of which angle to work. I mean...what's in it for them?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,” and
her answer wasn't canned so much as something that I just didn't necessarily believe,
“Because you're a good employee and you always show up on time and do your job.
Plus, it saves them the trouble of having to hire someone else.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, but
they <i>already</i> hired someone else...about two months ago when I was first
suspended,” I honestly wasn't <i>trying</i> to sound surly now; it just sort of
came out that way, “<i>But</i>, kind of ironically I guess, I heard the other
day that that replacement of mine just quit.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There!”
her eyes perked up, “You see?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, but
I mean; they already replaced her too.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I was
quickly beginning to see that Clara was drastically depreciating the situation
here and the bewildering numbness of those heads we were about to go up
against.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>For
starters, the managers present were already going to be pissed off for just
having to be here today! I knew this and, to be honest, a part of me even
relished in this little attitude of theirs and it's definitely one of the
reasons that I'd taken things so far and for so long. There was no winning this
battle. I knew that too. But rather than go down without a whisper, I could
pester the fucking shit out of them so long as the law and union allowed me to
do so. Because they <i>had</i> to be here today less they relinquish all power.
There were going to have to sit across that table from us and listen to me plea
my case. And they'd have to answer some technical questions that Clara and
Malcolm, the other union rep present, would surely ask. And having to do so
would burn them so badly...it would infuriate them! And they couldn't very well
stand up all red-faced and say, “Fuck your stupid union! And fuck you!”
Because, obviously this entire meeting was to go on record and obviously there
would be plenty of witnesses...partisan witnesses but witnesses just the same.
And because, according to Clara, the next step, should they choose not to hire
me back, was something called 'arbitration' where basically we'd have this same
meeting but in front of a judge. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of course,
they weren't going to hire me back though. And the joke, this whole time, was
really on them because after getting fired...getting <i>shit-canned </i>for
nothing more than being short a stack of plastic fucking cups; I sure as hell
wasn't about to jump at the opportunity. They'd make my life a hell upon
rehire. And the whole 'plastic cup' thing was a facade anyway; an excuse, and
they knew it. <i>They </i>knew it, <i>I</i> knew it, and all the rest of my
coworkers knew it. And that's why they'd officially fired me for something as
vague but ominous sounding as 'gross misconduct' rather than 'theft'. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What Clara
didn't understand was that this case...I don't know if I'd call it 'personal'
exactly but it definitely went beyond the plastic surface of those stupid cups.
What she didn't understand was that this story <i>really </i>started about 7
months prior when I'd complained to Woodman about a way one of his managers was
acting towards some of the prettier looking ladies around the workplace. And,
what the hell, just for kicks; I'll get into some specifics. Said manager would
approach me and elbow me in the gut with a pervy look on his face and proceed
to say things to the affect of, “Yeah. I wouldn't mind breakin' me off a piece
of that...if ya know what I mean.” Or, adversely, pertaining to some of the
less lovely looking ones on the scale of outward appearances only, “There's no
good lookin' ones in here today,” he'd nudge me, “Looks like they're all a
bunch of computer geeks and lesbians.” And I'd told him that he really
shouldn't be sharing these personal thoughts with me. And when even after that,
they didn't cease; I'd made an appointment to come in and talk it over with
Woodman who was the manger <i>of</i> the mangers of sorts although I believe his
official title was something like: Corporate Toolbag. And so we'd met up in his
depressing office and we'd discussed this issue and, afterwards, that
particularly pervy manager did keep it on the down-low...about as much as he
could. So problem solved, more or less, without me having to bring the union
into it. Without even notifying them; I'd met with Woodman on my own (something
that I knew the union disapproved of...especially these days when new contract
negotiations were in the air).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What Clara
also didn't understand was that I'd met up with Woodman a couple of months after
that about a scheduling issue. And this one wasn't so much of a complaint as it
was taking a stand on my part. And I could see how Woodman might have taken this
personally since it was he who made the schedules himself. Basically, after
promoting me to Bartender last summer, he still felt free to schedule me in the
concession stands whenever he did so please. And this alone; I would have been
cool with despite the fact that no <i>other</i> Bartender would have ever been
so obedient. But hey, I'm a team player and like to help out when and where I
can. However, upon glancing at my paycheck one day, I noticed that, while
working the concession stands, I was actually being paid a lower rate...lower
than a bartender, that is. Which would pretty much negate my promotion to
Bartender in the first place! Not to mention that the tips were less. Not to
mention that that pay rate I'd noticed on my check was even <i>lower</i> than
what I'd been making in the concession stands <i>before </i>my promotion!
So...to summarize; I was basically getting fucked in the ass without even the
decency of a reach-around.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>This</i>
particular issue was never solved...at least not on the books. Because, after
meeting with Woodman (and some ancient bitch from HR) and not having
accomplished much; he held his ground by stating that he would continue to schedule
me to work the concession stands whenever he so needed but added that he'd also
begin to cross-train all the other bartenders to work them too...which we both
knew was complete bullshit. He was never going to cross-train them and he never
did. This, however, didn't keep him from looking me straight in the eye...and
lying. This is also the same moment that I lost all respect for Woodman; a
respect that had been slowly declining over the years anyway as he became more
and more of a corporate whore and would lie to us (the bartenders, concessions
workers, dishwashers, catering crew, and even the mangers below him) on a more
and more regular basis. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And so it
was <i>for</i> this particular issue and its lack of a resolution that I, for
the first time, contacted the union for help. Surely, somewhere within our
contract that I'd never once so much as glanced at...surely, there must be some
clause that stated we couldn't be forced to work a position outside our own job
classification and for less pay to boot. And sure enough; there was such a
clause. Two or three of them actually that Malcolm and I had found together
when I called him up to discuss matters. We'd found them, yes. But Malcolm did
suggest then that we not press the issue unless it ever came up again (on my
schedule) which, of course, it never did. Thus, the matter had amended
itself...but only because of the giant shit storm I'd created...much to Woodman's
annoyance, I'm certain.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And what
Clara ultimately didn't understand out there on the sidewalk and before going
into the boardroom that day was that these two issues coupled with a grievance
recently filed on my behalf regarding a concern where I'd been accidentally
(but unfairly just the same) skipped over to work a concert (a really good
moneymaking shift that, by <i>not</i> working it, probably cost me upwards of
two hundred dollars) is that <i>I</i>, having had to stand up for myself these
many times in the course of the past year, had been labeled (by the management,
of course); a troublemaker. And they wanted nothing more to do with me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Four year's
worth of working there and the only complaint I ever made before these
aforementioned was about a coffee maker that had gone haywire and had, for
months, been overflowing thereby causing a slip and fall type situation. Some
of the staffers, on more than one occasion, had even burned themselves while
trying to turn it off. Yes, before then, the only complaint I'd ever made was
about a safety issue and, <i>even</i> then, it's only because the management
had refused to<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>take the matter
seriously. The machine had gone unrepaired because they claimed we didn't know
how to 'use it right'. And with over a dozen different people using that thing
weekly...? It was Woodman's way of saying that he thought we were all stupid. It
couldn't be more black and white. And it wasn't until I threatened to call OSHA
that that human shit-stain finally sent someone in to fix it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So I heard
you just got employee of the month at your other job?” Malcolm asked me as we
were all making our way into the boardroom and finding our seats.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Of the
quarter,” I smiled not only because this was true but because it was exactly
the type of<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>praise that these managers
needed to hear about just now as they proceeded to shuffle their paperwork
together. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nice!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, it's
a pretty good gig actually. Steady hours. Paid holidays. <i>Medical benefits</i>.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And
Malcolm's ears perked up at that last one. Through the union, he'd been
steadily pushing<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>to obtain medical
benefits (for everyone) for years...to no avail. It was a pipe dream, of
course. Healthcare through a part time, event-based gig such as this? Let's
just say that there's some magic not even the union can work. And not many
employees, besides Malcolm, ever expected them too. Including myself.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
that's awesome,” he smiled back sincerely; his dyed red hair pulled straight
back into a ponytail.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Today,
Malcolm was wearing a summery sort of dress; white cotton and sleeveless with
some sort of black pattern on it. He'd worn a dress and platforms to the
previous meeting too. And the only reason I even mention this is that he was
the only one in the room presently wearing one. Even Clara, just to my right
now, was wearing pants and a shirt. Red pants! And a <i>blue</i> shirt! Or, to
be more precise, red <i>jeans</i> and a royal blue cotton T. She was all
business, though, with reading glasses on and a pen in her hand already.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Having just
come from my other job (and having carelessly spilled coffee on myself just as
I was leaving), <i>I</i> wore, over my collared shirt, a black sweater...in the
middle of summer which, no doubt, looked somehow suspicious or weird. But my
hair was combed and my face was shaved. I wasn't making a mockery of this
meeting in any way...at least not outright. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So a motley
looking group were we that would have evoked an uncontrollable amount of
intrigue from <i>any</i> assemblage (although probably less disdainfully so
than the one presently) sitting across from us. And this <i>is</i> how the
table was divided. The three of us on one side...the side closest to the door.
While the four of <i>them</i> sat directly across from us with the exception of
HR lady who'd seated herself at the head of the table at one end. Make no
mistake though. She <i>was</i> one of them. A recently acquired corporate
liaison whose position, I can only suppose, was to ease the rocky relations
between the division of laborers and management. For example, a couple of
months ago, she'd set into motion a program for rewarding us, say, if a
customer called to praise us for good service. The sadly typical downside to this
program, however, was that it was virtually impossible to reach any of our
managers by phone...even if somebody had a complaint to make! I often tried to
imagine customers going online to find our number where sensibly, they'd search
for The Schnitzer or the Keller Auditorium. And a phone number <i>would </i>pop
up, surely. It just wouldn't be the correct number...the number that would
ultimately lead to one of <i>our</i> managers' desks down in the very bowels of
these buildings. Because <i>our</i> company, Aramark, <i>subcontracted</i> with
the Portland Center for the Performing Arts and flew conveniently under the
radar while the patron calling to either give praise or make a complaint would
have no idea that the box office they just reached was not in any way, shape,
or form associated with <i>us</i>. And as far as taking the time to jot down
and relay the name of an Aramark employee being praised; well, the good people
actually <i>in</i> the box office could really give a shit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So, for
this reason, the proposed record keeping of potential praise was complete
bullshit but not, however, for this reason only. The next had to do with what
they actually planned to reward us <i>with</i>. No shit; she literally reserved
a small room in one of our buildings and filled it with crap like cheap
appliances and headphones and maybe a department store bicycle even. And
whenever we were praised, they were supposed to reward us with this fake
currency anticreatively dubbed: Aramark dollars or Aramark bucks or something
equally unimaginative but of the like. But in the many months since this
patronizing program had begun, I hadn't come into contact with anyone who'd
saved up enough of these so-called bucks to actually 'buy' anything mostly (as
I've just mentioned) due to the fact that it was virtually impossible for us to
ever receive any outside praise in the first place. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Come to
think of it; I'd only known one employee to have ever received <i>any</i>
payment in this phony cash and <i>that</i> was for rolling a heavy Cambro full
of ice 10 downtown city blocks to a different auditorium and then back again.
The poor guy, upon his return, was all winded and sweaty and so I asked him,
“Did they even give you anything extra for doing that?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To which he
replied in a tone that I hadn't yet identified as sarcasm, “Yeah. 50 bucks.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh. Well,
hell. <i>I</i> would have carted it over there for 50 bucks.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, dude,”
and he gave me a look then like I should have known, “50 <i>Aramark</i>
dollars.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh.
Sorry.” And it <i>was</i> pretty sad but I think, at the time, we both just had
to laugh.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>These
specific instances of praise were also supposed to go in our personal files so,
as the managers used to say, if we ever <i>did</i> get into trouble and had to
sit in any sort of disciplinary meeting like the one I'm about to transcribe,
there would at least be some documentation present to portray us in a positive
light. Not that this was technically a 'disciplinary meeting' we were about to
engage in so to speak. As Clara had told me over the phone; I was already fired
and therefore had nothing to lose. This was her way of attempting to put me at
ease...and it did...sort of. But what she neglected to mention (or perhaps
didn't fully realize) was that <i>since</i> this wasn't technically a
disciplinary meeting and <i>since</i> I was already fired and <i>since</i> they
had no plans to take me back; this meeting was to be nothing more than a farce
at best and <i>probably</i> something more like what I enjoy referring to as a
'lame fuck around'. And, as will soon be revealed, the few points of praise in
my file that I <i>had</i> picked up along the way (not to mention my perfect
attendance record and willingness to always come in on short notice) did for me
about jack and shit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And so it
was programs like these that this HR lady now sitting at the head of one side
of the table came up with. This was pretty much the extent of her position from
what I'd gathered which, when you think about it, is pretty sweet gig! And this
was her first sweet gig or cake job or, to be perfectly accurate; <i>professional</i>
job. This, I could tell just by looking at her. She overdressed the part for
starters; like she'd gone out the day she was hired and bought a bunch of new
suits because she'd never had the opportunity to wear one to work
before...having just come from Target where she'd been employed since
graduating college something like 40 years ago! That last inference is nothing
more than that; the part about Target, I mean. That being said, though, I am
still very good at pegging people which is why I'm going to go on record as
saying that her age (60-something) wasn't so much a guess as it was calculated
speculation. She was 60-something hoping to God she could still pass for
40-something and hoping erroneously. Imagine an old cat. A really old one. One
that's so old that it appears boney and brittle. So old that, if it weren't for
its fur, there would only be a wrinkled sack of skin to meet the eye. Rather
than fur, though, this HR lady was trying to disguise her own wrinkled sack
with an expensive haircut...and that's what she had going for her. That and a
cakey layer of cosmetic foundation that didn't do shit to conceal the copious
amount of age spots that, like a disease, seemed to be on the verge of fully
taking over her face. To sum it up succinctly; she was just trying way too
hard to hide the fact that she was, and had been, post-menopausal for quite a
while.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She was
also one of those particularly scarey types of people who couldn't quite decide
whether or not to believe their own bullshit. As with her 'praise and rewards'
program, for instance. Did she actually go home at night and say to herself,
“You know what? I think that I really made a difference in those people's lives
today. I think that, from now on, everyone working under my tiny area of
influence is going to feel that much more appreciated...because of me. Good job!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And if so
then which was worse? This was the burdensome little bug of a question that
these types left <i>me</i> trying to decide. Because, on the one hand, if this
lady <i>did</i> indeed believe that she was somehow making a positive
difference; well, then she was just another idiot in the world and not to be
taken seriously. And I believed this to be the case here; this less malignant
of the two possible outcomes. Because, on the other (and this is something that
frightens me right down to my core), if this bitch <i>knew</i> that she was
just spitting out bullshit and went to a job everyday where she generated more
bullshit because, deep down, she <i>knew</i> that this Aramark corporation (on
its administrative end) was nothing more than a giant bullshit factory...which
it is. If she <i>knew</i> this for a fact but <i>continued</i> to spit this
shit...for a paycheck? For a job where she could wear a suit for (literally) a
couple more years until it was time for her to retire? Where she could delude
herself just long enough to hold back the self-loathing until it was time to
wake up and look into the morning mirror all over again? It was this type of
fundamental flaw that frightened me so much and it's exactly these types of
deluded sickos out there who epitomized the very definition of the word
'wrong'. But we'll get into that in a minute. For now, as I've already
mentioned, I believed this lady to be the more benign type of psycho. She knew
that she, for the most part went unnoticed...that her footsteps through this
life would forever be quiet...that she would sooner than later, to quote Dylan
Thomas, 'go gentle into that good night'...and that <i>truly</i>; her very
existence made hardly any difference at all. So little difference, in fact,
that I could never even remember her name...which is why it doesn't appear in
this story. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Seated next
to her and slumping in the corner was Woodman; the manger of mangers (so to
speak) whom I'd met up with so many times by now already. During the last two
meetings, he was the one who'd done almost all of the speaking. He'd told me
point-blank that he didn't believe I'd miscounted my cups...which was his way
of insinuating that it was the management's take that I was stealing. And while
it's true that this <i>was</i> the management's position, it was a lie that
Woodman himself believed me to be a thief. It was illogical. He never would have
kept me around for 4 fucking years (much less have promoted me a year ago) if
he so much as had an inkling...which he didn't. Because I had not, nor had I
ever, stolen from that atrocious fucking company. And who knows? Maybe I should
have. Maybe I should have stolen a little bit here and there over the years. It
sure would have been easy. And it would've added up. And I would have damn sure
felt less silly sitting here at a boardroom table after having been fired for <i>not</i>
stealing. Had I been fired for <i>something</i>; I wouldn't even be writing
this right now! But I am...because I wasn't.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And this is
exactly what I mean about believing one's own bullshit. Or <i>not</i> believing
it; as was the case with Woodman. He was wrong for firing me because, deep down,
he knew that I didn't deserve it. But of course, with a grievance already on
the line and with this inventory discrepancy that truly I could not explain, he
was under pressure to do so from <i>his</i> higher-ups when <i>really</i> all
this discrepancy should have ever led up to was a stern warning and a write-up.
And this is where things really get ugly. Because it's the philosophy. Assuming
Woodman was under pressure to fire me and that his hands were tied...and I really
wanted to believe this. <i>Assuming</i> this was the case; then what was he
supposed to do? Be a man and stand up for his convictions like I did? And I do
realize that that's a pretty tall order since Woodman, from what I understood,
did have a family to support and kids that had probably long since stopped
respecting him. And surely, it wouldn't prove very beneficial for him to get
fired for <i>not</i> firing somebody else (me) who would doubtlessly be fired
regardless of his own stance, his opinion, or his actions. But at any point, he
could have leveled with me. At any time, he could have taken me aside and said,
“Hey, man. I know this is complete bullshit and I know that everyone has an off
night every once in a while. But it's either me or you here...or both of us.
And I'm really, really sorry. But I hope you understand. They've really got my
nuts in a vice over this one.” And I still may not have been okay with it but I
may have at least regained a single ounce of respect for the man. But he never
did take me aside and put his hand on my shoulder or even communicate such
sentiments with so much as a beseechingly apologetic look on his face. So here
goes...<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It's a
scary thing when people go against that little voice in their head; their
conscience. And it's a scary thing when people are forced to choose between the
lesser of two evils. Not to say that it was <i>evil</i> to fire me necessarily.
But I do believe that a bunch of tiny, little evils piled on top of one another
for so long <i>will</i> eventually spill out into the world and cause a bunch
of chaos and unnecessary negativity. It's funny because there was this one
woman whom I'd worked with who had basically gone up against Woodman for very
similar reasons. She'd had a couple meetings with him while union reps were
present. But, unlike me, <i>she</i> was able to maintain her employment. She
told me those meetings got gnarly though. She told me that, at one point, she
found herself yelling across the table at them for having accused her of 'gross
misconduct' which, in Aramark language, meant stealing. And she told me that,
with people like Woodman in the world, it was no wonder the holocaust happened.
I'm chuckling to myself about this last remark even now...but not as hard as
when this theory of hers was first expressed to me. I didn't make a face and
say, “Jesus! That's a bit extreme, don't you think?” But afterward...I used to
go out to the bar and tell <i>other</i> co-workers that she'd actually said
that about Woodman and we'd all just laugh our heads off. How could she say that
about <i>anyone</i>, for that matter, save a neo-Nazi?! But I get it now. A
little. I think. This sentiment that she was <i>attempting</i> to express; it
was the same idea as all the little evils adding up. All the little wrongs. And
'wrong' <i>is</i> something psychological. It's man-made. It's obeying orders
from higher-up that you don't agree with on a moral set of standards. It's
going against yourself. And when you go against yourself; you go against
everything. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>This
co-worker also stated that, in this meeting or meetings, Woodman had yelled at
her; had actually stood up and yelled. And I'd heard, on more than one
occasion, of him doing this. I'd heard it from other mangers even! Which, to
me, just meant that he was under a lot of stress. Again, he was perpetually
caught between the rock and the hard place that <i>was</i> his position within
the company; the go-between guy who was somehow supposed to link this awful
line between labor and management. He never yelled at me though. Not even in
the two meetings previous; both of which had become pretty intense.
Because...yelling at women with their backs already against the wall was one
thing. But to yell at a 200 lb. guy whom he knew would stand right back up, get
in his face, and throw it back at him...he didn't have the balls...or at least
not balls big enough. Apparently.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As he sat there across
from me at the boardroom table on this day, though, rolling his eyes; I mostly
just felt sorry for him. I'd heard that he was (or at least <i>once</i> was) in
a band. A Cake cover band, granted. But still. It was <i>kind</i> of cool. But
just look where he wound up. <i>This</i> was his stage now. And <i>we</i>, the
union reps and I; his all but unreceptive audience. I'd even heard that once,
not so very long ago, he'd moved to Philadelphia where there must have been
some musical opportunity there awaiting him. I'd heard that that had been his
last real stab at it. And I'd heard that he'd failed miserably. And that that's
why he was back. Imagine the resentment he must have held towards other people
still living their dreams. The very weight...the magnitude of it must have been
astounding. And that's why it didn't surprise me at all that he rolled his eyes
and huffed and yelled and acted the way he did. It didn't surprise me that
anyone who saw him on the street would have immediately mistaken him for an
albino with his ever thinning white hair and waxy, wan complexion. Woodman,
however, was an albino only of the soul. The very fibers of his being lacking
any pigmentation...anymore. A sad and tragic man who just wasn't quite good
enough to make it. </div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Either that or he was
just your regular, run-of-the-mill fucking asshole. Take your pick.</div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On the other corner
across from us, there sat Will. He was sort of a newcomer to Portland but not,
however, to the Aramark managerial scene...which is crazy because he was
probably a few years younger than myself. Maybe more than that even. It was
hard to tell. He was young, though, and still had that little boy's face about
him. More definitively; a little boy who'd just shit his pants and was pissed about
sitting in it. His prematurely receding hairline only helped to accentuate this
image because it resembled that of a toddler's whose hair hasn't begun to grow
in yet right around the temples and even a little bit beyond. And it was <i>because</i>
of his youth and his position that he truly disgusted me and didn't draw much
respect from anyone else. This isn't to say, of course, that just because
someone is young; they don't deserve respect. Rather, it was just so completely
obvious that he'd given up on his life and aspirations without ever really
trying to achieve them and that he'd probably taken that low and easy road by
majoring in (and then graduating with) a hotel and restaurant management
degree. </div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And as I sat across the
table from him just then, I couldn't quite decide whether or not it was funny
or sad that Woodman was his future. Either way, though, it sure did make for an
interesting phenomenon to see them seated almost side-to-side. The broken. The
defeated. The lifers. </div>
<div class="MsoBodyText" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in; mso-line-height-alt: 5.0pt;">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Will had been around
for only a couple weeks before the first meeting that had resulted in my
suspension. And already, my co-workers had been referring to him as, The Mole.
I'm not perfectly sure why, though, since a 'mole' (by my understanding) is
someone who is undercover. Still, the nickname was funny as shit. And even more
so because he had absolutely no idea that this is what the staff truly thought
of him. It was <i>believed</i>, anyway, that he'd been brought in as an extra
player for their team while the new union contract was still under negotiation.
And it was known, pretty much from day 1, that Will's position within the
company was just a bit higher than that of our nightly closing managers.
However, after these first couple weeks were up and the story had a chance to
unfold itself (mostly thanks to some of the other blabbermouth managers); it
turned out that Will was just some garden-variety douche bag who'd moved to
Portland because his wife wanted to attend a specific school of
chiropractics...which would make him, what they refer to in The South as, a
following-spouse.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>As I've
pointed out, it was Woodman who'd done almost all of the talking in the two
previous meetings. But now, just by the way that the Legion of Evil had
situated themselves, I could tell that this was no longer going to be the case.
Because, sitting in the center of the table on their side now was Woodman's boss, Brendan. And
he, out of any of them, had to be the one bona fide steaming pile of human garbage;
a stinking turd of a man right through to the core and a beady-eyed, Leprechaun
looking bastard at that.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Smiling
smugly across from me now, I actually took the time to evaluate the worm for
the very first time. His profile was so obvious, I can't even believe I'm going
to describe it but...Brendan had gelled what was left of his greying mane and
had slicked it back in the fashion of any used car salesman ever; a style that
I've never quite understood on any guy whose hair was already thinning so
badly. And Brendan had used so much fucking gel today that his scalp now, under
the overhead fluorescents, reflected an irritating, white shine that I knew was
going to distract me for the duration. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That being
said; it should also be obvious that he was the kind of guy who would point at
someone when he walked into a room...as if to acknowledge their presence.
Today, he wore a dress shirt; maroon and of a cotton that had been so refined,
it seemed to gleam...which only accentuated his already greasy being. Beyond
that, though, Brand would have been the perfect spokesman for Viagra. He could
easily have taken the place of any one of those guys in an erectile dysfunction
commercial; so prime was he for the part. As if, just by looking at him, one
would begin to hear that little voice-over warning that always ran at the end
of those ads...“Please, consult your doctor to determine whether or not your
heart is healthy enough for sex.” And I guess that's the general impression
that this guy gave off; that <i>his</i> heart was not. Although, rather than
wearing that complacent, self-satisfied smile on his face like all those other
baseball loving 50-somethings in the commercials; Brendan's own countenance
gave one the feeling that they were staring at some kind of hologram when,
without moving any actual muscles, his standard schmuck-smile would slowly
transform into an expression full of fear and agony. And this may sound strange
but it only made complete sense because, if I know anything about Aramark (and
I do), the degree of misery only seemed to increase as one moved up the
ladder...exponentially. And I didn't even want to fucking <i>try</i> to imagine
was <i>his</i> boss was like. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>However,
for all points and purposes of this story, it may just be easier to envision
any standard, pink-faced lowlife that could make a $2000 suit look bad.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Admittedly,
Brendan was somewhat of a mystery card that I'd been dealt. That is; other than
the characteristics mentioned above and so easily ascertained via a little
intuition, I believe I'd only ever seen him one other time and <i>that</i> was
at the last meeting a month ago whereupon I was officially fired. And even
then, it seemed he'd made himself present just to ensure Woodman was doing his
job properly. He spoke only once then and I believe it was after the
fact...after Woodman had already broken it to the room that their decision was
'to terminate'. And, as we'll see in due time, jabbering nonsensical bullshit
was nothing more than another trait of Brendan's that can be added to the list.
What he'd said then was in reference to an extra bottle of gin that had
appeared on my paperwork. At first, I didn't know how this could have happened
either...but then, about a week later, it came to me. And please allow me to
get a bit technical for a moment... Whenever a bartender closes up for the
night, it is common practice (not to mention the way I was <i>trained</i>) to
not even take the time to inventory a bottle that has less than a shot in it.
We'd leave it there for the next guy, sure. But on paper, it simply wouldn't
exist. It wouldn't exist, that is, until the next bartender came along, poured
that 'less than a shot', and had to account for it on a different form that we
were supposed to fill out when accounting for the actual, empty glass bottle
itself. So it was a paperwork error. An error that was easy to explain if they
were at all into listening...which they were not. And that fucking moron,
Brendan, actually opened his yap and in that high-pitched, girly voice of his;
actually tried to argue the point with<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>me. He mentioned something about <i>always</i> counting the liquor in
our bottles whether they only had a few drops in them or not. To which my
rebuttal was to bring to his attention that one of <i>his</i> own managers had
specifically asked that we not do this. And so Brendan, the dumb mother fucker
that he was, proved in front of everyone in the room that he didn't even
understand the very system that <i>he</i> was supposed to be there somehow
enforcing...the very system that they were <i>firing</i> someone over. Brendan
obviously didn't know shit about anything going on behind the bar or the inner
workings of the job itself. And <i>because</i> he was now sitting in middle of
the boardroom table today, I knew for a fact that this meeting about to proceed
was going to be nothing more than a comedy of pretentiousness as did everyone of
them. They still had to be here though. And I wouldn't have missed it for the
world. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well
then,” Clara communicated to the room now that everybody was seated and the
doors had been closed behind us, “We're here to talk about two grievances today
so I opt that we start with the easiest one first.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The
easiest one,” Brendan blurted, “Which one's that?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And here, I
would have automatically assumed that, by saying this, he was just trying to
get things off on the smug-foot by acting like some sort of hotshot in front of
his buddies if not for the insight I already had about Brendan not really being
able to comprehend what was going on...in <i>any</i> situation. So, rather than
just <i>trying</i> to be a bigger douche here, it occurred to me that he
probably just wasn't aware that that first and fatal (to my occupation)
grievance was still in affect. And that <i>I</i> still wanted my back pay. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It's the
one,” Clara replied, “Where Mick was allegedly skipped over on the call-down
list to work a shift.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, that
sounds to me like you already said it right there,” he spoke to her and her
only, “Allegedly. I mean, as far as I know, we keep pretty accurate logs on
this type of thing. In fact...” and here he looked quickly over to the left at
his subordinate who was sort of spacing out in the corner, “Woody. Why don't
you go find some of those logs to show everyone here. Especially, the one
pertaining to this date if it's still available.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>To which
Woodman responded with a despondent shrug and a roll of his eyes like he'd <i>just</i>
sat down and didn't feel as if it were necessary for him to get off his lazy
ass again. He <i>did</i> get up though. He took that order like a good little
boy, swallowed his pride, and left the room in pursuit of those call-logs
which, in all fairness, <i>were</i> completely unnecessary to obtain. They
weren't going to prove anything. And it's not like anyone in the room <i>wasn't</i>
able to imagine just what one of these logs would have looked like. But, who
cares? That was <i>their</i> problem.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,”
Clara answered in a tone; practiced and diplomatic, “And I guess that we're not
really arguing the fact that this particular call wasn't <i>logged</i>...”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Then what
are we arguing?” Brendan interrupted her. He was already losing his cool and <i>I</i>
was already loving that I really had to do nothing more than sit back and enjoy
the show.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And
Clara...if I may,” Malcolm chimed in on my left, “I just wanted to reiterate
and to <i>stress</i> the fact that we're in no way suggesting that the
secretary willingly or intentionally skipped Mick over on this call. But, you
know, human errors do occur...”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, they
don't occur very often,” Brendan put flatly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Um. Yeah,”
and Malcolm leaned forward a bit here to sort of eyeball Clara right on the
other side of me. It was as if he needed to ascertain, through just a look,
what <i>she</i> made of this blatant lack of regard for the perfectly valid and
bipartisan point he'd been trying to make. “Well, I guess the point that <i>we're</i>
trying to make is that they do occur from time to time and that this may just
be one of those cases.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Malcolm sat
back again; his hands daintily folded over the notebook in his lap.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay?”
Brendan retorted, “Well? Do you have some evidence of this?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Actually,”
Clara took over again, “We do have Mick's phone records which he's obtained
from...AT&T?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That's
correct,” I spoke up mostly just so my throat didn't go dry.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Can I have
a look at those?” Brendan held his hand out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Certainly.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And he did
look at those couple sheets of paper; skeptically, though, as if the very
records were antagonizing him.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
this...” he sneered arrogantly here, “There aren't even any calls made on the
day in question. Incoming <i>or</i> outgoing. These are all text messages.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,” I
attempted to clarify, “I really don't get that many <i>actual</i> phone calls.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, you
have to get more than... It says here, you got three in a week!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>That's
because nobody actually <i>talks</i> on the phone anymore, you dumb fuck.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Three in a
week sounds about right.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“About
right?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I think
what we want to focus on here,” Clara did her best to keep the communication
from running away with itself, “Is that there are no records indicating that
Mick ever received a call on that day.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,” and
Brendan may as well have been the only advocate over on their side at this
point, “Well, <i>we're</i> sayin' he did. So...? I guess I'm just not really
understanding what it is you wanna do here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,”
Clara continued, “What we're asking for is that Mick receive back pay for this
night in question. No tips, obviously. But, according to Mick, he was only
requesting the back <i>hourly</i> wage to begin with...which, I'm only
speculating here, would come out to something like 40 or 50 bucks.” Then she
quickly craned her neck to look at me, “Is that about right, Mick? And would
this satisfy the situation for you?”<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I believe it would,” I
answered her.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And that's
all fine and good,” Brendan opened his hands, palms up, in a exaggerated
expression of poorly feigned bewilderment, “But phone calls don't always show
up on the billing records. It happens to me all the time.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And to
me,” the nameless, void of an HR lady decided to show some support.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There. Ya
see?” and Brendan actually looked to her as if her three-word statement somehow
held any water.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And
Clara...if <i>I</i> may,” and I just had to be the one to say it, “I think that
what we're asking for...what we're requesting here...that is, if we haven't
already; are the phone records from <i>your</i> side so that we can compare.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, I'm
afraid that's not possible,” Brendan always had an answer...even if it <i>was</i>
just empty garble, “This building operates on a tree trunk system meaning; all
the lines are tied into one bill...one record so... I'm afraid it's just not
possible that we could tie any one line to Mick's number.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And he was
actually saying this shit. It wasn't his logic. But, once again, Brendan wasn't
the type of creep to believe in his own bullshit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes. But
I'm sure,” I threw in again, “that it <i>would</i> be possible to <i>obtain</i>
those records and, from them, to discern whether or not <i>any</i> line from
this building called my number on that day...which I'm confident that it would
not.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And what?”
and here was his exasperated attitude again, “So you're saying that we should
actually pay one of <i>our</i> people to take the <i>time</i> to go through all
those records?! I'm afraid that's just not going to happen. Not that it would <i>prove</i>
anything anyway!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I
looked him right in his beady, little eyes this time, “So what you're saying
is; you <i>can</i> obtain the records. You just don't want to.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Luckily,
for the sake of the continuity of this meeting, Clara jumped in again and
addressed him, “Okay. Well, I can clearly see your stance on this matter. And
it would appear, for the time being, that it's not going to be resolved. So I
guess that <i>our</i> next move would be to subpoena those records and just
take it from there.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Woodman
reentered the room at this point with a few sheets of paper in his hand. He
dropped them down on the table in front of Clara and let his boney index finger
linger on the stack just long enough to seem spiteful before returning to his
corner. Then, from his seat, he proceeded to explain what each of the lines on
the Excel spreadsheet that was the call-log were supposed to signify while
Clara marked on them with her pen and asked some questions as to whether or not
the log was manually entered...which, of course, it was. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It also
says here,” and she already knew this but I can only suppose she was just
trying to gauge their response, “That you left a voice mail? Is that considered
a standard procedure?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not yet,”
Malcolm proudly interceded from my left, “But we're actually trying to get that
wording into our new contract right now so... We hope it's gonna happen.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Clara may
not have been aware of this last part, however; the part about voice mails
presently being on the contract table. It didn't really matter either way but
it <i>did</i> cause me to stop for a second and consider that I'd had no idea
just how deep this union went. If Clara wasn't aware of every last, little
detail in this upcoming contract; it was probably because she was so high up
the ladder that <i>our</i> contract was, to her, just another one among many.
In Portland; I'd heard lately that the Hyatt staffers were coming up on a new
contract too and I knew that this union also covered the workers of the downtown
Hilton. Neither of these companies could have been nearly as defective as the
retarded conglomeration known as Aramark though; the very same Aramark that,
beyond such finer establishments as the Portland Center for the Performing
Arts, also ran and operated prison cafeterias (and <i>that</i> is the
honest-to-God's truth).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>High up on
the wrung as Clara was, though, she was here helping me deal with this
shit...and I did appreciate it. It was nice to feel, when dished up one heaping
helping of injustice, like someone did indeed have my back. And the union
seemed to. During the meeting in which I was fired, for example, no less than <i>four</i>
representatives from the union hall made it down to hear the verdict. Woodman was
pissed that we had to get so many extra chairs just for all the butts to fit in
his tiny, little office! All just for him to read (literally) from a script
which took all of two minutes!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Be that as
it may; the union still didn't <i>prevent</i> me from being fired just like
they <i>weren't</i> going to get me my job back right now. Because, at the end
of the day (and as we shall see momentarily), there was still this little
clause on all official disciplinary forms used by the company which stated
basically that they had the right to fire anybody for any reason. And it was <i>this</i>
type of clause that had always caused me to question the actual authority (or
lack thereof) that our union may have wielded. Because, if this could happen to
me, it could happen to anyone still working for Aramark at the PCPA...anyone
who ever decided to speak up for themselves. And this is why, since I <i>was</i>
already fired after all, I had decided to make this process the longest, most
drawn-out, most painstaking shit-charade this company had ever yet imagined. I
would waste as much of their time as was humanly possible just so that the next
time they ever even <i>considered </i>firing someone without any solid proof or legitimate reason; they may remember just what a lengthy process it could be
indeed...and think twice about it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,”
Clara obviously knew that we'd hit an impasse, “Well, I think we can just put
this one aside for now and move on.”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I can't
wait,” Brendan replied tonelessly and surprisingly without an ounce of sarcasm
in his voice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alright,”
she went on while switching folders, “Well, I guess that brings us to the
company's decision to terminate Mick's employment. And I think what we're
trying to determine here is if said termination was completely justifiable.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, it's
justifiable,” was Brendan's response, “I mean, it's <i>all</i> right here in
black and white. Mick came up short over $200 on the night in question and
bingo. I mean...what more do you need?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Clara,”
and I did actually find it necessary to intervene here for just a moment, “I
just wanted to make sure that you understand that that $200 wasn't actual cash
that I came up short on. In fact, the bartender working right next to me; her
cash totals were about the same as mine at the end of the night. I just wanted
to be sure that we're all on the same page and that it's the plastic cups that
I was actually short on and their worth as far as poured drinks are concerned.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,”
Brendan's irritation made its quick reappearance, “I mean...<i>that's </i>what
we go by around here, isn't it? They're cups that <i>you</i> signed for.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes. Well,”
Clara resumed, “I think part of the case that we're making is that Mick had to
leave his bar during the time of setup and...”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, who
told you to leave your bar?!” he quickly bypassed the mediator altogether.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nobody
ever told me, in four years, <i>not</i> to leave my bar,” I replied, “And the
fact of the matter is that I <i>had</i> to since, more often than not, the
supplies that I require <i>aren't</i> delivered to me by the time the house
doors open.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why?” this
question of his was rhetorical though, “Do we not <i>have</i> runners on the
payroll to do that for you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“There are
runners, obviously, and I'm not getting down on any of them. But it's common
knowledge that, for big concerts and events like this was, they're running
around like crazy people trying to get everyone the most rudimentary stuff that
they <i>also</i> need to do their jobs...”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And what
was it? What <i>rudimentary</i> things did you need so badly?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
lemons and limes for one. And bus tubs and ice for another. Let's just say that
I don't <i>enjoy</i> serving the customers warm beer and gin and tonics with no
lime wedge. They get upset. <i>And</i>,” I delivered my case in the only
language they spoke, “It's bad for business.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So what
you're saying is that the runners aren't doing their jobs?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not at
all. In fact, I've heard them complain many times only because they're not <i>given</i>
ample time in which to perform their duties. And I've mentioned countless times
to the mangers on duty that they, along with the bartenders and everyone else
for that matter, should be scheduled earlier and given <i>more</i> time...the
time that they <i>need</i>, so that we don't always run in to situations like
this where everyone is having to rush around...”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I'm not
buying it,” Brendan sat back in his chair now and sort of removed himself from
the conversation. He also took this time to scan each and every face sitting on
his side of the table; searching them for approval like a politician who knew
that his stances were shaky. Brendan needed to be surrounded by yes-men less he
crumble...and I imagine that he was like that outside of work as well.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mick,”
Clara attempted to refocus the discussion for the umpteenth time, “Would you
say that it wouldn't have been difficult, while you were away from your bar,
for somebody to just come over and take some cups?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Extremely
easy,” I used her prompt, “I keep them behind the bar so that they're not as
obvious or <i>inviting</i> but... If someone...especially someone working for
the show, like the crew; if some of them needed cups, I'm sure they'd feel
perfectly entitled and wouldn't hesitate to lift some. The ushers have been
known to get a bit grabby from time to time too.”<br />
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is it possible that another
bartender might have taken some because they were short themselves?” Clara kept
leading me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It's
possible but not very likely. Not without them having told me about it, that
is. But that's not to say that maybe they grabbed a stack and then, after a
crazy-busy night like that, just <i>forgot</i> to tell me about it. That's
certainly another possibility.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,” and
Brendan actually shook his head here as if to accentuate that one hollow word
from which a brief pause followed. And I think even <i>his</i> side was
expecting him to say something else. But he didn't.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,”
Clara took a deep breath, “Well, rather than concentrating anymore on <i>whether</i>
or not Mick's missing cups could have been taken without his knowledge; let's
examine for a moment, if we may, the severity of this disciplinary decision and
whether or not it was a reasonable one based on his longstanding record with
the company. I have, in my information here, that in 4 years; Mick has called
in sick only once. He's been late only a couple of times. And, other than this
one incident, there have been no other major disciplinary actions on-record. Am
I correct in saying this?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,”
Brendan's tone rose and then fell a bit as if to stress the absurdity of
Clara's very question, “In fact, I have a whole <i>stack</i> of disciplinary
records here. Here's one,” he opened his own folder now, “It says Mick was off
by $7.25. And here's another one, and this one only a few nights later, that
says he was off by <i>9</i> dollars. I have a whole stack. There's over a dozen
of these things and his signature is on every one of them.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And may I
have a look at them?” Clara asked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Be my
guest,” he said as if she were going to attempt to discover something that just
wasn't there.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And
Clara,” Malcolm threw in from my left again, “I think, just for the record,
that we need to make clear that these sheets are representing <i>cups</i>, and
not <i>cash</i> shortages again. So, while 9 dollars may sound like a lot, it
really is just one or two cups that he may have been missing on these
nights.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And may I
further clarify,” I had to add, “that these notifications, as they're called,
were being handed out to everyone for any little shortage just about every
night there for a while. And this went on for...I don't know; something like
only a few months in the entire 4 years that I've worked here. And then they
just went away entirely like sort of a passing fad.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Since <i>when</i>
did they go away entirely?!” this last statement of mine had apparently pissed
Brendan off...and I hadn't even been trying! My guess is, though, that he
hadn't been aware of this sudden influx of shortage notifications and then
their sudden cease. And all the flux really amounted to in the first place was
a ploy by the management to flex their muscle a little...to keep us scared and
in line like good, little worker-ants. And he'd probably berate Woodman later for
not having informed him that this little preventative policy had gone out the
window a long time ago like so many other non-issues they would occasionally
isolate and try to enforce before quickly giving up again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“As I've
just said,” I answered him directly, “I can't remember the last time anyone has
actually received one of these. I mean, it's even become sort of a running
joke. In fact, I can <i>clearly</i> remember some of the newer people asking
what a 'notification' was even.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don't
believe that,” Brendan put flatly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,” I
found myself glad to be having this deliberation now. I mean, that's what Clara
told me this meeting was supposed to be all about; stating my case in an
environment where the management was practically forced to sit and listen, “I'm
sure that if you just check the dates on any of those notifications in that
stack there; you'll find that they all occurred within a few months time. And <i>because</i>
they were almost always given for any of us being off just one cup; nobody ever
really worried too much about them. That is, they just seemed sort of
meaningless. Even the <i>managers</i> told us not to worry about them since, I
believe it's even stated in our contract that, if we ever received something
like 10 of them in a month's time; then this would constitute a write-up. But I
also believe that, in our contract, it's stated that those things are supposed
to be thrown out after one year. So what I'm <i>really</i> wondering here,
since I know absolutely that any of those in that stack is much older than <i>that</i>...
What I'm <i>wondering</i> right now is what they're still doing in my file or <i>why</i>
they're even in this room in the first place.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is that
so,” Brendan wrinkled his brow...not that he portrayed the <i>look </i>of being
stumped. But he was. I'd caught him on something and a thick vein marking his
inner tension began to bulge on his forehead. Predictably, though, he dodged
the question, “And why, do <i>you</i> suppose that these notifications just
sort of fizzled out? Which they didn't.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Because
the managers,” I came back, “have always been, since I started working here,
reasonable enough to adjust our inventory if we were <i>ever </i>only off by a
cup or two at the end of the night. And it <i>is</i> perfectly reasonable for
them to do so. Cups fall on the floor. They get broken. Oftentimes, two just
get stuck together and there they go. I may use one for ice water and then
forget to mark it down. It happens. Everybody's human. And just about <i>everyone</i>
is off at least one or two cups at the end of the night. And so the night
managers will adjust our inventory. It happens, literally, every single night.
So, when it comes to these notifications, it was the managers who were really
under the pressure to <i>give</i> them for a while more than <i>we</i> ever
felt burned for having received one. And <i>they</i> always told us not to
worry about them so...”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Were you
aware of this, Woody?” Brendan asked his boy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No,” Woodman
shrugged his slouched shoulders again without looking directly at anyone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Malcolm
hadn't wanted me to play this card. He'd told me so many times. He believed
that it would bring heat upon the employees again...and with good reason. But <i>my</i>
philosophy for doing so was; if the system was a broken joke to begin with then
it needed to be fixed. No more hush, hush behind the curtains shit...even if
some of it (like the manager overrides) <i>were</i> actually in our favor. And
I knew absolutely that this <i>heat </i>which Malcolm predicted would never
reach the extremes he was anticipating. Because...what were they going to do?
Pick up with the whole 'notification' thing again and hand one out to every
last staffer at the end of the night and, in a month's time, fire everyone
working there?! They <i>could</i>, I suppose. But if they didn't like how
firing <i>me</i> was going just now; multiply that by twenty without even
mentioning the media shit-storm that would develop by firing so many people in
such little time in this, the largest unemployment scare in our nation's recent
history. <span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,”
Brendan looked me right in the eye this time, “That's all fine and good. But,
from the way I see it, it has nothing to do with why you're sitting here today.
We decided to terminate. And <i>I</i> believe that that decision was a good
one. I mean, sometimes things just happen as they'll happen.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, well
that's a pretty vague statement.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Something
had changed in the room. The air had become thick and humid and it was
beginning to boil. I never lost eye contact with him though. And I think this
is why...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,”
Clara annunciated while reaching out to put a hand on my shoulder, “I think
that we're just going to take a quick caucus...if that's okay with everyone.
Just five minutes or so. And we'll be right back.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And, with
this, the three of us (Malcolm, Clara, and I) stood up and exited the double
doors just behind where we'd been seated.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And this is
where these events truly come to be hilarious for me. Let's just call them; the
caucuses. Like in a courtroom movie! All this. All these meetings and all this
seriousness! And for what? A part-time, event-based job? Who's ever heard of
such a thing?! But no. This was about something bigger than that. It was about
something <i>much</i> bigger. It was about <i>not</i> suffering an injustice
without a fight. And it was about all those other workers still on the payroll
who, one day, may meet with a similar end. Workers who didn't already <i>have </i>another
job like I did. Many of whom were older ladies just trying to supplement their
social security when they should have been resting and enjoying their
retirement. There were people working for Aramark and the PCPA who actually <i>needed</i>
the job. And I wasn't about to let them think that I'd gone out without a
fight. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,”
Clara spoke in a low tone just after the thin, wooden door had clicked shut
behind us, “So I thought that just a little break would be best. And I think
that it <i>would</i> be best to stick to getting your job back. I know it's
frustrating but...you just sounded a little hostile in there.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“She's
right,” Malcolm backed her up, “I <i>could</i> sense a little anger coming
through.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I <i>wasn't
</i>angry. I was just breaking his balls a little. I mean, obviously he's been
dishing enough of it out.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,”
Clara humored me, “You have to decide. Do you want to break his balls and say
that you really stuck it to him? Or do you want to try and resolve something
today?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She still
didn't get it though. There was nothing that would ever be resolved here. So I
didn't answer her question directly.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I'm fine.
I can behave.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,” she
seemed glad to hear this, “Now, I think what we want to try to get back to is
the customer service stuff. You may have left your bar but it was only because
you needed to get the supplies necessary to provide good customer service.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
that's the truth,” the inflection in my voice made it apparent that I was
wondering where she was going with this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
but...Mick. There's obviously a piece still missing to this puzzle. I just
mean...and don't take this the wrong way but; is there something you're not
telling us? That you haven't told <i>them</i>?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No.
Absolutely not and that's the plain, boring truth of the matter. I <i>don't</i>
know what happened to those cups that night. I may have miscounted them to
begin with. It's a possibility. Or, someone may have come by and snatched a
stack. That's certainly a possibility as well. And believe me, I've <i>thought</i>
about just coming up with a lie...even now. Just claiming something like, 'Oh,
I forgot this whole time. A guy from the show did actually come by and ask for
some cups so I gave them to him. It must have slipped my mind.' That would be
so much easier than going through all of this and I'd probably still have a job
right now. I might even have a chance if I got back in there and told them that
now! But I can't. Because I don't lie. Well,” guiltily, and I closed my eyelids
tight for a moment, “Not around the workplace anyway.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That <i>is</i>
correct, Clara,” Malcolm spoke up for me now, “Mick <i>has</i> never and <i>would</i>
never. And he's been completely transparent with us throughout this entire
process. I believe him. And he <i>is</i> getting kicked in the ass for telling
the truth here.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alright,”
Clara sighed almost disappointedly, “In that case, there <i>is</i> something
else. Another option that I wanted to propose to you for just a moment. What if
we could arrange, through this meeting, to change the <i>status</i> of your
termination so to speak. To alter it in their system so that, to future
employers, it would show that you were re-hirable.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I'd be
down with that. In fact, I actually considered that as I viable outcome to this
meeting before leaving my day job just before coming here. Because, I don't
think I could ever come back to this place to work. I have no respect for this
company. I always loved the job itself, don't get me wrong. But can you also
imagine the hell they'd make my working-life upon my return. The shit would
never end. So yeah, I'd be open to that. If you can get my back pay for that
call that I got skipped over on somehow worked into the deal too...then, yeah,
I could go for that. I'd be willing.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good,” she
sounded relieved, “But what we're going to do is go in there and try this one
more time. I think you should go over the night in detail from beginning to end
and, as I've already said, <i>stress</i> the customer service stuff. And I'll
just take it from there. I may, just to warn you, call another caucus like this
and I may ask for one with just Brendan and myself depending on how things are
going. And thank you,” she said to my lastly, “This is very big of you right
just going back in there. And it's for people in your situation right now that
I'm just glad to be doing this job.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That's
true,” Malcolm put his hand on my shoulder now, “I truly respect you for coming
all this way with it. I think most people would have just given up and not
wanted to deal with all the stress involved here. But we're glad to be here
with you, buddy. We all have to stand united.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was nice
of them to say these things and I took them to heart. And if Clara may have
shown that fleeting lack of faith in me, it was only because she was just now
beginning to realize that, as she put it herself, there <i>were </i>still
missing pieces to this puzzle. Or, more specifically, pieces that <i>were</i>
there but she was only now beginning to see. Pieces like the fact that this <i>termination</i>
wasn't at all about the night in question. Pieces that contained the word
'retaliation' on the management's part for me having shown some sort of
backbone.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Once the
meeting resumed, however, nothing much more was really ever accomplished so for
as me pleading my case and them being receptive to it. I went over the
night...again...in detail. And this time, I even picked out little features
such as the fact that my polyester jacket (the latest required uniform) had
been suffocating me so much in the summer heat that I couldn't even think
straight. Suffocating me so much, in fact, that the bartender working next to
me actually went in search of the 'summer uniforms' that we'd heard were in
already. She could tell I was dying in that thing. Which meant that she'd left
her bar too! But it was a nice gesture on her part. I also went into the fact
that my register had been acting like a piece of shit all night. The
touchscreen was 'sticking' as I liked to call it; which basically meant that
there was a 10 second delay every time I tried to ring someone up by pressing
one of the keys. There was a long delay with the credit card processor too. And
<i>what</i> all this amounted to was added stress to an already busy night
which may have caused me to not to be able to perform my job so well or operate
as smoothly as I would have liked.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But this
is all just hypothetical, right?” Will <i>finally</i> grew enough of a spine
to actually speak in this meeting...and it was directly in Brendan's ear.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
yeah!” Brendan instantly agreed with his palms turned up at us again and then
went into a soliloquy (from which I'll spare you) about how he did, indeed,
believe me to have been stealing from the company.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And so...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,”
Clara, as she'd promised, took it from there, “If you guys don't mind, I think
that we're just going to call another short break again. We won't be more than
a few minutes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Take all
the time you need,” came Brendan's mask of a shit-eating grin.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And the
door clicked shut behind us once again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,”
Clara seemed a bit discouraged but not surprised, “This isn't going well.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Does it
ever?” I asked lightheartedly. But seriously. I really wanted to know.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Usually a
little better than this,” she answered but was clearly not too amused by my
question. She was in full-on business mode now. “So I think what I'm going to
do is ask Brendan if he'd step outside with me for just a moment to discuss
what we've already sort of gone over. I'll ask him about changing the status of
your termination and just sort of test the waters to see where they are on
that. Is that okay with you?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sure,” I
replied without any sarcasm, “At this point, I don't think I could ask for much
more than that. Unless, of course, we take this to arbitration.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. But
Mick,” Malcolm interjected, “If we go there, you've got to understand. They
have all their ducks in a row on this thing. At least <i>this</i> way, you're
still sort of getting a win, in my opinion.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And he
wasn't entirely wrong here. I <i>had</i> actually thought of this outcome
before coming here and <i>would</i> take the deal. But I'm not sure that I
would have called it 'a win' per se. And I <i>did</i> feel that if I had a
little bit more information as to how these so-called arbitrations went down
then I, just now, could have better planned my course in which future to take.
Because, if I could talk to a judge and lay down for him or her concisely all
the devilish, little details in this case... If I could somehow explain to
someone who'd actually been placed in the power to make decisions... Then
perhaps I <i>would</i> be able to explain factors like how I'd never been
signed off on anything even halfway relating to my position as a bartender. I'd
never <i>signed</i> or even so much as initialed any document stating that I
wasn't supposed to ever leave my bar...which was Brendan's first rebuttal. And
in 4 years; no manager had ever so much as <i>told</i> me that I couldn't. And
maybe I could explain to said judge just how much more cost-effective it would
have been for this company to simply install some security cameras and how this
would have prevented us all from even being here just now. I could have <i>explained</i>
to this arbitrator that, back when I was in college and working at a convenient
store, there were not only security cameras on us at all times; there was also
a device wired to the register that showed exactly what we were keying in and
charging people in relation to the items for sale that the customers put up on
the counter. Every key we ever touched popped right up on the video footage and
it couldn't have been <i>that</i> expensive to install and would have been <i>damn</i>
sure less expensive than keeping the entire staff in the offices of the PCPA
after hours to ensure that their stupid cup-count system was correct. And maybe
I would have been able to explain to this judge that Aramark never <i>had</i>
any intention nor the desire to install such cameras or devices for the sheer
reason that it suited their interests so much more to dwell in grey meetings or
arbitrations such as this one rather than just operating in the black and
white...the clear and concise. Because <i>I</i> wasn't afraid of security
cameras. Because I'd done nothing, or never <i>would</i> have done anything
questionably wrong at that job.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If you can
get me that back pay,” I had to mention again, “Then, yeah. We can work out a
deal.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It goes
without saying that this wasn't about the money. But that back pay for the
first grievance that was filed...for the concert I'd been skipped over on; that
was enough for me. That would be them admitting that they were wrong. That
they'd fucked up. And I would hang that check on a wall somewhere.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When we
went back in, Malcolm and I took our chairs again but Clara remained standing.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Um...Brendan.
Would it be alright with you if I could just speak to you privately outside for
just a moment?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Woodman in
his corner, despite the fact that this question wasn't even addressed to him,
rolled his eyes again and began to rub his temple. Maybe he had a Cake cover
band gig to get to. Fucking dork-ass loser. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After just
those two left the room, though, it did kind of leave the rest of us in an
uncomfortable (to say the least) position. But this is where the HR lady
finally came in handy. She <i>finally</i> found a fucking use for herself...and
it was just so fitting. The lady could small talk! And small talk with me, she
did. And since she hadn't really <i>said</i> anything thus far; she also hadn't
pissed me off. So, luckily, I did find it fairly easy to shoot the shit with
her about only the most mundane topics ever concocted. The weather. The news.
Upcoming events at the PCPA. And even food. And just this mindless chatter did
cut down on most of the tension that would have otherwise unraveled everyone's
minds as we sat there in silence. It was still awkward. Will was still sitting
there across from us with his shit-his-pants face on. And Woodman was still
slumped over there in his corner and rubbing his temple. Just not as awkward as
it could have been.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After what
couldn't have been more than just a <i>seemingly</i> long 5 minutes, Clara and
Brendan returned to the room whereupon she immediately called Malcolm and I to
stand back up again and join her outside...again. And when the door closed,
this time, she explained to us that Brendan (who'd remained in the boardroom)
was now 'testing the waters' of her proposition...mostly, I'm assuming, just to
see if it was even logistically feasible. And they stayed in there on the other
side of those closed doors for quite a while. So long, in fact, that the three
of us moved down the hallway just a bit to a little nook where there were a few
chairs set up around a coffee table. And, amongst ourselves, we talked easily
now without having to feign an air of enthusiasm while blankly staring off into
space. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Eventually,
Brendan popped his head back out the door again and requested that only Clara
return with him leaving just Malcolm and I to sit at that coffee table for the
time being. And again, all of this covert, behind the curtains shit couldn't
have possibly been any funnier to me. And more than anytime today thus far, I
felt that all I had to do was sit back and enjoy the show. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
buddy? What do ya think?” he asked me as I flipped through some copy of an
interior design magazine.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I think
that I was ready to leave anyway. Honestly. And it's been good experience and a
steady record of employment for my resume...assuming they grant this sort of
plea deal and remove the 'firing' from my record. Plus...I don't know. I think
I was starting to feel the stagnation really kicking in there. Night after
night of the same old routine, ya know? I think it was starting to get to me.
Counting those stupid, fucking cups and then having to sit there in line...for
an hour sometimes! While the one, fucking manager on duty sorts through
everybody's shit. It's insanity, man. But I think that now, with a little bit
of bartending under my belt, I'll be able to find something...I don't know. A
little more real?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. I
hear ya, buddy. I don't think I could handle that plastic cup shit either.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And this
was true. Malcolm worked in and <i>only</i> in (due to some weird rule that
Aramark alone had cooked up) the slightly fancier bars in the very same
buildings. And, in <i>his</i> bars, they actually used real glasses. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Just
promise me something, man,” I peeped up from my magazine, “Promise me that
you'll try to get this awful system changed...in the new contract, I mean. Ya
know...for the sake of the people still working there who <i>do</i> have to
deal with that stupid plastic cup shit every night. And maybe try to get some
security cameras in there as well. Because this is just awful.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know it
is, buddy. And I promise...I'll try.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Thank
you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When one of
the double doors to the boardroom opened up again, Clara slipped out and
quietly clicked it shut behind her. She then made her way down the hall to
where Malcolm and I were still seated and, from a standing position, proceeded
to give us the low-down. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
according to the HR lady, it would be tricky to get the status of your
termination changed in their computer system once it's already in there but
she's going to check out just what it would take to do so. I did also mentioned
the back pay again and they're going to get back to me on that also. So
basically, we're just going to have to wait. But the good news is, they did at
least seem acceptive of the <i>terms </i>of the bargain. So...don't worry too
much. I'll be in close contact with you, Mick. And they are obligated to get
back to me with an answer in a reasonable amount of time.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alright,”
there wasn't much left for me to say, “Well, I did leave my bag in there so...”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Right,”
she agreed, “The meeting <i>is</i> pretty much over at this point so all we
have to do is gather our things and leave.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Great.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And into
the boardroom we went one last time. I lifted my satchel from off the floor,
nodded my head a couple times in the general direction of our opposition, but
didn't actually say anything to anyone. And then we were out. The three of us.
Back in the elevator again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“And you
know what the most fucked up thing is?” I asked Malcolm.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What's
that?” he smiled widely fully expecting me to let off some steam.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Did you
know that last summer I actually cut my trip to India short for that fucker.
Woodman, I mean. No joke. I cut it a week short because he said he needed me back
there to work some shifts for him for a week-long opera. Which he didn't,
really. But <i>that's</i> what a good employee I was. I mean, <i>that's</i> how
dedicated I was to this joke of a company.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I'm sorry
to hear that, man. And I know that you're a <i>great</i> employee and that they
did really shoot themselves in the foot on many levels on this one.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. I
mean, it was hot over there anyway. And I was sick and everything. And probably
thankful to get back to the US. But it's like...”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The
elevator binged and we exited the building.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So, Mick?”
Clara asked me as the three of us walked down the street, “What do ya think?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I <i>knew
</i>that she meant; what I thought about the deal but...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,” and
I meant this in all seriousness, “I <i>think</i>...at least from what I've been
able to deduce anyway. I think that Brendan definitely has a little dick and
that's why he is the way he is. It's not his fault, though, ya know. It's
genetics.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And we all
had a pretty good laugh over this.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So...while
they may not have been the Teamsters and this Portland of ours was certainly no
Detroit; I did find myself glad to have this particular union of ours in place.
This whole fiasco was well worth the two dollars or whatever it was that they
took from my paycheck each week. And they <i>had</i> represented me...to the
very best of their ability. Because <i>I </i>was smiling. It was worth it just
to see those looks of remorse, of anger, and of chronic irritation on the four
faces across from us who <i>were</i> and who would never again be anything more
than the representatives of a faceless corporation.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was
worth it just to see the looks on <i>Aramark's</i> face.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
z.m.oliver@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01622907618080308162noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193359904027993582.post-80591344356795673032012-05-27T01:22:00.000-07:002012-05-28T19:33:54.030-07:00Mixed Reviews from The Orpheum<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
Diana was a
poet. I'll admit right off the bat, though, that I'm not perfectly sure what
actually <i>makes</i> a poet. But if all it takes is a will then Diana
definitely was one. She was driven to write words down on paper. And although
most of her compositions weren't really written in any style I preferred; some
of it was actually quite good. Then again, my opinion of her work was probably
a little biased.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She was a
cool chick when I met her and a cool chick when I left her and, somewhere in
between that time, we had a relationship...which was closer to when I met her.
And <i>when</i> I met her; D was working in a privately-owned record store.
More specifically, she co-owned a privately-owned record store with her
husband. One of the last great record stores this country ever saw as all this
happened just before (digital music i.e. MP3's), once and for all, replaced
CD's and vinyl and rendered record stores obsolete. And when I met her, I was a
huge fan of this record store and a loyal customer. Typically, I'd stop in
there every payday to buy a few discs but knew that I was truly addicted when I
found myself stopping in there at other times and spending money on music that
I knew should have been set aside for bills. The music was addicting and this
store seemed to be the perfect environment for harboring these addicts the same
way an opium den kept the lights down low and the rooms filled with mats and
pillows. But rather than low lighting and pillows, the record store (D's record
store) supplied their customers with the means to listen to any CD before they
bought it; a feature that more mainstream establishments couldn't offer due to
their sterner return policies. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And it was
on some really random day, before we even knew either of the other one's names,
that Diana and I got to talking...about music, of course. The girl, beyond
knowing her shit (which, let's face it, <i>was</i> sort of her job), also had
great taste. She had way better musical taste than myself. I just didn't know
it at the time or quite possibly just refused to believe this. But due to this
great knowledge of music and eclectic taste of hers; she was able to make some
great recommendations to me that I happily purchased and then took home and
happily listened to. The albums she recommended were so good, in fact, that
owning them and listening to them and finding this new resource in this person
who was Diana and who was also an incredibly beautiful, bleach blonde who often
wore horn-rimmed glasses (a personal fetish of mine) only increased the grip
that this addiction to music had over me. And that grip tightened and squeezed
me until, shortly after Diana made her first recommendations to me, I found
myself in that record store in the afternoons and evenings sometimes three or
four times a week!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was her
as much as it was the music though. And even if it didn't start out that way;
it definitely became the case...quickly. But she was married and so, to me, it
was nothing more than a flirty sales experience and a jack-off fantasy. And, to
her, I'm sure that I was nothing more than someone halfway intelligent to help
her pass the endless hours she was required to stand behind that counter. That
is, we realized that these little talks of ours were good for business and we
mutually respected this. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then one
day, perhaps a few weeks down the line, as I was leaving the record store one
night, she passed me a poem. At first, I didn't know what it was. Just a folded
up piece of paper that she'd handed me and told me not to look at until I was
back in my car. And I was intrigued. But I also became a little bewildered when
I did get back to my car and discovered that this piece of paper <i>wasn't</i>
actually a note but <i>was</i> actually a poem and one of such an abstract
variety that I couldn't make heads or tails from it. It was handwritten and
went as follows:</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b>At the table</b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I sit alone drinking black coffee</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And eat</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Roasted chicken, beets, onions, garlic, ginger, carrots,
mushrooms,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And artichoke...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
hearts </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Naked,</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Sitting on a yellow vinyl seat</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Pulling the fat from the meat</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
At 8:30 pm discreetly</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Wondering if you know</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
How well you have trained me</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Well,
whatever. The girl felt like expressing herself...to me. And I thought it was
pretty cool she felt comfortable enough to do so. There was nothing about the
poem that was particularly worth reading into. If it <i>was</i> supposed to be
charged with some degree of intimacy and somehow dedicated <i>to</i> me then
something about me also didn't want to see it in that light. I felt it would
cheapen it somehow. So the only question that seemed to remain was; now what?
Certainly, I'd be expected to say something about it the next time I saw her.
To not say anything would be rude. But to just be like, “Oh, hey. Nice poem,”
without anything else to back it up...well, that might be taken as rude too.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I wrote
her a poem back. That's it. That's the solution I came up with. And it wasn't a
love poem or anything. It was about as abstract as her own, in fact. Probably
even more so. For some unexplainable reason though, despite the urge to buy new
music practically strangling me, I didn't return to the record store for over a
week. Was it out of embarrassment? And, if so, which one of us was I
embarrassed for? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Oddly
enough, when I finally did return to the store, she wasn't even there.
Sometimes she just wasn't and it wasn't a big deal. It's not like I had the
days and hours that she worked memorized or anything. But perversely, her
absence caused me to feel like I was missing something from this particular
record buying experience; something that <i>just</i> new music couldn't quite
replace. I thought about asking Duncan, one of their only two paid employees,
when she was scheduled to work next but just couldn't bring myself to do it. I
wasn't a stalker after all. Not that I thought she'd take me for one even if
word <i>did</i> get back to her. But I still had my...pride? Dignity?</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I went back
two days later during the daytime and she was working but helping another
customer with something; the only other customer, luckily, in the store just
then. We quickly made eye contact and smiled at one another but didn't say
anything just yet. And I found myself absolutely anxious to talk to her and
wished for nothing more than for that other customer to leave...now! Even
though I knew beyond the shadow of a doubt that she'd be with me in no more
than just another minute. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How's it
goin'?” she made her way over and smiled again when that other customer finally
did leave.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And now, I
wanted to barricade the door before anyone else could come in here!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What the
fuck had happened to me so suddenly?! I honestly couldn't figure it out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“It's goin'
alright.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
One week
later, we smoked a joint behind the store together.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Two weeks
later, we were meeting regularly when she got off work.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i>Three</i>
weeks later, we were making out with ever-increasing friskiness. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And just
over one month after I passed her that poem, she moved in with me.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Fate had
obviously taken a strange and surprising twist. But fuck it. We were in love.
The girl had moved in with me and had lived with me for a couple of months
already and almost never a night went by without one of us passing the other a
love poem. It was a pastime for us. As was; drawing, reading, writing, cooking,
wine drinking, pot smoking, fucking, and, of course, listening to music. The
poems, however, she took more seriously than any of these other activities.
Well...maybe with the exception of the fucking. But she was always writing. All
day and all night. The very <i>amount</i> of what she produced in a single day
was staggering. And I'd go so far as to say that it impressed me. The quality
of the work, though, I probably grew to be overcritical of as, night after
night, the very amount of <i>time</i> dedicated to the readings of these poems
was practically as staggering as the volume itself. And sometimes...I really just
wanted some peace and quiet. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then one
day, perhaps about three months into us living together, Diana came home one
night all excited with some important news.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I'm
opening for Jerry Stahl and Lydia Lunch next Saturday night.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Her face
was straight and her demeanor; composed. But the intensity with which she said
these words was amplified and she gazed straight at me with those deep, blue
eyes. Her pupils; little, black pins. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Who's
Lydia Lunch?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I wasn't
trying to put her out by asking this question and, thankfully, she didn't take
it that way either. She knew I didn't know people.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Um...she's
like... You ever hear of that band 'Teenage Jesus and the Jerks'?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Mm, no.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, she
was in that but now she's like doing all this spoken word stuff.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Cool. And
who was the other guy?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“He's the
guy who wrote 'Permanent Midnight'.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh. I
mean, I've only seen the movie but very nice. How'd you arrange that, may I
ask?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“I know a
lot of club promoters and stuff through working at the record store.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Sweet.
Well, I'm proud of you. Where's it gonna be?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“The
Orpheum. In Ybor City.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh, wow.
Look at you,” and I smiled.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You're
gonna be there, right? I seriously don't think I could do it without you.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Of course,
I will be.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Good for
her. Good for her going out of her way and going out on a limb to make stuff
happen. It's the only way to make stuff happen, really. But...what did I think
about her going up on stage in front of a bunch of people and reciting her
stuff? Well, I had mixed feelings about that. On the one hand, I really <i>was</i>
proud of her. But, on the other, I guess that maybe I just doubted the... Well,
not so much the <i>quality</i> of her work but let's just say; the intrigue,
the appeal, the ability to amuse and entertain people who would no doubt be
paying a certain amount of their own money for a ticket to this thing. How
would they react to her particular brand of poetry? Would they laugh? But maybe
they were supposed to laugh. Perhaps Diana didn't actually take herself as
seriously as <i>I</i> thought she did. But would they 'boo'. Could people
really be so dickish? Of course, they could. And I guess I just worried that
they'd hurt her feelings somehow. Her very soul up there under the lights; so
naked and vulnerable.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When the
night of the show arrived, D and I got together with our mutual friend, Tina,
and together we all rode down there in
Tina's car. It must have been like a Thursday or something meaning; it was busy
but without the complete pandemonium of an all-out Friday or Saturday night.
Which was nice. It made parking less of a hassle than it would have been and,
once inside the Orpheum itself, getting a drink wasn't going to be such the
chore that it could have been either. At least, so I thought. The place <i>was</i>
pretty crowded though. Surprisingly crowded for a spoken word event on a
Thursday night. There was a short line outside even and a guy with a cashbox
standing at the door.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hi, Tony!”
Diana breezed her way by everyone there waiting with Tina and I in tow.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey,
sweetie. Good to see ya tonight,” Tony was a short, middle aged guy with greasy
grey hair and a vaguely Greek appearance. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thanks so
much for getting me in. You have no idea how much this means to me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Anytime,
doll. Anything for you.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Tony wasn't
hitting my girl with these terms of endearment though. Neither was he being
pervy or creepy and I definitely would have picked up on it if he was. Rather,
it seemed as if he talked to every female this way...every female he'd ever
come into contact with. It was natural for him. Women were not to be taken
seriously and Diana was no exception.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Is it
alright if my friends just come in, Tony?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And to
this, he just sort of rolled his eyes and motioned for us all to pass.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Thanks
Tony, ya creep. The way I see it, you just bought me my first beer. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey! How's
it going?!” we were almost immediately greeted by Duncan and Sharon who both
worked at the record store part-time. They'd obviously come down to show D
their support. And, since we still had about an hour to kill before Diana was
supposed to go on, the five of us sucked down a few bottled beers in a dark
corner while watching the people stream inside and make straight for the bar
themselves. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Orpheum
was a fairly big place that offered a stage at one end that was only a foot
higher than the audience and large enough for a rock band to play on although
crowded and uncomfortably. Running abut the stage was an expansive dance floor
that I'd once seen completely covered while a DJ was spinning on a Saturday
night. Then, after a small step up, there was a circular bar with plenty of
space to move around in and plenty of tables set up in this section as well.
And it was in this section, in one of the corners, that we now stood. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And I was
nervous. I was nervous <i>for</i> her and I wondered if any of the others were
feeling the same way. They all seemed to be acting perfectly normal, though,
while I felt myself sweating and just knew that I looked clammy and suddenly
felt an incredible urge to shit. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Somewhere
into our third beer and right around the time Diana was scheduled to perform
(if perform is the right word to use when someone is doing spoken word), Tony
found her and pulled her away for a second where they talked privately a few
feet away. Whatever he had to say, however, didn't take more than half a minute
and when Diana came back to the group, she was neither smiling nor frowning.
She never smiled nor frowned, though, and her eyes never conveyed any emotion
either. In fact, the only indications that Diana had any different moods at
all...any ups or downs; were the varying degrees of intensity in her deep and
sultry voice.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Almost
time?” I asked her sort of digging for whatever information Tony had conveyed
without trying to sound too nosey. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Almost,”
she replied in a seductive tone that seemed sort of out of place, “But there's
somebody else now. Somebody's actually going to be opening for <i>me</i>.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh yeah?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yeah. Ya
see that black guy over there with the dreadlocks?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Yes.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well, I'm
pretty sure that's him. Tony said he drove all the way over here from Orlando
on a moment's notice so...I don't know. I guess we'll see if he's any good or
not.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Right.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, not
more than five minutes later, a sort of MC type character walked out onto the
stage and grabbed the lone microphone from its stand and inadvertently caused
it to create that hollow, echoing sound that was followed by high-pitched
feedback. Then...“Ladies and gentlemen. Boys and girls. Please. Don't be shy.
Come on down here and gather 'round. We have a great show lined up for you
tonight. Jerry Stahl <i>and</i> Lydia Lunch are here. So thanks for comin' out.
But we're gonna get things started right now with a guy who just drove over
here from Orlando. And I mean <i>just</i>,” the MC looked over at the
dreaklocked guy now standing in the first row, “Isn't that true, Patrick?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To which
the black guy replied but, being still so far from the microphone, all mostly
anybody could see were his lips moving. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Five
minutes?” the MC was still addressing him. “He just parked his car five minutes
ago everyone. So give it up, please. How about a big round of applause for the
outstanding playwright and poet Mr. Patrick...Scott...Barnes!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The entire
place was pretty much dark aside from the single, white spotlight over the mike
and I'd say the building was at about half capacity. The entire dance floor;
now filled with standing bodies all facing the stage. Our little group,
however, unanimously and subconsciously had chosen to stay at one of the
high-top tables up by the bar. And, since our section of the room was indeed
that one step higher than the sunken dance floor itself, we could probably see
the stage better than anyone else in the crowd down there trying to get all up
close and personal.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Patrick,
the black guy, thanked the MC with a quick handshake. He then stepped up onto
the stage and, rather than instantly grabbing the mike like the racist in me
expected him to do, Patrick left it right in the stand and opened up a thin,
paperbound book. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Good
evening,” he spoke to the crowd in a loud, clear voice as the spotlight shone
down and something glowed purple behind him, “My name is Patrick Scott Barnes
and I'm a native Floridian. This poem is called 'A Native Floridian
Remembers'.” He cleared his throat and then commenced, “Love bugs messin' up
windows. Too much damn rain. Humid summer days. Forest fires smokin' up
everything when it don't rain. Family picnics at Wekiwa Springs. 85 degree
Christmas weather. White folks catchin' skin cancer tryin' to get a tan like
mine. Corrupt votin' elections. Dumb asses votin' Jeb Bush twice for governor.
Too many mosquitoes. Too many folks talkin' about how they did it up North and
too many damned Confederate Flag wavin' rednecks. This is the Florida I always
remember. Wages ain't shit. Generations and generations of one black
neighborhood not getting along with another black neighborhood. Folks still
complainin' about Shaq. Riots in Miami. Boomin' car systems bumpin' bass.
Resident discounts at theme parks. Food costin' too damned much at theme parks.
Football practicin' in 90 degree weather. Hurricanes. Tropical storms.
Tornadoes. Hail. (Thought my grandma was cussin' when she said that word.)
Lightenin'. This is the Florida I always remember. Alligators. Black snakes.
Pelicans. Black snakes. Seagulls. Black snakes. Sharks. Black snakes. Manatees.
Black snakes. Racist Republicans. Black snakes. Punk ass Democrats. Black
snakes. Too many black snakes. Kill one of these so-called endangered species
and yo' ass go to jail. Beautiful beaches. Picturesque parks. Orange trees.
Palm trees. Sink holes. Floods. Oak trees fallin' on people houses when it
rains. Black snakes. This is the Florida I always remember. Ain't no place like
home.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And the way
he read it was really funny; with the attitude and accent of an angry black
guy. I knew there was something there though. Something deep. This act of
Patrick's wasn't a comedy routine. Shit. It wasn't even an act. And for maybe
the first time ever, I began to realize the true magic (not to mention just the
<i>meaning</i>) behind a spoken word event such as this. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Patrick
went on to read several more before someone must have signaled that his time
was up. And they were great. Every poem was both funny and compelling and,
probably most important to somebody up on stage, really entertaining! So
obviously, I was sorry to see him step down since I'm pretty sure that he could
have been a one-man act and kept us captivated all night. But I was <i>afraid</i>
to see him step down because I knew that she was going on next. My heart was
pounding.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
All I could
think about was a poem she'd been reading to me lately that included a line
like, “Throw down your false religion!” And I hated it. I told her that it
sounded ignorant and insecure. So what if some people's religions are stupid?
Who the hell was she to say her way was any better? In fact, the very line
reminded me of the omnipotent, Old Testament God that was jealous enough to
tell the Israelites, “You shall have no other gods before me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Please
don't read that one, Diana. And please, don't read the other ones that are all
about your vagina either. The rest are okay but please, just none of those. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“How 'bout
it?” the MC guy asked the crowd just after taking the stage once more, “Patrick
Scott Barnes, everyone. Give it up. Thank you, Patrick. And next up, we have a
girl. She's a local girl but I'm not gonna lie. Other than that, I really don't
know anything about her. Please, another nice round of applause for Ms. Diana
Ferguson!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thank
you,” she whispered in my ear just then, “This never could have happened
without you.” And I wondered, for only a second, whether or not those whispered
words had been a spontaneous gesture. But no. Of course, they hadn't. Surely,
she'd planned this all out.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
She kissed
me then and held my hand as she moved slowly away until our arms were
outstretched...and only then did she let go. She wasn't scared though. That
much, I was also sure of. It was all a dramatic play and it was all
premeditated. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Thank
you,” she spoke into the microphone as the generous amount of applause died
down, “My name is Diana Ferguson.” Her deep, sexy voice echoed through the
room. The spotlight shone down and blue on her pale, moon-shaped face.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I
recognized her first poem the instant she began to read it. I knew the verses
and just hoped that people would take her as nothing more than some sort of
feminist. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“My pussy
wants to meow,” the walls resonated with these words and, pausing theatrically,
she even gave them time to sink in, “Mmm. My pussy wants to come.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
According
to D, I was the first guy to ever give her an orgasm so... Who knows. Perhaps I
was actually the inspiration behind these lines. Sweet Jesus, so I only had
myself somehow to blame. And she was looking at me! Or at least in my
direction. Probably, I should have felt something like gratified although
that's not exactly the emotion that I
kept coming up with. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Yet, at the
end of each poem, people applauded politely...nervously. She did well, though,
and I guess I <i>was</i> proud of her in the sense that the girl had balls for
getting up there and expressing herself. For turning part of her dream into a
reality. I certainly couldn't have done it; anxious as stage fright always made
me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Alright,”
the MC guy stepped back on stage once again when she'd finished. Before he said
anything else, though, he gave her a strange look. Then...“Diana Ferguson,
everyone. Give it up one more time,” to which the audience did graciously. And
then something weird happened...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Jerry Stahl
(who was due up next) stepped up on stage before he was even introduced and
gave Diana a weird look too. At first it appeared to be a gaze full of
bewilderment but it quickly turned into a loaded look that seemed to say, “Get
the fuck off my stage, bitch.” To which she was, of course, oblivious. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It was
Jerry who was out of line though. In fact, before the MC guy could even say his
name, he'd taken the microphone out of its little holder on the stand and began
to speak. “Hi. I'm Jerry Stahl,” apparently he was going to introduce himself,
“I've got a new book out called 'Perv'. It's a love story.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I hated
this guy already with his black, leather jacket and premature grey. He was a
hack. That's what I thought of him. One of those little no-talents who,
somewhere along the way, just happened to get lucky. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By this
time, thankfully...less I thought some sort of scene should ensue, Diana had
floated down from the stage. And just from the way that she seemed to hover all
the way across the dance floor and back over to our table, I knew that she was
presently in a state of ecstasy that would probably last the rest of the night.
Good for her. She deserved to be. Just like Jerry Stahl deserved to get his
fucking ass kicked. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Alright,”
his amplified voice reverberated through the room while he held the mike like a
weapon, “Now, how many people out there have ever smoked crack?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What?
Seriously? Who the fuck <i>was</i> this guy and what was his fucking problem?
Crack? Even if anyone in this audience of uppity, spoken word afficionados <i>had</i>
ever smoked crack, nobody in their right mind was about to admit it in front of
all these other people. Nobody except me. Not that I'd ever actually smoked it
myself...but <i>somebody</i> needed to do something. The very question seemed
to have caught the audience off guard as a whole and had rendered them silent
and uncomfortable. So I hooted.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Whoo!
Yeah!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Oh yeah,
that's real funny, man,” Jerry burst out at me sarcastically. Then, as if
addressing everyone else in the whole place <i>besides</i> me, “Everything's a
joke to some people, ya know? Well, let me tell you something, funny guy.
There's nothing funny about crack cocaine, okay?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
And then
Jerry Stahl, holding the mike in one hand and his own book in the other,
proceeded to read a funny story about it. An excerpt from his book that just
happened to be a comical anecdote about smoking crack. So go figure. But what a
fucking douche. And I hoped just then, more than anything, that he'd just be
hanging around the bar later so I could approach him and make yet another
comical, crack comment. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On top of
all this, his story was boring and hard to follow. So, just to be a dick, I
went back to the bar and ordered another beer. Technically, I suppose, this
wasn't against the rules or anything. But, since the general mood of the crowd
tonight was considerate and therefore silent, I <i>was</i> the only person up
there ordering a drink during an act thus far and I knew that something about
seeing me do it pissed Jerry Stahl off <i>real</i> bad...and that made me
happy. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then, after
what seemed like an hour at least, when his reading was finally over, the MC
came back out to introduce Lydia
Lunch...and <i>she</i> wasn't much better. That is, her attitude wasn't. She
spoke to the crowd as if from a very high horse which, in all actuality, was
indeed nothing more than a very low stage and her poetry, as I took it, was
nothing more than a bunch of penis envying, feminist bull crap that, in itself,
reminded me then of a story Diana told me once about a Tori Amos show she'd
gone to and dragged her ex-husband along. Apparently, she was performing in an
intimate venue not unlike the one we were presently standing in and, right
around the time that Tori took a break from playing to let the audience know
that the females were indeed the stronger of the two sexes, Diana's ex stood up
from their table almost directly in front of the stage, flipped Tori the double
bird, and held both those middle fingers up and in position as he casually left
the room and left Diana still sitting there. And for some reason, I revered him
for this. Mostly because it's exactly what I wanted to stand up and do to Lydia
Lunch at the moment. And it's not that I didn't have the balls. I just couldn't
leave Diana sitting there on her special night. Even if she was surrounded by
other friends, I felt it would discredit her somehow. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, rather
than just sitting there myself and enduring Lydia's reproachful tone, I did
take notice of something I <i>could</i> do. Something other than standing up
and rudely and ordering another beer. Been there. Done that. And I wasn't about
to label myself a one-trick pony. No sir. But I <i>had</i> noticed Patrick
Scott Barns sitting by himself. After his bit, he'd come up to the section of
room where our own group had congregated and there he was just a couple tables
away. He was nursing a beer and looking about as bored as I was. He looked like
he was only sticking around because etiquette told him to do so. So fuck it...</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Not that I
wanted to embarrass Patrick or anything or make him look bad in any way
but...if he had nothing to do with it. I'd just look like some crazed fan who'd
come over to pay him an untimely compliment...which I sort of was. So I just
went for it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Hey, man,”
I crept across the two tables and over to Patrick where I spoke in a low but
audible voice so that he could hear me over Lydia's blabbering. It's not like I
could whisper in his ear exactly without making the both of us feel perfectly
uncomfortable. “Hey. I just wanted to say thanks for the great reading and I
wanted you to know that I thought yours was the most compelling performance of
the night.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To which he
nodded his head at me in appreciation and put out his hand for me to
shake...which I did. Patrick didn't want to be bad-mannered though. And he
certainly didn't want to ignite the scathing gaze which Lydia, up on stage, was
beaming over at us. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
So I'd
officially managed to piss off Lydia <i>and</i> pass Patrick a compliment at
the very same time. Damn, I'm good. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I left him
alone after that and went back to sit by Diana. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When
Lydia's act was over, the whole place seemed to sort of sigh and relax a bit.
The tension had been released and nobody felt, any longer, like they might be
called out publicly over the PA for not standing at attention to absorb every
single last word she spoke up there. People were now free to get beers whenever
they pleased and interact with one another verbally. And I thought, just then,
how ironic it was that, at rock concerts, it could be irksome to try to convey
a short message to the person standing next to you because the music was so
loud. But this...this had been even worse.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Well,”
Diana leaned herself into me lovingly. And, before even suffering through any
of my reviews on any of the acts this night, she said, “Looks like Patrick and
I sort of killed it.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“You did,”
I replied, “You really did. You guys really were so much more...<i>interesting</i>
than those other two. And I think everyone else thought so too. So
congratulations, honey. You really impressed me.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Unfortunately,
Jerry Stahl never came back out for a drink...and neither did Lydia. They were
too good for us, obviously. Their absence did cause me to wonder briefly,
though, just how a pair like that was actually touring. And I don't mean like; <i>how</i>
exactly they were selling enough tickets to tour. They were both published
authors and I guess their names did get around. They were probably hitting only
the most populous areas in the country and I never doubted for one second that
either of them had their die-hard fans out there. But more like; I wondered
just what sort of hotels they were staying in. Were they nice? And how far were
they from here? And I wondered how they were getting from place to place.
Because, there's no <i>way</i> they were taking a plane. And it's not like
their acts required any equipment that would necessitate a big truck. So were
they just minivan-ing it? And, if so, then I guess I gained a decent amount of
respect for them too. Because they were living the dream. They were working
artists. And they were making it happen no matter what it took. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Later on,
once everyone in the house had had more than a few beers in them and the place
had turned back into mostly just a bar again, Patrick came over to me with the
very thin paperback he'd been reading from on stage. And, just based on his
body language, I could discern that he wasn't looking to schmooze or small
talk. Rather, he merely asked me my name and wrote a personalized autograph on
the inside cover. Then he handed it over to me, patted me firmly a couple times
on the shoulder, and left the building. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>z.m.oliver@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01622907618080308162noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193359904027993582.post-23344974787289257132012-04-10T22:05:00.001-07:002012-08-19T16:36:16.749-07:00Drama Major<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Quieres
hacer algo conmigo algun vez?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My heart was
beating hard because hardly ever was I so bold. I felt like I might collapse.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">had</i> smiled at me though…many, many times
and over the course of many, many months. And although it wasn’t a seductive
smile, it was a smile that always seemed to convey<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>that she was into me but was almost
embarrassed by the degree of this attraction. It was a shy smile but one that
she never failed to cast my way just the same. It was a smile with red
lipstick.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Red
lipstick. Dresses. Skirts and heels. Eye shadow and mascara. And the walk
whereupon her ass would switch so far from side to side; it seemed to defy the
very laws of gravity itself. Dark hair. Dark eyes. And a tiny, little frame but
still with plenty of shape. Just who the fuck was this goddess who ate here
everyday but still always seemed to be alone?</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Well…I guess
I sort of knew who she <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">was</i>. Or at
least who <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">other</i> people said she was.
But I rarely paid attention to what other people said…especially around this
place. And I guess that’s why I asked her…in Spanish. I thought the use of her
native tongue might draw her attention in a positive way and work to my
success. And it did! Although, she also appeared to be quite surprised that I’d
finally grown the balls to talk to her and that I’d approached her here right
by one of the soda fountains.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ahh!” she
smiled shyly just like every other time and, in one of the thickest and sexiest
accents I’d ever heard, she replied, “I did not know that you could speak
Spanish.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I can.
Although, believe it or not, I can read it better than I can speak it.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then she
chuckled, “You know…that is very rare.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It is. It’s
because I read in Spanish all the time but I don’t practice speaking it
because... Well, because I have no one to practice with.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ahh,” and
she nodded with understanding. But then…</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Suddenly,
she looked around as if someone were looking for her. Someone by whom she did
not want to be seen.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Umm…” she
blurted, “Follow me. Only right over here.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And so,
without asking any questions, I did walk directly behind her, through a
threshold, and into an open dining area with high ceilings and plenty of tables
and booths. Just about all of the hundreds of college students who ate lunch
here daily had cleared out as it was now 2:30 in the afternoon and the full
lunch service had ended half an hour ago. I believe that soup and sandwiches
were still available but I didn’t know for sure…and neither did I care.
Because, as of five minutes ago, I was off the clock and, since I’d just washed
every mother fucking plate, cup, and bowl those hundreds of kids had used at
this all-you-can-eat cafeteria…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">and</i>
all the cookware used to make the slop; I was in no mood to stick around any
longer than I had to. But then I saw her standing there alone right by the soda
fountain. The girl who always smiled at me no matter the distance. And I knew
that the gods had sent me this one chance. This perfect, opportune moment. And,
if I neglected to take it, they <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">would</i>
become angry.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Upon
reaching a booth, she turned around to face me again but remained standing.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Everything
alright?” I asked even though I knew it was; I had a pretty good idea of why
she didn’t want to talk back there in the buffet area.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was now
early spring…really early by Portland standards. But, back when the school year
first began, I’d heard through the channels back in the kitchen that this girl
had actually dated, for a only a brief period, another one of the guys who
worked here...and from what I’d heard, the relationship not only didn’t work
out but that the guy accused this flower of my admiration of stalking him and
continuing to stalk him even after they’d broken up. I’d also heard that this
girl had almost been kicked out of the dorm attached to this very cafeteria
because of it and almost out of school altogether. That’s what I’d heard. But
again…gossip was gossip. It’s not so much that didn’t believe it though…it’s
that I didn’t care. Her ex-boyfriend (or whatever she considered him) still
worked here therefore the point of view from which this gossip spread was his
and his own. And obviously, it was biased and slanted in such a way that he
came out of the breakup looking perfect and innocent because…because, that’s
just the way it always happens. Everybody is always trying to save a little
face…especially around the workplace.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">You</i> would like to do something with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">me</i>?” her accent was so thick, in fact,
that I couldn’t pick up what her tone was supposed to communicate (if anything)
through this last question. I couldn’t read <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">into</i>
her speech and, who knows, maybe that would turn out to be a good thing in the
future…if there was going to be a future between us. First thing’s first
though. Just act smooth.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>However,
acting smooth was easier said than done…nervous as I was. Plus…I was still in
my work uniform; a blue polo with black cargo pants. And I was stinky and
sweaty from having done a breakfast and lunch’s worth of dishes all day and <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">might</i> have even been covered in little
bits of food.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. You
know like…something outside of here maybe. Like maybe go to dinner or
something. Or even just get something to drink.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ahh,” and
although it did seem, for a second, like she was about to say something else;
it turned out that nothing more from her was spoken due to the smirk on her
face that turned into a chuckle that quickly turned into an all out laugh! It
turned into <i>such</i> a laugh, in fact, that she felt the need to turn
herself away from me for a moment and briefly cover her face with one hand.
And, given my appearance and (likely) odor, I guess I really wasn't that <i>surprised</i>
that she'd laugh at me...and that's why it took me a minute to fully realize
that she wasn't (laughing <i>at</i> me, that is). Rather, I noticed then that
she was blushing...even through her dark complexion! She was wickedly
embarrassed! I'd embarrassed the poor girl! And now, behind the hand that she
was still using to shield her face; she was dying of shyness.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sorry,” I
spoke softly, “I didn't mean to...put you on the spot.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You know,”
she turned back towards me and straightened out in such a flash it was
alarming, “<i>You</i>...have a lot of nerve.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oh. So maybe
she<i> had</i> been laughing at me after all.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh. Well,
look I'm...I'm really sorry. I mean...I didn't mean to bother you. I hope I
didn't make you feel weird or anything. I'm just gonna...get outta here now
then.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Aye, cabrón.
You misunderstand me.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh. So you <i>do</i>
maybe wanna go out with me sometime?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No...”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay,
well...”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Aye! Let me
finish, you <i>crazy </i>cabrón. Umm...I only meant that...you have a lot of
nerve.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Right. I
heard that part.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes! But
this, I like. I think it is very rare, no?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh. I'd have
a hard time believing that no one has ever been so bold with you. That is...I'd
be surprised.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Yes! The ice
had finally broken and now we were having some actual dialogue. And thankfully,
for the next five minutes or so, this conversation became only more normal as
it went along. I learned her name and I loved it. Isabel. And even during this
this brief introduction, I learned that she'd grown up in Eastern Oregon and
that her parents were migrant farm workers. And through our whole exchange, I
just couldn't help but think about how much less crazy this girl was than
they'd made her seem back in the kitchen. They said she was psycho and the guys
claimed that she would stare at them with venom in her eyes. But her eyes were
gorgeous and sparkly! They also said that, whenever anyone tried to talk to her
or ask her a question, Isabel would just cackle to herself before curtly
walking away. But here she was carrying on a conversation just fine. So go
figure. <i>They</i> were the ones who were crazy. And <i>they</i> were the ones
who'd believe just about anything they'd hear through the grapevine no matter
how distorted the information or polluted its source.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was really
enjoying our talk now and relishing in the fact that this beauty and I were
getting to know each other a little and making each other laugh. And it
probably would have gone on like this if someone behind me didn't, “Psst,” in
an attempt to gain my attention...which he did. It was one of the managers. One
I particularly didn't like.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,” I
said craning my neck around to face him.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mick.
Um...can I speak to you for just a second?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,
sure.” And I excused myself momentarily. Then, after taking ten steps back
towards the serving area, I tried to anticipate what this douche bag was about
to tell me. I imagined it would be something like, “Mick. Since you're off the
clock right now, you should probably just go home. We don't encourage workers
picking up on the students here.” That sort of thing. And if only it could've
been something along those lines. But it wasn't. And, once we were only a few
feet from each other and he had backed out of Isabel's view completely, he
said, “Mick. You know that she's crazy, right?” And he added a smirk here
although I don't know what for. Then he <i>even</i> went to the extent of
putting a finger to his own head and twirling it in order to drive his point
home. But the whole act to me just seemed unnecessary, rude, and a blatant
misuse of his own minute bit of power to butt in and somehow make himself be
seen and heard. The warning was nothing more than an example of just how small
people can be.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So I've
heard,” was my response, “I'll keep it short.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Cool, man.
I'm just watchin' out for ya. Just be careful.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I will.
Thanks.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>He turned
around then and made his way back towards the kitchen.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well? What
did he have to say?” Isabel asked me curiously. She already knew though.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh,
nothing,” I lied, “He was just trying to get me to work on the weekend and I
was like, 'Fuck that.' But hey. Is it cool if I get your number then and just
call you sometime. Anytime. I mean...anytime you'd like to go out. I work at
night sometimes too but...I'm sure there's an afternoon or evening I'll have
free in the near future.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Um...I
think instead, why don't you give me your number.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ok. I can
do that. You have your phone on you. I can just read it off to you.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Um. I think
it would be better if you wrote it.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ok. I can
do that too.” And luckily, I did have a pen in my pocket. So I just wrote down
my digits on a napkin I'd pulled from one of the dispensers on the table.
“Alright. Well...” I was about to close things up, “I hope to hear from ya. It
was great talking to you. And, like I said, whenever you want. Just gimmie a
ring or a text or something.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I will.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay. Well,
um...alright, bye.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Bye.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I walked
away; a bit awkwardly but smiling nonetheless.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Tired as I
was, and having to work a concert at the Performing Arts Center later that
evening, I really did want to get out of there in order to try and squeeze in a
midafternoon nap at my place. Before even making it the couple blocks to the
light-rail though, I felt the quick, little buzz go off in my right hip pocket
that indicated I'd received a text. It could have been from anyone but... But
it was from her! She'd fucking texted me already! It read something to the
affect of; she enjoyed our talk and that she was free this weekend. And all the
way home and for the next couple of days until that weekend finally did roll
around; I found myself floating on the wisps of a most blissful cloud. Even
back there in that stinking, infernal dish pit.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Over the
phone, I'd given her specific directions. And they weren't that hard. For her,
it would be a straight shot and I'd gone so far as to tell her that I'd meet
her at the stop. Which I did.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just a few
days after speaking to Isabel originally, we agreed to have dinner in my
neighborhood. What can I say? I lived in Chinatown and I just really like
Chinese food. Seriously, I never seemed to tire of it. And, since I knew a place
with low lighting and great specials, it was here that I mentioned first...and
she sounded into it.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So, two
blocks from my place, I stood on the sidewalk at the MAX stop and eagerly
awaited whichever green or yellow line train she may have happened to hop on.
And, just as the third one (since I'd been there) stopped and let its
passengers off, I saw her. She was unmistakable. She was short but carried
herself with an attitude that would let no one miss her. And her clothes. The
girl was stylish. Another pair of stilettos (I don't think I'd ever seen her
without them) and white stockings that led up and into a fancy, wool overcoat
that concealed the rest. Also...she wore a wool beret over her hair and her
eyelashes seemed to have an attraction all their own.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She spotted
me without much effort and I asked her one more time, for formality's sake,
whether or not Chinese food sounded fine.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, Mick.
I like it.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And then we
were off.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You don't
have to walk slow for me,” she said after walking a couple of blocks, “I <i>can</i>
run in heels, you know.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Does that
come in handy?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh, yes.
Sometimes, I suppose. Like when I have to catch the train. I can run in them in
the rain even. It's very rare.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In another
couple of blocks, we reached the restaurant almost directly across the street
from my building. The Republic. I knew the food was decent and, almost as
importantly, the atmosphere was dim and relaxing. It was perfect for a first
date and, once we were seated across from one another and I had a chance to really
study her lovely face, I realized that hers was a truly classical beauty and
that I was one lucky son of a bitch.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So...” she
perused the menu, “What is good here?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Um. Well...
Are you a vegetarian or anything?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Aye, cabrón.
Why do you ask me this?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don't
know. I guess just because so many people in this town <i>are</i> vegetarians.
And, of them, I say the whopping majority are women.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And here,
for a few elongated seconds, she just smiled at me without restraint.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, man,”
she answered at last, “Do you like pork?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I love the
pig,” I replied, “It's a magical animal.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And to this,
she returned a queer look. So maybe the joke didn't translate over to Spanish.
Because, just as we'd done during our first conversation back at the cafeteria,
Isabel and I would speak in both languages and they seemed to vary sporadically
from sentence to sentence.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“The pig is
a sorcerer?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh. I
meant...” and here I used the other word that I knew.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And now she
laughed...loudly. She threw her head back and even tapped the table lightly
with her fist. “Aye, you crazy cabrón. But how do you know this <i>other</i>
word? It's very rare.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It think
it's because, kinda like I was telling you the other day, I <i>read</i> in
Spanish all the time but I never get a chance to actually speak it with
anybody...”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Aye. Then
how do you ever expect to learn?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I'm learning.
Slowly. I mean...I feel like I can read it just fine. That is...I can read
books and comprehend probably about 90% of them. But I look words up a lot. You
know...weird adjectives and stuff.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Aye, cabrón.
But this is no way to learn. Language is a living thing, Mick. It is made to be
spoken!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well. Yeah.
I get that...”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Can I get
you two something to drink?” the girl interrupted though not in a rude way.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Get
anything you want, Isabel,” I told her as she looked up at me, “I mean...feel
free to get like a drink-drink or a glass of wine or something if you feel like
it.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Aye, cabrón.
No, thank you. But I think...I will have a Pepsi, please.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“One Pepsi.
Got it. And for you?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A Tsingtao,
please.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sure. Can I
just see your ID real fast?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah. No
prob,” and I went reaching for my wallet. I was 31 years old but did look young
for my age so...I was never too upset when somebody asked to see mine.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Not a big
wine drinker?” I teased her after the waitress left.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, man.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah, I go
through phases with it. Like in the wintertime, I drink a lot of wine but, now
that I'm <i>trying</i> to pretend that summer's just around the corner, I think
I've switched back to beer for the rest of the year...or at least until fall.
What do you <i>normally</i> drink though? Just curious.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well...”
and here she turned her head as if embarrassed just as she'd done back in the
cafeteria. She even shielded her eyes again.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What? You
don't drink? 'Cause that's okay. In fact, I don't want you to think that I
drink <i>every</i> night. Just <i>about</i> every night. But I don't want you
to worry about it or anything. I mean, it doesn't have to become an issue. I
mean, I don't have to drink around you at all if you prefer it.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, man. I
have tried <i>two</i> kinds of tequila.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh yeah?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, man.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ever?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, I
think that I tried wine a long time ago but I didn't like.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oh, sweet
Jesus.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Wait a
second!” I whispered while leaning in much closer, “You're not like 19 or
something, are you?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And again,
she just grinned at me and cracked up to herself as if this were the funniest
thing in the world, “Well...I'm going to be!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Oh, merciful
God.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>In only an
instant, my chest grew tight and the air became musty in here and too thick to
breathe. We hadn't done anything yet, though, which meant that nothing illegal
had happened.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You're
18?!” I whispered again but with such force that just these two words almost
left me out of wind.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, man.
But... <i>Well</i>...” and here she smiled to herself again...such a radiant
smile that, even in light of this recent discovery, I couldn't feel anything
but lured, “How old did you <i>think</i> I<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>was?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Jeez. I
don't know. Just older.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well...I
should tell you...”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“In my
culture, it is not that uncommon, man. Why? Now, do you think different of me?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Honestly? A
little. I mean, I still think you're beautiful and I really enjoy talking to
you. I think it just makes me view <i>myself</i> a little differently. Like...I
just feel like a cradle robber is all.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A <i>what</i>?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It's just
an expression. I don't think it translates.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well...is
this okay then? Do you still want to associate with me?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You use
some funny words sometimes.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Aye, cabrón.
You are the one who says 'the sorcerer pig'. So I ask you again. How do you
know this word?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh. I think
it's because most of the books I read were published in Spain. So actually, I
find myself learning a bunch of words that, really, would only come in handy to
me over there. In Europe, I mean.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Aye. You
are crazy. Do you know this?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What? That
I'm crazy?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, cabrón.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,
totally. But listen. There <i>is</i> something, now that I think about it, that
I've been wanting to ask you about. Relating to Spanish, that is.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay. Well,
I will try to help you.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nice. Thank
you. Because I've been dying to know whether or not this is a real expression.
You know...to like refer to somebody.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay, man.
What is it?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Camarón.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And, upon
hearing this, she cracked up laughing again. She didn't bother to turn away
this time, though, and I was thankful to be able to experience her radiant
smile head-on. Isabel didn't even try to obstruct her face with her hands this
time. Maybe she was finally getting used to...me? This? What <i>was</i> this
anyway? And what the hell was I going to do about her age? It finally occurred
to me that dating her and even getting physical with her actually was not
illegal but still... Did that make it okay? Did that make it right?</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I wasn't
going to make a decision yet.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Dinner went
smoothly and the conversation carried itself without any awkwardness. She
smiled at me constantly and her dark eyes twinkled like deep, shining obsidian.
However, after being inside for a while and out of the breezy springtime chill,
Isabel took off her coat, set it by her side, and squinted at me playfully as
if to signify that she was at ease and having a good time. And now, I finally
got to have a look-see at the dress she'd chosen to wear this evening. It was a
nice dress; formfitting and high cut. But it was white! The girl was wearing a
white dress with white stockings! And although, surprisingly, the scheme of her
ensemble didn't come off as odd or even bad so far as fashion went...it <i>did</i>
come off as extremely virginal and only served to remind me of her age with
every passing moment. I had only myself to blame, though, because it was a
freshmen dorm that I worked in. A freshmen dorm that that cafeteria was
attached to. And that's not to say that upperclassmen didn't eat there as
well...or sometimes even teachers. It's just that freshmen were actually
required to have a meal plan which meant that they typically ate there everyday
and, since I pretty much <i>saw</i> her there everyday... I should have put two
and two together. But no. Instead, I'd made quite the oversight. But who the
hell would have figured that an 18 year old could ever possess so much
sophistication? She dressed older. And perhaps that's all it was. She dressed
up.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was dark
by the time we stepped back out onto the sidewalk and I quickly realized that I
now had absolutely no idea what to do with this chick. That is; if I should do <i>anything</i>
even. If I should carry this date any further.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Do you have
to get back to your studies or anything?” I asked timorously.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, man. I <i>can</i>
do it on Sunday, you know.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah.
That's true. I guess that's what Sunday's are for.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And, at
this, she cracked up again and silently giggled to herself as if my last
statement had reminded her of some inside joke that she and only she was aware
of the meaning behind.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I was
waiting for her to say something but, after it hit me that she just wasn't
going to, I picked up again with, “So...did you wanna go somewhere else?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span><i>Was</i>
she crazy? What if there was something wrong with her? Like, if she was
autistic or something.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Um, I <i>would</i>
like. It <i>is</i> the weekend you know, cabrón.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But she just
seemed so smart and when she did formulate words, they were actually pretty
down-to-earth. Yet, she cracked up at the weirdest moments and would still look
away in embarrassment from time to time...seemingly, without any reason.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Indeed, it
is. But...did you have anywhere in mind?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Seriously. I
had no idea what to do with this chick because the only activity I could even
fathom at this point (especially at this point on a first date) was to go to a
bar whereupon the two of us could get a little looser and <i>really</i> get to
know each other. Yes. I definitely felt too sober.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Um...I don't
know, man. Maybe...would you like to get some coffee with me?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Coffee
sounds fine,” I smiled. But really, it didn't. What were we going to do? Sit
there<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>and sip on round after round of
coffee? It's not that I didn't enjoy getting jacked up on caffeine. But to me,
coffee was just more of a drug that I used for working or writing; two
activities that required not just my brain but my hands as well. And just the
thought of sitting somewhere across from this girl and getting all amped up...
I'd probably wind up ranting like a madman and frightening her out of her
wits.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But wasn't
sitting in a diner and ordering coffee late into the night something I <i>used</i>
to do? It was. I'd almost forgotten about that. But that was way back in high
school. So I guess coffee only made sense tonight since this girl had actually
still <i>been </i><span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>in high school less
than a year ago.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Subconsciously,
I must have already been ruling her out as potential relationship material. I
must have been ruling her out as even a fling because, without being quite
aware of it, I was leading her back across Burnside...back towards the
university and her dorm. We'd shake hands and I might even hug her. And, who
knows? I might even kiss her cheek. But that was it...?</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Eventually,
we found ourselves at a table in the Macaroni Grill near Pioneer Square. And at
first, I did order a cappuccino. As did she. And together, we talked some more
and sipped them slowly. But then I switched to overpriced wine. I just couldn't
take it anymore.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We killed over
an hour this way and, <i>since</i> I knew that there wasn't going to be any sex
involved tonight, I began looking for a way to bring this date to a close. The
hints were subtle at first. Just as I'd done a bit earlier; I started out by
asking her if she had to be up early for anything tomorrow, if she had that
much homework this weekend, and even if her dorm had a curfew associated with
it. You never know. But to no avail. The girl acted as if she were perfectly
content to just sit at the Macaroni Grill all night.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,” I
surrendered, “I was thinking about going back to my place. I really feel like
drinking some wine. I drink a lot.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“That's <i>okay</i>,
cabrón. I don't mind, you know.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well...so
you wanna come over and...I don't know. Talk or something? I mean, hang out or
whatever?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okaaay,
man. It's not the first time I've ever been to a guy's house, you know.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Jesus, lead
me not into temptation. Please, let her not want to fuck. I don't know for sure
if I'd be able to resist. In fact, I seriously doubted it.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Walking a
block west, it had begun to rain so we waited the 15 minutes or so for the next
MAX under the small, glass roofed shelter provided. And <i>while</i> we were
waiting, another girl approached from some direction I hadn't noticed, stood
next to us, and proceeded to shake out her big umbrella.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I really
like your outfit,” she told Isabel just being friendly, “You've got great
style.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But instead
of just saying 'thank you'; Isabel's eyes went wide and she turned her head
away staring first up at the glass and then switching to focus on the brick
sidewalk beneath our feet.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Looking at
the girl who was just being nice, I mouthed the words, “I don't know,” and
followed them with sort of a shrug. Of course, I <i>wanted</i> to say, “Oh,
she's just shy,” or even, “She's just crazy.” But I certainly didn't know
Isabel well enough to speak for her in such a way and so was just sort of left
in this awkward position and, for some reason, feeling like <i>I </i>was the
one who had somehow been rude.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Back at my
place, I already had two bottles of pretty good wine; red wine of a much better
brand and variety than I normally drank myself. And this was, of course, due to
my preconceived notion of how I wanted this date to go originally way back when
I believed Isabel to be less statutory-y? And even though she actually <i>was</i>
of legal age and looked much older than that; I was quickly beginning to see
how the girl did act very young still. It was in the way she was a little
self-conscious and immature. The way she behaved oddly and giggled at all the
wrong moments. It was all starting to make sense.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You want
some wine?” I asked her once we were back in my apartment on the ninth floor
and I'd given her a chance to check out the nice view.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, man. I
would like some.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“K.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And it wasn't
until I was in the act of pouring her the glass that it occurred to me. This
was exactly where things got illegal! For, she may have been of fucking age but
she wasn't of <i>drinking</i> age by a long shot; another two or three years.
But did the term 'contributing to the delinquency of a minor' apply here? I
didn't even know! But, in all honesty, I gave her the glassful anyway because I
knew that this would effectively seal the <i>non</i>-deal. All I had to do was
watch her take one sip of that wine and the very <i>possibility</i> of anything
physical happening between us would be completely out of the question. For the
fact of the matter was; I didn't really know this chick at all and, if we were
to wind up banging and (for whatever reason) she regretted it in the morning,
she could easily say that I got her drunk and took advantage of her...and
nobody needs <i>that</i> shit.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Turning some
music on then, I asked Isabel if it would bother her if I smoked. She said it
would not. Still trying to be as polite as possible though, I stepped into the
bedroom and lit up by the cracked window. She implored me, however, to come
back and sit down by her on the futon. So I compromised and pulled up a chair
across from it. I didn't own a coffee table and so merely placed the ashtray
down on the floor next to me.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>We talked
into the night and, after the first few drinks worked their way into my
bloodstream, I found it easier to open up about myself. Strangely, she kept
asking me to tell her something personal and, even more strangely, nothing I
could come up with seemed to satisfy her. We were having a good time though. So
good, in fact, that I kind of lost track of the hour and<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>it occurred to me too late that she'd
definitely missed the last train back to her dorm. It wasn't the end of the world
though. The university wasn't <i>that</i> far of a walk. Nothing on the
Westside ever took me more than 20 minutes. It's just that it was raining
out...and cold...and windy. And if I was more of a novice in the dating scene
(and I'm sure I was once way back when); I might have relished in walking
Isabel back to the university. There was a time when I would have felt
privileged to hold her umbrella for her the whole way. But I was older now
and... I'd do it if she wanted me to though. There's no way my conscience would
let me <i>allow</i> this girl to walk home by herself at this hour. Dressed the
way she was; she was prime for the raping. And, in so many words, I told her
this.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If you're
tired, I can walk you. You'll have to forgive me but I sort of lost track of time.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And, to
this, she looked at me as if I were crazy, “It's okay, man. Calm yourself,” she
said in Spanish. “Relax.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I'm calm.
I'm relaxed. Plenty. It's just that... Well, I mean if you're comfortable
staying here, you can have the bed.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What bed, man?!”
and she laughed. This particular laugh, though, did finally seem appropriately
timed.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alright.
You're right. I don't have a bed. But...you know what I mean. You can have the
futon. It unfolds even. I'll just sleep on the floor. It's fine. And don't
worry. I won't try to put the moves on you or anything.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mick. Did I
say I was worried?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No. But...”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>My two
bottles of wine were just about cashed and I was starting to feel sleepy. And
it occurred to me then that I hadn't even poured her another glass. But...had I
been so rude? It wasn't like me. No. That wasn't it. I hadn't poured her
another glass because every time I <i>checked</i> her glass to see if she
needed another one; I'd simply noticed that her glass was full. And maybe, in
my increasingly intoxicated state, I'd just assumed that she'd gotten up and
helped herself to more? Because she <i>had</i> risen from my futon to pee once
or twice. But no, that wasn't it either. I rewound my memory as if it were a
surveillance camera and I watched her. She hadn't helped herself to any more.
Isabel had been sitting there the whole night with the same glass of wine that
I'd poured for her hours ago. And she'd even picked it up and held it at times
while we were talking. But she'd never taken a sip of it. Because that glass
was still brimming at the rim just as full as I like to pour them. Which, at
present, only meant one thing to me...</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She was
completely sober still. And <i>still</i>, she sounded like she kind of wanted
to mess around.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But I
couldn't. I just couldn't. And I've <i>not</i> laid girls before...out of some
sort of respect, I guess. Usually, whenever this occurred though, they got
really pissed off about it. I just hoped she wouldn't be equally as offended by
my lack of...interest? Attention. I hoped she wouldn't take any offense by the
lack of attention I was about to <i>not</i> show her.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Just before
I hit the lights, Isabel asked me if I had a shirt that she could sleep in.
And, once I'd dug in my closet and come back with a sweatshirt that was even
too big for me, she asked if I didn't have a button up dress shirt sort of
thing...so I got one for her. And after returning from the bathroom, she stood
before me with my own collared shirt draping down practically to her knees. She
was a fantasy. A fantasy standing right there before my very eyes and,
obviously, a certain part of me wanted nothing more than to take her and make
wild, passionate love to her until we were both sweaty and exhausted.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But I just
couldn't.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I set her up
with plenty of pillows and blankets and, once it was dark, I rolled out a
sleeping bag on the floor for myself. She didn't say anything more but there
also wasn't any sort of weird energy in the air. I didn't feel that there was
any tension or expectations still wanting. And I'm not sure why I did it but, just
before lying down myself, I leaned over and pecked Isabel on the cheek.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Man,” she
hadn't moved an inch. It was as if her <i>body</i> wasn't that surprised
but...“What was that?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It was a
kiss goodnight.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okaaay...?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Months
prior, back in the dish pit, I'd found a letter one morning just resting there
on one of the racks. It was a Dear John letter of sorts, was handwritten, it
took up the face on one page, it wasn't addressed to anyone specifically, and
it was not signed. Who the fuck knew who it was intended for but, like so many
of the random articles of interest that so often came around through the
tray-er-ator, it had been set aside...probably sometime the night before during
the dinner service which, thank God, I was never around for.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The letter would
have been funnier to me, bored out of my mind as I always was back there,
except for the fact that it didn't make much sense. The points were blurry. It
talked about a young man just about to come to his own in the world and how she
wasn't the one for him but it just seemed to lack any sentimentality and
closeness. Plus, the spelling was bad.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>After
working many months back there already, though, it had become sort of a ritual
of mine to gain every coworkers' perspective on articles such as this as they
came back to this dish pit throughout the day to...basically drop off more
dishes. Because that's all they did. And at one point this morning; this
mysterious letter had developed a huddle around it as if it contained a
magnetism all its own.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Dude. I
don't know but that bitch is crazy,” said one interested coworker who wasn't at
all eager to get back to work in the dining area.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And, “Maybe
it's someone who doesn't speak English very well,” came from another of my
kitchen colleagues; the one whom I considered to be the most stupid.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At any rate;
it was weird. And why had it been left there in the first place?</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“César Chávez
and my father. These are the two men I respect most in the world.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Almost two
weeks after our first 'date', on Isabel's 19<sup>th</sup> birthday, I took her
out to dinner again. This time, to a Mexican restaurant up Burnside; one of my
favorite places to eat in the whole town.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh yeah?
What's your father like?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>What can I
say? I was bored and didn't really have any friends...certainly none this
pretty anyway.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He works
hard, man. But he is not exploited any longer and that is thanks to César Chávez.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When the
food came, steamy and smelling delicious, Isabel looked delighted and gave me
credit for knowing where to get such good Mexican. Briefly, she rapped in
Spanish with a couple of the food servers in a slangy sort of style that was
too fast for me to keep up with. And, upon learning that it was her birthday
and specifically her 19<sup>th</sup> one (as if liquor laws didn't apply to
young girls so long as they were Latina), they offered to bring her some shots
of tequila or a margarita on the house to which she respectfully declined. They
were completely charmed by her, though, and so was the host. That much, I could
tell.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Isabel was
very opinionated and had a lot of political views; many of which, she explained
to me over dinner. She was also very involved with the community and always
waking up early on the weekends in order to attend meetings and marches and
rallies for various causes. And this impressed me. But it was her energy and
her will and her motive that impressed me most. Her <i>drive</i>. Of the actual
causes she was rallying <i>for</i> though, I couldn't really give shit. For
instance, Isabel explained to me how, just a few days ago, she'd marched downtown
with a few hundred people behind a banner that read, 'Take Back The Night'. And
it sounded impressive. And it was even on the news...briefly. The part I
couldn't understand though, and maybe nobody else could either, was just <i>what</i>
this group's actual intent was. Obviously, they were trying to raise awareness
for something. And I guess I did understand that this 'something' had <i>something</i>
to do with women being harassed on the streets after dark. But other than
marching and making a lot of noise, I don't think anybody had any real idea of
what they were actually trying to <i>do</i> about it.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What?!” she
would ask shortly after having explained to me one of these 'causes'.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was as if
she thought that I was silently judging her when, really, all I was trying to
do was formulate a follow-up question or just come up with something to say in
response. The girl was definitely nervous...or self-conscious...or something.
Perhaps, though, it could all be attributed to her youth. She was still just a
giggly girl and an awkward one at that.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Back at my
place, I resumed drinking but did remember to pour her a glass of wine just for
show.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So what
happened between you and Ed?” I asked sitting next to her on the futon this
time because I felt that <i>she</i> now felt more comfortable around me and <i>I</i>
felt more control over my own physical impulses. “How long did you two go out
for?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My <i>God</i>,
man! What did you hear?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Nothing! I
mean...nothing much. Just the usual. Trust me, anytime there's ever been a
breakup between a guy and girl; the guy is always an asshole and the girl's
always crazy.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Is <i>that</i>
what you heard?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No. I
swear, Isabel. I was just asking because I was curious as to what you saw in
him and what your relationship was like or whatever. And I guess I was just
curious as to <i>why</i> you guys broke up. But just curious. I was just making
small-talk, I swear.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, Mick.
Let me tell you. I almost got in a lot of trouble.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Really?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, man.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Turns out;
the breakup really <i>was</i> as messy as everyone made it out to be but I
still didn't quite understand it entirely. Ed was the nighttime dishwasher and
always took over for me just about the time of afternoon that I was leaving. He
was also a badass and a little weird but he was unarguably a hard worker and I
really liked the guy. He'd also graduated last year and earned himself a
physics degree in record time...<i>while</i> washing dishes almost 40 hours a
week. I could only suppose (as could everyone else) that he was now just biding
his time while trying to figure out just what <i>type</i> of field he'd like to
enter. I'd also heard it was Ed's dream to start his own<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>energy company and noticed how, daily, he'd
come in early, sit in the dining area, and splay out a table full of
schematics. Plus...he wasn't bad <i>looking</i> either so I could easily see
how a girl like Isabel could go for him. But why (and how) had it ended?</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I was
trying to bring him a present,” she said. And this, in itself, sounded innocent
enough. And I'm sure that the intention truly <i>was</i> innocent. But this
culture was so different from hers. For one; Isabel wasn't used to the city
and, let's face it, out in the sticks, people are known for being so much more
personable and always saying 'hi' to each other. They cared about each other to
a finer degree simply because there <i>were</i> less people out there and less
blurry faces in the crowd. But also...well, multiply 'out in the sticks' by a
community of Latinos and what you wind up with is a girl who not only cares too
much about people but a girl who treats others (even in the city) as if they
were family. Isabel clearly wasn't used to how cold, nuclear families (or even
worse; people like me whose families lived on the other side of the
country)...she didn't understand how we worked! If she wanted to do something
nice for someone; no obstacle was going to stop her. And if Isabel thought,
even for a second, that somebody she was even <i>acquainted</i> with was in
distress; she was genuinely concerned and would try her very best to sympathize
with them.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She told me
what the gift was and it was something cheesy. It was also something that would
have had a 'Just Because' tag attached to it...if there was a tag...which there
wasn't. She was just trying to bring her boyfriend something nice. She also
wanted to surprise him and perhaps...perhaps in other cultures, surprises are
much more welcome. But Ed didn't welcome it and he didn't appreciate the fact
that she'd snuck into his building, hid out in the community laundry room, and
waited for him. And who knows. There may very well have been more to it than
that. They may have been on a downhill slide and this 'gift' may have been the
head that it all came to. Perhaps, with this gift, she meant to apologize for
something that had happened previously. She never told me. And so far as the
outcome of this whole debacle went; I really just felt bad for her. I also would
have felt embarrassed for her except for the fact that <i>she</i> didn't. She
maintained that she was in the right the entire time. Still did. And believed
Ed to have overreacted.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,” I
thought for a minute before trying to explain my own warped angle on white
culture, “As I understand it, you never did have a key to his place.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, cabrón.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“He never
gave you one.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Aye.
No.”<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And of
course I went on to try and explain how the giving of a key to one's place is
just about the only act that would symbolize this sort of closeness and
comfortability as acceptable behavior and even then how it didn't necessarily
mean that the significant other was expected or even allowed to come over or
just pop by unexpectedly...especially when the person whose residence was in
question <i>wasn't</i> actually home.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So Ed
freaked out, they broke up, and then the rumors started around the workplace.
It also must have been around this time that she began trying to pass him notes
through the tray-er-ator and into the dish pit; the first of which were
probably still looking for more reasons as to exactly <i>why</i> he'd become so
unaffectionate. Isabel, I could only imagine, needed<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span>more of an explanation. And the last of these
notes (and there could have been a few or there could have been a dozen) was
probably the one I'd found that day. But at least it was finite and conveyed a
message of acceptance. Of closure. Still...passing unwanted notes to a guy at
his place of work after already having been accused of stalking him; well, that
wasn't helping her reputation any. After that, the managers became involved
and, according to Isabel, they'd tried to get her kicked out of the dorm but
obviously hadn't succeeded. And that was that. Around there, she'd forever be
known as the crazy stalker chick. But was she <i>deserving </i>of such a title?
This was the question that I really needed to ask myself as she sat on the
futon next to me now with those glowing, brown eyes and that sultry smile that
suddenly seemed all too willing to lodge a knife in my back...if it came to it.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So Isabel
and I developed exactly this type of friendship. Every couple of weeks, she'd
come over and we'd talk and she'd watch me get drunk and she'd stay the night.
She'd always ask for one of my shirts to sleep in and I actually became
comfortable enough around her (and her around me) to sleep in the same bed
together...still without touching or so much as spooning. And I enjoyed the
company. It kept me from feeling isolated or like I'd shut myself off from most
of the world...which I had. And she liked (I'm assuming) to escape from the
dorm for a night where the rumors still ran rampant; the crazy, Latina chick.
The stalker. The psycho. They'd leave hurtful notes under her door even (some
with captions that read; no beans allowed) and caricatures portraying her as a
witch. So our relationship was a perfectly symbiotic one and it went on for
several months.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At the end
of May, my birthday rolled around and it just happened to be on the weekend;
either Friday or Saturday. I can't remember. I <i>do</i> remember, though, that
I had the day off which was sort of a rarity since I'm not one of those people
who feels the need to <i>request</i> their birthday off of work. I <i>am</i>
one of those people, though, who usually feels like shit on their birthday (or
at the very least; grumpy) and wants nothing more <i>for</i> said birthday than
to just be left alone. Left alone to do some heavy drinking. Or, as was the
case, I planned to drink myself into a stupor the night before and then use the
birthday itself to sleep off the hangover.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was on
this day however... Or, as was the case; the night before... It was on this
night before my actual birthday that Isabel wanted to come over. And it had
been a couple of weeks since we'd last hung out. It was about time for her to.
And she was well aware that it was my birthday.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Via texting,
I begged her to forgive me and tried to succinctly postpone our next little
hang out session until the following weekend...but she wasn't taking 'no' for
an answer. So, after many more texts on the subject, I was finally forced to
get a bit short with her. I practically <i>had</i> to tell her that, should she
just show up unexpectedly and uninvited, I still would have to refuse to see
her and even had to go so far as to say that I would refuse her entrance. And
eventually, she acquiesced. She was sad, I could tell but...whatever. The
matter was settled, my phone stopped blowing up, and I was finally left to my
writing and my peace.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>According to
plan; I drank heavily and passed out late into a dark, dreamless sleep. And
although my apartment was full of light again when the knock did occur; it felt
as if absolutely zero time had lapsed since I'd hit the futon hours ago. It was
her. I already knew it was before I angrily arose and peered through the
peephole. Yep. And there she stood looking perversely coquettish in a baby doll
dress.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Isabel,” I
swung the door open, “I asked you not to come by and then I <i>told</i> you not
to.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I felt
nauseous as hell and couldn't even focus my eyes let alone begin to think
clearly.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mick. But
you must understand that, in my culture, it is not like this. I cannot let you
be alone on your birthday.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“My birthday
just really isn't that big of a deal to me, Isabel. But I'll tell you what is.
Sleep. And that's all I want, okay? I drank a lot last night. And I thank you
for coming over and everything. Now, please. You have to go. I feel sick and I
need to sleep. Okay? Thank you. We can get together next weekend or something.
Alright? Now, goodbye.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I closed
to door and instantly felt like slime for doing so but...but it's just not part
of <i>our</i> culture to stop by unannounced! And I knew that she still didn't
perfectly grasp this. But it was rude.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Lying back
down, I tried to justify my actions to myself in the two minutes it might take
for me to fall back asleep again when...knock, knock, knock. Oh, Jesus Christ.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes,
Isabel?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mick. It is
just that last time I left a headband over here and it does not belong to me. I
have to return it.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I knew
exactly which headband she was talking about too. It was cheap and plastic and
I knew that she was just looking for another excuse to knock again in the hopes
that I'd somehow changed my mind about seeing her in the past minute or two.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And I
realize that this may sound sort of cold...and it was. But, without saying a
word, I stomped back over to my nightstand, grabbed the headband, and handed it
to her upon my return. She only held it an instant, though, before it fell from
her shaky hands and onto the carpeted hallway. And by the time it even stopped
bouncing around down there, Isabel was halfway to the elevator. She never
looked back and I left the headband where it lay.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Months
passed. The entire summer, in fact. And although we texted every once in a
while; it was obvious that Isabel had been deeply hurt by my behavior that day
and she never did pay me another visit. That is, until the next school year
resumed.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>On an
afternoon in August, I received a phone call from her and was actually glad to
see her name when it popped up on my screen. The two of us talked for almost an
hour and I believed this was due to a question that I'd been wanting to ask
her; a question that I'd been formulating in the many months since my birthday.
The answer to which; I already sort of knew intuitively.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Are you a
virgin, Isabel?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Man, why do
you ask me this?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, are
you?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Aye, cabrón.
What difference does it make anyway?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It doesn't
really. But I just really want to know. I mean...it would explain a lot. And I
don't mean that in a bad way but... I don't know. It would just make sense, ya
know? Like all the puzzle pieces would just sort of fall into place.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“If it does
not make any difference, Mick, then I don't see why I should have to answer
you.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So, she was.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So, you
are. And that's great. In fact...I'm really glad that you are.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Because!
Because, I always used to kind of worry about having to restrain myself. That
is, I used to be afraid that I'd...want to have sex with you. And you <i>are</i>
sexy. I mean, don't get me wrong. But it's like... Well, if I'd just known <i>that</i>,
I would have never even been tempted.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But <i>why</i>?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Because
there's no <i>way</i> I'd ever take your virginity!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Because
that's just not something I could do, Isabel. I mean, I've always cared for you
but you need to find yourself a nice guy to do that. Someone you'll have been
in a relationship with or something. I don't know. I'm starting to sound like a
concerned parent here...even to myself. And that scares me.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So we made
up. Over the phone, we'd made up and she even agreed to come over sometime once
she gotten herself settled into a new dorm; a new dorm where she'd be free from
further harassment, thank God.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And a few
weeks later, Isabel did knock on my door again; this time, however, everything
had been perfectly planned and legitimized. She didn't even want to go to
dinner.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Please,” I
prodded her over the phone, “At the very least, let me treat us both to some
food from the taco stand across from my place. Alright?”<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okaaay, man.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And so it
went. I met Isabel down on the sidewalk and we each got a couple of tacos and
brought them back up. And it occurred to me then just how ironic it was that,
every other time we'd walked into my building together after dark, I always
assumed that the security guard down in the lobby probably thought that I was
bringing up a hooker; provocatively dressed as Isabel always was. And I mean;
always. But, if so, the joke was all on him because rather; I was bringing up a
virgin just as I always had. And she would leave here a virgin; just as she
always did.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Upon
crossing my threshold, Isabel instantly put on the 'shy girl' act and pretended
that she'd never <i>ever</i> imagined herself back here. She pretended to be
embarrassed for a while while I poured her a glass of wine. But she came
around. After eating her tacos, that is, and having a drink.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>A drink?!</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Jesus,
Cha-Bella...”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mick.
Please, don't call me that. Only my father can.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know but
I just...I've just never actually seen you take a drink is all.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mick. I am
not a little girl, you know.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know, I
know. It's just... You know what? Don't worry about it. It just came as a
surprise. But I'm fine with it. Just...pace yourself, alright?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alright,
cabrón. Aye.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Alright. So
whatchoo been up to? I mean...how's school going and all that? You've been back
in town a couple weeks now, right?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, Mick.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah?” I
smiled, “Any new boys on the horizon?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well. If
you must know. I did go out with a man last weekend.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A man,
huh?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, how
old was he?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I don't
know. I mean to say, I'm not sure. He was your age, I guess.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well.
That's okay. But was he nice?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes. Very.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, cool.
What did you guys do?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well, Mick.
If you must know. I went to try on lingerie for him.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And here, my
heart didn't <i>sink</i> exactly. But it wasn't quite elated either.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh yeah?” I
downplayed it, “So was that fun for you?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, Mick.
I enjoyed it.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“So how did
you two meet?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh...I just
met him near the university.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You met him
on the street?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes. If you
want to say it like that.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>It was true
though. Isabel had run into some random guy on the street. It had been sometime
around midnight. And just this, in itself, didn't strike me as all that odd
since she wasn't of age and couldn't get into the bars yet. And I knew she was
lonely in this city where it could be hard to make friends...especially for
such an obscure (or as she would say; rare) girl as herself. Not that I'd call
this guy she'd met 'a friend'. Because, apparently, they'd gone straight to
Fantasy Lingerie (which was open super late on the weekends), she'd modeled
some stuff for him, and then they'd parted without even having exchanged phone
numbers.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But you
didn't fuck him, did you?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, man. Of
course not. What do you think I am?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“But did you
mess around. I mean, did you make out or anything?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“A little.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And, to
this, I really didn't know what to say.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well,
Isabel,” I couldn't help but feel the parent again, “All I can really tell you
here is that you've got to be careful, ya know. I mean...you don't know who the
fuck this guy really was. I mean, he could be some serial killer for all you
know! Shit, man. Now, you've got me all worried about you.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It's fine, Mick. Is it alright if I have another glass of wine?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Sure. Why
not.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>The two of
us talked some more after that. We talked well into the night just like we
always did. We talked more about sex than we ever had, though, and that worried
me a bit. And no, I wasn't even thinking about taking her virginity. I felt
that that would only be an abuse of power on my part. The girl trusted me and I
knew that I could be very charming sometimes. But, at the same time, I also
didn't want her to ever lose her innocence to some loser that she just met on
the street...and it almost sounded like that's where this was all headed. So I
accepted the fact that girls had needs too...even girl as young as Isabel.
Shit. She'd probably had physical wants for quite a while now. So who's to say
that I couldn't be the guy? I couldn't tonight. That much was for sure. But
maybe there was other stuff that we could do. Stuff that would at least curb
these desires of hers. Stuff that could tide her over until... I mean, maybe I
could become involved with her. There certainly wasn't anyone else in the
picture right now. And I did like her. I liked hanging out with her. So maybe
she could just be my girlfriend for a while and we could keep having these
little hang out sessions...though maybe a little more frequently.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>By the end
of the night, I'd turned out the lights and had lit a candle. Both of us were
seated on the carpet with our backs resting against the seat of my futon and we
were still talking. Isabel, thankfully, was still just nursing that second
glass of wine. Whereas I, on the other hand, was perfectly drunk and had turned
the music up a bit as drunk people so often do. There were a couple new Prince
albums I really liked and it was during one of the slower, sexier songs, of
course, that I leaned over and finally tested her lips.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Now, I
couldn't very well just lean over and kiss her like I meant it. That much was
blatantly obvious to me and I was just thankful to still have enough sense left
to realize it. But through her lips, I wanted to learn if she still thought
about me in that way. And if not, I was confident enough that she, like last
time, would simply take the kiss and then ask me with a perfectly straight face
and straight voice, “Man, what the hell was that?” But she didn't ask me.
Isabel actually kissed me back. And it wasn't hot and heavy and there were
nothing but our lips involved but...it was interesting, that's for sure. So
suddenly (especially after not having seen her in months and months), we'd
landed ourselves right in the middle of uncharted territory. If uncharted
territory even has a middle, that is.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Without
saying much, we both moved up and onto the futon itself. And we continued to
kiss like this for what must have been the better part of an hour. And every so
often, when we needed to breathe, I used the time to tell her in Spanish just
how much I liked her nose and her cheeks and her eyes and her chin and
basically whatever word came to the top of my head.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>At one
point, she unbuttoned and removed the collared shirt of mine that she'd been
wearing and even took off her bra. I hadn't been expecting so much but surely
wasn't going to complain about it either. Anything below the belt was
off-limits (that is, oral or otherwise) and she made this known without having
to say so. But we did begin to rub up against each other and, shortly
thereafter, dry humping turned into not-so-dry humping (still through our
underwear) and <i>that</i> part was all on her. She was embarrassed of her body
in this way. I knew that much without having to ask either. But she didn't
stop. And it was nice. We enjoyed ourselves and <i>I</i> enjoyed this innocent
fun-time knowing full well that it wasn't going to lead to sex. Strangely, I
enjoyed that part about it above anything.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“What's it
like, Mick?” she whispered.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“It's kind
of like this,” I spoke softly, “Only better.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Ohh,” she
gasped and I loved her then for just how hard she was restraining herself.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And although
it may have been the alcohol that had tempted me to lean over and kiss her in
the first place; let's just say that it was also the alcohol that kept me from
taking things any further. That and my tiny, little sliver of a conscience that
still existed. Because in my mind, I was too drunk anyway. Too drunk to show
the girl a good time at least. Too drunk to make it anything more than just a
bad memory for her for years or a lifetime to come.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“You're a
sweet girl,” I told her once the session had finally come to an end and once we
were in a spooning position where we'd remain for the remainder of the night,
“Do you have class in the morning?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, Mick.
But I already set my alarm.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Good. I
don't want you to miss any school. I'd feel bad about it then. Goodnight.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Isabel's
alarm did go off in the morning and she did get up...momentarily. But the next
thing I knew, she was right back in bed with me and I guess we both went back
to sleep.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then...</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mick. Do
you have any coffee?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Umm.
Actually, yeah,” I rolled over. She was in the kitchen with my dress shirt back
on; her bare legs tantalizing from beneath. “Yeah. Lemmie make it for you
though. I'm out of filters so I've just been using the French press.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So I got up.
And after passing by the digital clock on the oven, I realized it was close to
noon.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Jesus,
Isabel. I thought you had class.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I did, man.
I missed it. But it is alright,” she said in that accent, “I can make it up
later. It's no big deal, you know.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Big deal.
She'd learned the term from me. It's one I tended to overuse and overplay the
meaning of.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,” I
replied while throwing a plastic pitcher full of water in the microwave, “But I
really didn't want you to. I mean, I want you to get good grades and...and I
can't even believe I'm saying this...but I want you to get a degree and stuff.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Why? I
already know, Mick, that you don't like schools.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah,
but...” I shook my head...mostly at myself, “I don't like schools for <i>me</i>.
But for you, it's a good thing. I just think you have a lot to offer the world.
That's all. More than most people. And I mean that. You truly want to help
people. People who <i>can't </i>help themselves. People who are oppressed.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yes, Mick.
And I do. But I am torn between two worlds right now.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Instantly, I
realized that this last statement wasn't actually as dramatic as she'd intended
it to be. And I guess that's one of many problems with switching from language
to language...or even just speaking languages that weren't one's birthright.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Does this
have anything to do with switching your major?” I asked.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Only a
little.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Does it
have anything to do with that essay I tried to help you write last semester?
The ethnography?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, man.
Nothing.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Because you
know...I really took a lot of time on that thing and then... Well, you didn't
even use <i>any</i> of the suggestions I made or even any of the notes on just
the English language itself. I was a little disappointed.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And, in
truth, I knew all along that Isabel had made a pretense of this ethnography
project. I knew that she thought she needed to <i>use</i> some sort of excuse
just to talk to me or come over then. Which wasn't the case. But that didn't
mean that I hadn't been eager to help her with it either.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I know, Mick. But you have to understand. I have to learn to do things on my own.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Then why
did you ask me for help with it?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Our coffee
was finished now and we were both standing at the kitchen counter and sipping
from our cups.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mick! There
is only one thing I really want to know.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Okay.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How do you
feel about me now?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“How do I <i>feel</i>
about you?” This was a loaded question obviously. But I wasn't quite sure what
it was loaded <i>with</i>. “Well, you know, Isabel. I like you. I've always
liked you. I think you're a sweet girl and I'm glad that we're friends. Is that
what you were asking? I mean...does that satisfy...?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“No, Mick. I
mean...<i>now</i>, how do you feel about me?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Well. I
hope we can hang out more often. If that's what you're getting at.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Aye! My
God! Mick!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Yeah?! I'm
still here. I want to see you more often. I just...I just think that there
might be some sort of communication breakdown going on right now. And it might
have something to do with the language barrier. I'm not sure though.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Oh my God, Mick!” And she slammed her coffee cup down. And she ran out the door. So fast.
Ran...out the door.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Hmm. Well, I
was going to have to give this one some thought. Not right away though. But I <i>was</i>
awake. So I might as well check my email and shit. I also didn't want to pay it
any mind right away because... Yep. There it was. Just about the instant I sat
down at my computer, Isabel came bursting through the door again and ran straight
into the bathroom...where she did God knows what...with the door closed...for
like 15 minutes.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>She was
upset...obviously. And therefore, I wasn't going to be. We needed to create
some sort of balance here. But, just before these 15 minutes were up, I began
to get concerned. So I got up and went in there. The door wasn't locked.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Isabel.
Come on. What did I do? You wanna just tell me?”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>But she ran
out right away. She ran right back into the living room, in fact, and stood
there in front of the futon. So I followed.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Mick! Is
this how you feel?!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Feel like
what? I like you, Isabel. Please, just chill out for a second, okay? We can
talk. I like you. And I think that maybe we can try to find something here. I
mean, relationship-wise. I'm just concerned that you didn't go to school today.
That's all.”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Aye! Oh my
God, man!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And then she
fainted. And I'm not quite sure whether the faint was for real...but I did have
no doubt that if I hadn't caught there in midair; the girl would've hit the
ground. Hard. Her eyes closed and her arms went limp. Her legs gave out from
under her. And she fucking put on a show at least...of fainting! So I caught
her! I caught her there like Clark fucking Gable in some black and white movie;
the plot of which, though, never would have existed back then. It was also a
plot that I was suddenly confused by...with an ending that I couldn't even
begin to predict.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Having
nothing better to do with her lifeless body, and since my back just wasn't what
it used to be, I laid Isabel down onto the futon mattress. She sprang back up,
though, almost immediately.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“I...” she
pointed her finger right at me, “Can no longer...associate...with you!”</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Then she ran
out again. And this time, I was reasonably sure that she'd leave the building.
Not that I had anything solid to base this assumption upon. But I don't know.
Call it a hunch.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<br /></div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Of course,
later on, I did try texting her million times. Because really! I needed to
figure out just what this girl's problem was. And that was the insane thing!
That was the thing <i>most</i> insane. Because, we'd had a great night. We'd
finally gotten physical and I was just beginning to develop feelings for her
and thoughts and ideas and fantasies and future fantasies and thoughts and
ideas even. And now this. I was too old to rack my brain about it, though, and <i>way</i>
too old to let it hurt me.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Don't mess
with me!” she texted back one time and it was so easy for me to hear her accent
then and, in my mind's eye, imagine her pointing her finger...sternly.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>So maybe the
girl really <i>was</i> just crazy. I'd never know though. Because, for better
or worse, I never did get to the bottom of the matter. A few days later, I
stopped trying to text her altogether and she never attempted to reach me
either. And I only ever saw her once more...about 4 months later.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>I'd just
gotten off of work one night and popped into Rite Aid to buy some beer. And I
was still standing in line when, in my peripheral, I saw her walk in. I <i>thought</i>
she might have seen me too but it quickly became clear that this wasn't the
case. So after my purchase had been made, I walked over to and down the aisle
where I'd seen her disappear. And there she was; dressed to the nines as ever
and perusing one of the cosmetic makeup displays. Mascara or something. And what
stuck me first was that it was a Saturday night. Saturday night and here she
was at Rite Aid looking at makeup. So the poor girl still didn't have any
friends.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Standing
just a few feet away, I watched her for a minute and knew that she was
completely oblivious to my presence. And I couldn't help but wonder just then
if she was hoping, somewhere in the back of her mind, that some random buy
would pick her up and take her lingerie shopping again. Or, to be more
specific, lingerie <i>modeling</i>; since I clearly remember her telling me
that they hadn't even bought anything.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>“Hey.
Cha-Bella,” I finally approached her and tapped her on the shoulder. My voice
was soft and friendly and, when she quickly turned around, my face was waiting
with a smile. A sincere smile; for I was truly glad to see her again and, from
time to time, I did still worry about<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;">
</span>her.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>When our
eyes met and she realized it was me; Isabel's face went pale in a split second
as if her very soul had been sucked out. Pure terror. That's the only way I can
describe her countenance then. Pure...fucking...terror. I honestly thought the
girl's heart was going to stop and that her body would drop again like a sack
of potatoes. I thought that I was going to be left to catch her right there in
the middle of Rite Aid giving other customers an interesting story to tell when
they got home. She didn't drop though. Instead, and very slowly, Isabel took a
few steps backward before turning her back to me. And she just kept going;
always looking over her shoulder, though, until reaching the end of the aisle
and turning the corner.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>And that's
it. That's the last I ever saw of her. That crazy, Latin, little schoolgirl.
And to this day, I have no idea what really pissed her off so much.</div>
<div class="Standard">
<span style="mso-tab-count: 1;"> </span>Kids,
man.<span style="mso-spacerun: yes;"> </span></div>
z.m.oliver@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01622907618080308162noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193359904027993582.post-62791106242098080192012-03-03T00:08:00.002-08:002012-03-03T13:57:41.758-08:00Anticlimactic After
having a good laugh, Percy threw in something like, “Oh my God. That reminds me
of this one story.”<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
The
three of us had gone out to the bar after work again and, since it was pretty
quiet in here, I could only assume it was a weeknight. We might have been on
our third drink…somewhere around there. And this is pretty much how the night
had been going. One of us would drop some sort of anecdote just before we’d all
laugh like clockwork. And then one of the other two would pick up with, ‘Oh my
God. That reminds me of this one story,’ just as Percy had done mere moments
ago. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
For
a second, as if time had stopped, I sort of stepped outside the scene and
watched the three of us with our chests pressed up against the bar itself. And
I tried to remember then just <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">what</i>
story had been the first. Who’d told it and what had it even been about? Just
who the fuck had told that original tale that had set this train in motion?
And…wait a second. Had <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">it</i> even been
told tonight? For this was just one of those months, it seemed, that Percy,
Will, and I found ourselves with not much better to do than to hit up the bar
every single evening for the past…week? Even longer? Jesus. And I considered
then that perhaps the first story of the night hadn’t even been told <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">at</i> the bar because I could clearly
picture the three of us just standing around at work and exchanging narratives
in this very same fashion. So who’d told the first story <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">there</i>?! <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">Or</i>…what if one of
us had simply picked up where we’d left off last night just before we’d all
broken off and gone home? Was it possible that, ‘Oh my God. That reminds of
this one story,’ had actually been riding its course for weeks on end now?!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
I
didn’t know. I simply could not generate enough brain power to remember. I did
know, though, that it was probably time to curb the old drinking again…because
I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">wanted</i> to remember the cause and
effects of certain events but felt like all I was ever left with were the
details. For example; I really wanted to remember the story that had <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">reminded</i> Percy of the tale he was just
about to tell. Because…seriously. What the fuck could have ever <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">reminded</i> him of something like <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">this</i>? </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“So
this one time…it was a while ago. Actually, it was a <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">really</i> long fucking time ago now that I think about it. But
anyway,” he sort of shrugged off this intro, “For all points and purposes, I
guess that doesn’t really matter.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“It
doesn’t,” I threw in simply for the sake of saying so, “But please…continue.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Okay.
So I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">know</i> it was a while ago because
I was playing in this band and we were down in Eugene or Corvallis or
something. And we were playing a gig one night. And it was actually a lot of
fun…” and, after having spoken this last part, Percy seemed to stop for a second
and look back within himself as if reliving some of the highlights from the
night in mention. Or maybe he was just suddenly overcome by his fondness for
those days in general but…</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Perrr-cyyy
,” Will was looking him right in the face with a feigned air of concern.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
And
he finally snapped out of it, “Yeah?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Come
back to us, buddy.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Right.
So anyway. We were playing this gig and I kinda had this solo part that I was
supposed to do but I had that big ball of gauze on my hand…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Wait
a second,” I said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
And
Will added, “Hold up. What big ball of gauze?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Oh.
I didn’t mention that?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
And
we both firmly answered him, “No.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Oh.
So yeah. So I fucked up my hand really bad. And…actually, I don’t even remember
how I did it. Hmm…that’s weird. But again, as far as the story goes, it doesn’t
really matter. I <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">do</i> remember, though,
that it was my strumming hand because I was supposed to do this intricate sort
of picking thing at one point. But anyway. Like I said; I had this big, huge
ball of gauze wrapped around all my fingers and it looked like…like if you can
imagine a burn victim? So yeah. I was up on stage and everything and, when it
came time to do my thing, I basically just had to like tap the strings the best
I could because of all the gauze.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
And here, he stopped to mimic (as
sort of a visual aid) just what all four of his fingers spliced together must
have looked like while tapping on the guitar strings that night…minus the
gauze, of course. But then he just stopped entirely.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Was that it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">That’s </i>the end of the story?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Oh!”
he caught himself again and smiled at the fact that he’d now twice forgotten
his own audience, “No. Actually, that is <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">not</i>
it.” And he smiled even bigger this time. “<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">So</i>…after
the show, I was at this party or something…or maybe just backstage. I don’t
know. But I was makin’ out with this chick and, you know, after a while; I went
to stick my hand down her pants…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
And
here, instantaneously, he had us. Both of our eyes lit up and our mouths
dropped.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“You
didn’t! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: .5in;">
“You gauzed her!?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“You
gave her the gauze!?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Oh,
uh…actually,” and he chuckled to himself in full realization of how quickly
he’d led us somewhere…somewhere misleading, “Actually, I was just gonna say
that I um…I just used my thumb.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Ah,
come on, man!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Jesus,
dude. You may really wanna think about changing the ending to that one.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
<br /></div>z.m.oliver@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01622907618080308162noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193359904027993582.post-72815561607000925572012-02-10T23:25:00.001-08:002012-08-19T16:38:58.868-07:00On learning a second language;<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Harry
Potter, Mick? Really?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
Will,
I believe, held two bachelor’s degrees and both were in something like Creative
Writing or Journalism or World Lit or whatever. Still…I sort of appreciated his
slight. It meant he expected more of me. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“It’s
in Spanish,” I defended myself by feigning offense. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Oh,
really?” and he seemed to perk up at this, “Do you speak it?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Well…put
it this way. I can read it just fine. I mean…I can speak it and understand it
fine too. I just don’t get a lot of practice in conversationally. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Ahh,”
and he nodded understandingly. “Hey, is that why you were dating that Spanish
chick?!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Mexican
chick,” I smiled. “And no. I mean, that’s not really <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">why</i> I was dating her but…I guess it gave her a fair amount of
intrigue. Her accent was sexy. And we would speak Spanish a fair amount of the
time and text in Spanish and stuff.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Dude.
That’s awesome. I want a Spanish chick. Why Spanish, though, if you don’t mind
my asking? You just really like the Latinas or something?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“You
mean the race or the…nevermind. I guess Spanish was just the most natural. I
mean…I grew up pretty close to Mexico and I took a couple years of it in high
school and stuff. But I really got back on the horse after I got back from Peru
last summer…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Oh,
yeah. How’d that go?”<br />
“Well…not great, man, to
be honest with you. I had my passport stolen and then I had to go all around Lima
jumping through hoops and stuff in order to get another one. And all the while,
I’m asking everybody questions on like what to do and stuff… And, of course,
they’d ramble off a bunch of crap in Spanish at a million miles a minute. I
swear, I probably looked pretty weird to them leaning my head in and closing my
eyes just to be able to absorb as many of the words as I could. So yeah. The
good news is; I made it. But, after getting back, I sort of figured that if my
skills were good enough to get through all that then I might as well go for
fluent. Ya know?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Gotcha.
That’s pretty cool, man. I’ve always wanted to learn another language.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“You
should. I mean…there’s so many ways to now with like audio and software and
stuff. I also listen to a half-hour of Chinese lessons a day. Really. I have
for almost two years!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Mandarin?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Yep.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Holy
shit. Why?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“I
don’t know. I guess just ’cause it’s gotta be one of the most fucked up
sounding languages there is. You know…with all the tones and stuff? But I also
heard that learning other languages keeps the Alzheimer’s at bay. And, you
know, nobody wants that shit. So does learning ballroom dancing, supposedly,
and Sudoku. But, if you have to take your pick then let’s face it; those last
two things suck.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Yeah,
that’s for sure. Dude, you totally remind me of this friend of mine…”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“Oh
yeah. What’s his deal?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“He
like travels a lot and stuff. I mean, don’t get me wrong. That’s probably where
most of the similarities end. That, and you kind of look alike. Other than
that, though, the kid is sort of a weirdo. I mean, he’s my friend and
everything but he’s just one of those guys who’s like…never really settled down
or stayed anywhere for very long. I don’t think he’s <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">ever</i> paid rent anywhere. And then, like right out of high school,
he was living in his car for like years,” and Will couldn’t help but crack up
to himself here as he reconsidered his friend’s eccentricities, “But anyway. So
he just got back from South America which is probably another reason you
reminded me of him just then. But he…<i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">he</i>
was down there for like eight or nine years.
Seriously. Eight or nine years and doing just God knows what, man. Doing
pretty much the same thing he was doing up here actually. Just sort of
drifting. Every once in a while, he would write me. But not an email. I would
get an actual fucking letter in the mail…which was actually sort of cool, I
guess, since it was mailed all the way from South America. And he’d write to me
about just doing odd jobs and stuff and moving all around the whole continent. And
every once in a while, he’d mention a new girlfriend and how her family didn’t
like him or something. And sometimes he’d own a car and sometimes he’d just
hitchhike from place to place…or even walk! Sometimes, he’d walk like hundreds
of miles from country to country! And you know what the craziest part is?!”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“What?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="text-indent: 0in;">
“He
never did learn how to speak Spanish!” </div>
z.m.oliver@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01622907618080308162noreply@blogger.comtag:blogger.com,1999:blog-6193359904027993582.post-72218169628033954402012-02-03T22:49:00.001-08:002012-02-04T00:33:03.040-08:00Why I call it home; I
wouldn’t call my neighborhood rough by any means but, by Portland standards, it
probably is. There’s the occasional shooting but it’s not like I walk around
here fearful at all. And sometimes, if I have to leave my building really early
in the morning, I could almost swear that the zombie apocalypse did actually
happen sometime during the night. I mean, there are bums limping and spitting
and scratching and moaning EVERYWHERE! But it wasn’t until last Sunday when I
walked out my door at about 8 ‘o’ clock in the morning and saw some kid smoking
something through an aluminum can that I really began to wonder if the cops
really gave a shit about anything on this side of town save murder. He was just
standing there so complacently on the sidewalk smoking that thing like it was
nobody’s business! I walked right by him…within two feet of him…and he didn’t
even try to conceal what he was doing by turning into a doorway!
It was broad fucking daylight out for Christ’s sake!<br />
But
God bless this town because, when you can get away with <i style="mso-bidi-font-style: normal;">that</i>, you can get away with just about anything.z.m.oliver@gmail.comhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/01622907618080308162noreply@blogger.com