Monday, August 4, 2014
I could tell by the garage sale that dad got the job in Schenectady. The motorcycle, the fish tank everything is for sale. trying to watch the guys force the trampoline in the moving van was pretty depressing. I think he sold the laptop, because he told us no more Facebook or social media of any type, he was afraid that our friends would find out where we've gone. The phone has been shut off for days, we were told to come right home from school. All of our "see you next year"s seemed pointless, and like a lie.
He's over talking to the neighbors we've never met, in his flip flops, nylon shorts and without a shirt, I hope they don't judge us by his receding hairline, and bad sword/snake tattoo.
He's over talking to the neighbors we've never met, in his flip flops, nylon shorts and without a shirt, I hope they don't judge us by his receding hairline, and bad sword/snake tattoo.
The neck
She was angry. Angry that he couldn't look at her anymore. They were trying to outrun the stereotype. Trying desperately to prove an interracial couple, with 17 years between them, could survive. She had to go to work. Her security job, in the parking lot of the court house, didn't pay a lot, but, it paid just enough for them to pay the rent and have cable. She was angry. So angry she had to tell all 147 oh her "friends" just what he had done.
She had no idea that telling her story, while at the helm of her '95 Buick lux-o-bomb, would cost that guy his neck.
That guy, that she didn't see, was just a guy, going to work, he had to be there early for a meeting. She didn't think about the day to day. Who would mow the lawn? Who would walk the dogs? Who would tie his shoes?... Who would clean the feeding tube, or the catheter...? Who would ask him to wash a load of clothes, then half a question later, would realize, he is no longer capable?
These are the things Sandra didn't think about, during her blind rage, during her questions, during her time of doubt.
1.4 seconds could've separated the two of them for a lifetime. Just two vehicles filled with likes, distastes, and a combined distrust of humanity, and who knew that they'd be part of one another's lives forever. The court proceedings, the scumbag attorneys, the apologies, the absolute, unforgiving, failure to acknowledge or accept the apologies. These are the things they now have in common. The hated from one family to another, almost a hatfield and McCoy, situation.
The armored jacket, the helmet, the gloves offered no consolation. Just lifeless objects that had let him down. Sure, they did what they were designed to do, they gave their "lives" to protect him, but, in the eyes of his family, fell just a millimeter short of the mark.
1.4 seconds.
They were, at their core, the same. Upset, hurt, and traveling. One to work, one to her auntie's.
1.4 seconds. That's all that was needed.
Shoulda stopped and got that breakfast burrito, both thought, 1.4 seconds apart.
The police were shaking their heads. The EMTs were judging her, she knew it. He knew they were judging him as well. "Who would ride that?"
The anger was gone now, the rage expired. It was all guilt on one side of this fence, and absolute hatred on the other. No in between.
She had no idea that telling her story, while at the helm of her '95 Buick lux-o-bomb, would cost that guy his neck.
That guy, that she didn't see, was just a guy, going to work, he had to be there early for a meeting. She didn't think about the day to day. Who would mow the lawn? Who would walk the dogs? Who would tie his shoes?... Who would clean the feeding tube, or the catheter...? Who would ask him to wash a load of clothes, then half a question later, would realize, he is no longer capable?
These are the things Sandra didn't think about, during her blind rage, during her questions, during her time of doubt.
1.4 seconds could've separated the two of them for a lifetime. Just two vehicles filled with likes, distastes, and a combined distrust of humanity, and who knew that they'd be part of one another's lives forever. The court proceedings, the scumbag attorneys, the apologies, the absolute, unforgiving, failure to acknowledge or accept the apologies. These are the things they now have in common. The hated from one family to another, almost a hatfield and McCoy, situation.
The armored jacket, the helmet, the gloves offered no consolation. Just lifeless objects that had let him down. Sure, they did what they were designed to do, they gave their "lives" to protect him, but, in the eyes of his family, fell just a millimeter short of the mark.
1.4 seconds.
They were, at their core, the same. Upset, hurt, and traveling. One to work, one to her auntie's.
1.4 seconds. That's all that was needed.
Shoulda stopped and got that breakfast burrito, both thought, 1.4 seconds apart.
The police were shaking their heads. The EMTs were judging her, she knew it. He knew they were judging him as well. "Who would ride that?"
The anger was gone now, the rage expired. It was all guilt on one side of this fence, and absolute hatred on the other. No in between.
Monday, February 10, 2014
P-We gotta get the fuck outta Dodge.
J-(Laughing) Get on 80 West and go, and I'm NOT getting out of the Dodge.
P-Shut up, dude, this ain't funny! the Cops have been called for two things to the same spot,
about US!!
J-(Still laughing) Not US, you!!
The Diplomat being pushed hard enough to elicit a noise that Javi refers to as "A skeleton masturbating in a galvanized trash can"
J-Can you move it?
P-I shot myself, I didn't break my foot playing soccer in the yard, I FUCKING SHOT MYSELF!
J-(shaking his head) Yes, you did, yes. you. did...
Javi points at Patrick and laughs "With a thirty dollar Jennings .22!! You can't make this shit up!!"
The Police show up to the Radio Shack parking lot, about fifteen minutes after the Diplomat chirped it's tires in a way that sounded more like sneakers on a freshly polished gymnasium floor.
The woman, from the mid-range SUV, was more than happy to give a description of the assholes that took the handicapped parking spot, although, now that she recalls, the driver did appear to have a painful limp.
While one officer was talking to the mid range SUV family, fresh out of the Dollar Store, the other was in Radio Shack talking to the owner and his clerk.
On Route 80, Javi finally finds a radio station that comes in, not very clearly, but, clear enough to hear that it's Salsa music. Not the first choice of either one, but, something to break the silence.
P-Once we're in PA, I'm going to take a look at my foot. It fucking kills!!
J-So, what happened? I thought you needed a rheostat.
Pat reached over and turned the radio up louder.
J-(Laughing) Get on 80 West and go, and I'm NOT getting out of the Dodge.
P-Shut up, dude, this ain't funny! the Cops have been called for two things to the same spot,
about US!!
J-(Still laughing) Not US, you!!
The Diplomat being pushed hard enough to elicit a noise that Javi refers to as "A skeleton masturbating in a galvanized trash can"
J-Can you move it?
P-I shot myself, I didn't break my foot playing soccer in the yard, I FUCKING SHOT MYSELF!
J-(shaking his head) Yes, you did, yes. you. did...
Javi points at Patrick and laughs "With a thirty dollar Jennings .22!! You can't make this shit up!!"
The Police show up to the Radio Shack parking lot, about fifteen minutes after the Diplomat chirped it's tires in a way that sounded more like sneakers on a freshly polished gymnasium floor.
The woman, from the mid-range SUV, was more than happy to give a description of the assholes that took the handicapped parking spot, although, now that she recalls, the driver did appear to have a painful limp.
While one officer was talking to the mid range SUV family, fresh out of the Dollar Store, the other was in Radio Shack talking to the owner and his clerk.
On Route 80, Javi finally finds a radio station that comes in, not very clearly, but, clear enough to hear that it's Salsa music. Not the first choice of either one, but, something to break the silence.
P-Once we're in PA, I'm going to take a look at my foot. It fucking kills!!
J-So, what happened? I thought you needed a rheostat.
Pat reached over and turned the radio up louder.
The door opens up,
"Hey, Shit head."
nothing
"Hey, SHIT HEAD!"
nothing
"God dammit"
he opens up the bedroom door, the TV is still on showing some new age soft spoken televangelist.
"Yo, Shit head, c'mon, get up, we gotta go."
Pat tosses a track jacket from the floor to the bed, on top of the pile of blankets from under which all you can see is the top of Javi's head. Then Patrick tosses a pair of jeans and kicks some old socks onto this same pile.
"OK, OK" replies the pile of blankets.
J-"What makes you think I wanna wear dirty clothes?
P-"Dude, you don't really have a choice, WE GOTTA GO!"
J-"Why so early dude?"
P-"I need to stop at Radio Shack on the way, C'mon, the cars runnin'"
J-"Radio Shack? What is this? '92?"
P-"I gotcha coffee, let's fucking go."
J-"alright"
Javi walks outside to see Pat waiting in the '88 Dodge Diplomat that his grandfather bought at a police auction in '91, when Pat's grandfather passed away a year later, the car was given to Pat. He's had it ever since.
J-"Why you dressed like 'Pulp Fiction'?"
Pat gets into the driver seat and puts his keys in.
P-"How does someone dress like an entire goddamm movie?"
Unless he was trying to make a point the term "God Damned" was pronounced as a two syllable word by Pat, with one "D", godamm.
P-"How is black jeans and an old Flutie shirt "Pulp Fiction"
J-"Black Jeans"
P-"What? never mind"
Pat always had a shitty little Jennings .22 in his pocket. He ALWAYS forgot to take it out before he sat down in the former cop mobile, resulting in an odd yoga style pelvic bridge as he pushed his hips upward toward God so he could retrieve this should-be-forgotten piece of American weaponry. He placed it on the center console and covered it with pair of brown jersey work gloves. He kept it handy, in case there was trouble. Started the car, and started driving. Pat was always dealing in not necessarily illegal, but, shady stuff. Used wheelchairs, used shelving he picked out of dumpsters, stuff like that. He did ok with it, too, he bought his Grandma and Grandpa's house after she died in '99.
J-"Where we going?"
P-"I told ya, we gotta hit Radio Shack, I need a rheostat."
J-"Oh yeah, Radio Shack" he chuckled, "What you *fixing* now?"
P-"I got a bunch of two-way radios out of an old truck fleet, and sold 'em to that Greenleaf
Landscaping dude. He's too cheap to buy new, and his guys won't answer their cell phones"
J-"We installing them?"
P-"Hell no, he can do that himself."
Pat turns on his signal, a good 1/4 to 1/2 a mile before the strip mall that Radio Shack was in, he was going to take the side streets.
J-"Why do you always go out of your way? There's an entrance 1/4 mile up."
P-"I hate trying to turn in off the highway. You want me to get rear-ended?"
Silence from the passenger's seat as Pat turned off the signal and kept straight on past his first choice of strip mall entrances. The stress was visible in Patrick's face as he started to slow down before the entrance to the strip mall. He hoped beyond hope that he didn't have to come to a complete stop on such a busy highway. That nobody was waiting to exit, or enter, or anything to slow down this death defying act.
P-You happy, now? I'm doing it.
Pat also knew the old Diplomat wouldn't be able to withstand one more fender bender, especially not at the speeds "these idiots" drive on this road.
J-Dude, it doesn't really matter to me, I just think you need to chill with the fake OCD.
P-Fake OCD? What the fuck is that? fake OCD, I don't have OCD, fake or not.
Patrick captained the Diplomat into the parking lot with the skill of a helicopter pilot.
P-Great, no fucking spots, anywhere, no fucking spots.
J-Just pull up in front, leave it running, I'll wait here.
Patrick started doing pace laps up and down, in and out of every aisle.
P-Is that a... damn. What abou...damn.
J-dude, just pull up front, I'll wait here!
P-I'll just hop into the handicapped spot, this'll only take a minute, I want you to come in with me.
J-Why do I need to go in with...
Patrick started to pull into a handicapped spot
J-Dude, don't take a handicapped spot. Just pull up front.
Patrick stops the car, half in and half out of the handicapped spot, wheel cranked all the way left.
P-Why do I need to save a spot for someone that isn't here yet? Why should I not park here?
In case a handicapped person, who isn't here yet, by the way, happens to pull in, in the three
minutes it takes to buy a rheostat?
J-Yes
Pat cuts Javi off mid "yes"
P-Lemme ask you a question, if you go to the bathroom, and all the urinals and stalls are taken
except the handi...
Javi cuts him off in turn
J-No, I wouldn't wait, I'd take a leak in the handicapped stall, but, that only takes thirty seconds
and I'd lift the seat.
Pat pulls the rest of the way into the spot.
P-Consider this me lifting the seat. Most people with handicapped mirror things aren't even
handicapped, they're just fat, or lazy, or have a bad toe, they'll give those things to anyone!
I'll limp. Good Enough?
Pat gets out of the car, leans back in, removes the Jennings from it's work glove covered stealth position. Puts it back in his pocket and starts limping toward Radio Shack.
P-Be right back, need anything?
J-Why would I need anything from Radio Shack, hurry up.
Pat puts the pistol in his pocket, pulls up his pants and heads toward the Radio Shack.
Javi sticks his head out of the window and yells to Patrick
J-YOU KNOW, ONLY OLD PEOPLE WHO USE PRE-PAID CELL PHONES GO IN THERE!
Patrick give a behind the back one fingered response in the general direction of Javi and the Diplomat.
Javi tries to tune something in on the AM radio that the "fuckin' Dodge" came with. Static.
That's when the incessant horn blowing from some type of mid-range SUV with all the plastic chrome China has to offer begins. Javi sticks his head out of the window "WHAT?!"
The obviously obese woman with four kids and their caretaker, (maybe Mom, maybe not), rolls down her window and starts eye-balling the sad old Diplomat sitting in the handicapped spot, obviously looking for some type of permit, license plate or anything that would grant that "piece of shit" entry to the promised land of the parking lot. None found.
She yells "Hey, can you move your car?" followed by a sarcastic "PLEASE!"
Javi gets out of the car"Just a second, Ma'am, he's just run into Radio Shack, he'll be right out"
Javi gets back in the car. She starts blowing the horn again. This time for 15-20 seconds at a time.
HOOOOOOOOOONK! HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!
Javi sighs and texts Pat
"Hurry the fuck up"
Pat looks at his phone, sees the text and asks the clerk, who is also checking his phone, for whatever nonsense might be going on in social media land, "Hi, don't get up, can you just point me to the rheostats, you know, the electronic parts area?"
The clerk grabs a catalog and sighs "We'd have to order that type of stuff for you, We haven't really stocked that type of shit for decades, we're more of an electronic solutions store now, DUDE, is that a gun?"
P-No, um, no, whaddya mean "electronic solutions", I need a rheostat, that's my electronic solution,
a fucking (the most articulate 'fucking', you've ever heard, by the way)rheostat. Is the owner here?
Clerk-What's he gonna tell you that I didn't, dude, that IS a gun!
P-Don't worry about my pocket, can you get him?
Clerk-You gong to shoot me over a special order rheostat?
P-If you don't get the owner, yes, I;m going to shoot you over a special order rheostat.
HOOOOOOOOOOOOONK! HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!
The Mid-range SUV yells from it's half down window "I'm gonna call the cops, They'll tow you, NOW MOVE!!!"
HOOOOOOOOOOOOONK, HOOOOOOOOONK
Another text is sent, "Dude, HURRY THE FUCK UP"
The Radio Shack owner, comes out of the back room. "SIR," visibly nervous "Please put the gun down"
P-I haven't even pulled it out, what the fuck is wrong with you people? I just need a rheostat.
HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!!! HOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!!!
Pat hears the "PING!" of another text message.
HOOOOOOOOOOOONK HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!!
"MOVE!! I'm calling the cops"
HOOOOOOOONK, HOOOOOOOOOOOONK!!
PING!!
"SIR, DON'T SHOOT US!"
Pat reaches into his pocket to get his phone.
BANG! The Jennings goes off!!!
Everyone in the store ducks behind whatever they can! Patrick has shot himself in the foot.
The clerk grabs the phone, brings it down behind the counter, nervously dialing 9-1-
Patrick does his best to run, all he can do is limp run, back to the Diplomat, his sneaker filling with his own blood,
HOOOOOOOOOOOONK!! HOOOOOOOOOONK!!
J-Dude, what took you- WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO YOU?
Javi starts laughing hysterically.
J-The Fucking Jennings?!
Javi's laughter is now out of control.
J-The Fucking JENNINGS!!!
P-SHUT THE FUCK UP, THEY'RE CALLING THE COPS
J-So is the the fucking Buick behind us!!
Javi yells to the mid-range SUV, "Take the fucking spot!" then flips her off
as the Diplomat limps away.
"Hey, Shit head."
nothing
"Hey, SHIT HEAD!"
nothing
"God dammit"
he opens up the bedroom door, the TV is still on showing some new age soft spoken televangelist.
"Yo, Shit head, c'mon, get up, we gotta go."
Pat tosses a track jacket from the floor to the bed, on top of the pile of blankets from under which all you can see is the top of Javi's head. Then Patrick tosses a pair of jeans and kicks some old socks onto this same pile.
"OK, OK" replies the pile of blankets.
J-"What makes you think I wanna wear dirty clothes?
P-"Dude, you don't really have a choice, WE GOTTA GO!"
J-"Why so early dude?"
P-"I need to stop at Radio Shack on the way, C'mon, the cars runnin'"
J-"Radio Shack? What is this? '92?"
P-"I gotcha coffee, let's fucking go."
J-"alright"
Javi walks outside to see Pat waiting in the '88 Dodge Diplomat that his grandfather bought at a police auction in '91, when Pat's grandfather passed away a year later, the car was given to Pat. He's had it ever since.
J-"Why you dressed like 'Pulp Fiction'?"
Pat gets into the driver seat and puts his keys in.
P-"How does someone dress like an entire goddamm movie?"
Unless he was trying to make a point the term "God Damned" was pronounced as a two syllable word by Pat, with one "D", godamm.
P-"How is black jeans and an old Flutie shirt "Pulp Fiction"
J-"Black Jeans"
P-"What? never mind"
Pat always had a shitty little Jennings .22 in his pocket. He ALWAYS forgot to take it out before he sat down in the former cop mobile, resulting in an odd yoga style pelvic bridge as he pushed his hips upward toward God so he could retrieve this should-be-forgotten piece of American weaponry. He placed it on the center console and covered it with pair of brown jersey work gloves. He kept it handy, in case there was trouble. Started the car, and started driving. Pat was always dealing in not necessarily illegal, but, shady stuff. Used wheelchairs, used shelving he picked out of dumpsters, stuff like that. He did ok with it, too, he bought his Grandma and Grandpa's house after she died in '99.
J-"Where we going?"
P-"I told ya, we gotta hit Radio Shack, I need a rheostat."
J-"Oh yeah, Radio Shack" he chuckled, "What you *fixing* now?"
P-"I got a bunch of two-way radios out of an old truck fleet, and sold 'em to that Greenleaf
Landscaping dude. He's too cheap to buy new, and his guys won't answer their cell phones"
J-"We installing them?"
P-"Hell no, he can do that himself."
Pat turns on his signal, a good 1/4 to 1/2 a mile before the strip mall that Radio Shack was in, he was going to take the side streets.
J-"Why do you always go out of your way? There's an entrance 1/4 mile up."
P-"I hate trying to turn in off the highway. You want me to get rear-ended?"
Silence from the passenger's seat as Pat turned off the signal and kept straight on past his first choice of strip mall entrances. The stress was visible in Patrick's face as he started to slow down before the entrance to the strip mall. He hoped beyond hope that he didn't have to come to a complete stop on such a busy highway. That nobody was waiting to exit, or enter, or anything to slow down this death defying act.
P-You happy, now? I'm doing it.
Pat also knew the old Diplomat wouldn't be able to withstand one more fender bender, especially not at the speeds "these idiots" drive on this road.
J-Dude, it doesn't really matter to me, I just think you need to chill with the fake OCD.
P-Fake OCD? What the fuck is that? fake OCD, I don't have OCD, fake or not.
Patrick captained the Diplomat into the parking lot with the skill of a helicopter pilot.
P-Great, no fucking spots, anywhere, no fucking spots.
J-Just pull up in front, leave it running, I'll wait here.
Patrick started doing pace laps up and down, in and out of every aisle.
P-Is that a... damn. What abou...damn.
J-dude, just pull up front, I'll wait here!
P-I'll just hop into the handicapped spot, this'll only take a minute, I want you to come in with me.
J-Why do I need to go in with...
Patrick started to pull into a handicapped spot
J-Dude, don't take a handicapped spot. Just pull up front.
Patrick stops the car, half in and half out of the handicapped spot, wheel cranked all the way left.
P-Why do I need to save a spot for someone that isn't here yet? Why should I not park here?
In case a handicapped person, who isn't here yet, by the way, happens to pull in, in the three
minutes it takes to buy a rheostat?
J-Yes
Pat cuts Javi off mid "yes"
P-Lemme ask you a question, if you go to the bathroom, and all the urinals and stalls are taken
except the handi...
Javi cuts him off in turn
J-No, I wouldn't wait, I'd take a leak in the handicapped stall, but, that only takes thirty seconds
and I'd lift the seat.
Pat pulls the rest of the way into the spot.
P-Consider this me lifting the seat. Most people with handicapped mirror things aren't even
handicapped, they're just fat, or lazy, or have a bad toe, they'll give those things to anyone!
I'll limp. Good Enough?
Pat gets out of the car, leans back in, removes the Jennings from it's work glove covered stealth position. Puts it back in his pocket and starts limping toward Radio Shack.
P-Be right back, need anything?
J-Why would I need anything from Radio Shack, hurry up.
Pat puts the pistol in his pocket, pulls up his pants and heads toward the Radio Shack.
Javi sticks his head out of the window and yells to Patrick
J-YOU KNOW, ONLY OLD PEOPLE WHO USE PRE-PAID CELL PHONES GO IN THERE!
Patrick give a behind the back one fingered response in the general direction of Javi and the Diplomat.
Javi tries to tune something in on the AM radio that the "fuckin' Dodge" came with. Static.
That's when the incessant horn blowing from some type of mid-range SUV with all the plastic chrome China has to offer begins. Javi sticks his head out of the window "WHAT?!"
The obviously obese woman with four kids and their caretaker, (maybe Mom, maybe not), rolls down her window and starts eye-balling the sad old Diplomat sitting in the handicapped spot, obviously looking for some type of permit, license plate or anything that would grant that "piece of shit" entry to the promised land of the parking lot. None found.
She yells "Hey, can you move your car?" followed by a sarcastic "PLEASE!"
Javi gets out of the car"Just a second, Ma'am, he's just run into Radio Shack, he'll be right out"
Javi gets back in the car. She starts blowing the horn again. This time for 15-20 seconds at a time.
HOOOOOOOOOONK! HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!
Javi sighs and texts Pat
"Hurry the fuck up"
Pat looks at his phone, sees the text and asks the clerk, who is also checking his phone, for whatever nonsense might be going on in social media land, "Hi, don't get up, can you just point me to the rheostats, you know, the electronic parts area?"
The clerk grabs a catalog and sighs "We'd have to order that type of stuff for you, We haven't really stocked that type of shit for decades, we're more of an electronic solutions store now, DUDE, is that a gun?"
P-No, um, no, whaddya mean "electronic solutions", I need a rheostat, that's my electronic solution,
a fucking (the most articulate 'fucking', you've ever heard, by the way)rheostat. Is the owner here?
Clerk-What's he gonna tell you that I didn't, dude, that IS a gun!
P-Don't worry about my pocket, can you get him?
Clerk-You gong to shoot me over a special order rheostat?
P-If you don't get the owner, yes, I;m going to shoot you over a special order rheostat.
HOOOOOOOOOOOOONK! HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!
The Mid-range SUV yells from it's half down window "I'm gonna call the cops, They'll tow you, NOW MOVE!!!"
HOOOOOOOOOOOOONK, HOOOOOOOOONK
Another text is sent, "Dude, HURRY THE FUCK UP"
The Radio Shack owner, comes out of the back room. "SIR," visibly nervous "Please put the gun down"
P-I haven't even pulled it out, what the fuck is wrong with you people? I just need a rheostat.
HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!!! HOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!!!
Pat hears the "PING!" of another text message.
HOOOOOOOOOOOONK HOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOOONK!!
"MOVE!! I'm calling the cops"
HOOOOOOOONK, HOOOOOOOOOOOONK!!
PING!!
"SIR, DON'T SHOOT US!"
Pat reaches into his pocket to get his phone.
BANG! The Jennings goes off!!!
Everyone in the store ducks behind whatever they can! Patrick has shot himself in the foot.
The clerk grabs the phone, brings it down behind the counter, nervously dialing 9-1-
Patrick does his best to run, all he can do is limp run, back to the Diplomat, his sneaker filling with his own blood,
HOOOOOOOOOOOONK!! HOOOOOOOOOONK!!
J-Dude, what took you- WHAT THE FUCK HAPPENED TO YOU?
Javi starts laughing hysterically.
J-The Fucking Jennings?!
Javi's laughter is now out of control.
J-The Fucking JENNINGS!!!
P-SHUT THE FUCK UP, THEY'RE CALLING THE COPS
J-So is the the fucking Buick behind us!!
Javi yells to the mid-range SUV, "Take the fucking spot!" then flips her off
as the Diplomat limps away.
Tuesday, April 30, 2013
They asked him, he didn't ask for us. Why would he? It's Sunday morning and you people don't even look like you know how to dress for church. As a matter of fact, most of you don't even look like you know how to dress for the Perkins you are lucky enough to be waiting to be seated in.
His baby blue heather button down is neatly pressed and tucked into his Navy blue 50/50 poly-cotton blend trousers. Pin straight, not quite blonde, not quite brown, parted on the side neatly, so neatly any of Dick Van Dyke's characters would be proud. The brown belt doesn't do much for the ensemble, neither does the "Shift Manager" name tag, but, who are we to judge?
The owners of Perkins have entrusted him with the waiting area public address system, not us. And why wouldn't they? He certainly knows how to "Ahem, Claire, party of four, Claire, party of four" to the fifteen waiting people, to use the term loosely, that have been waiting impatiently for a booth. A booth all to themselves, a booth to slurp coffee, a booth to choke down a "Just off the exit, easy off, easy on" breakfast, a booth with impenetrable invisible walls, like a recording studio, nobody outside of your booth could possibly hear your conversation, nobody.
He does though, the cat torturing, Sunday Morning Host with the Most, he hears your conversations. As you look through the pages of the laminated menu, trying to decide what bit of genetically modified grub you want to throw down your godless throat, mumbling about what you got up to last night, he's listening. He's heard it all before, too. He's not a fan of your t-shirt either, if he has to be white washed, why shouldn't you have to be? He doesn't care that you and your "shamrock-with-a-beer-mug-in-it" t-shirt drank the entire East Stroudsburg mile of shame in less than three hours.
"Ahem, Ellie, party of three, Ellie, party of three, Melissa will show you to your booth". He still can't believe that he has to walk past the lady with the bleach blonde half beehive, half bear claw hair do that still wears that same polyester pant-suit that was slaughtered back in '84. Wait until the phone conversation with Mom later on.
I think he knows I'm on to him. He must. He's seen people like me a million times before. I say "Hello." after he called my name, "Ahem, Larry, party of two, Ahe". I probably shouldn't have cut him off. How dare I interrupt the lines he had been given at Sunday Morning Shift Manager training, Perkins style? This is his stage, not mine. This is his starring role. He's the one in the spotlight. It's his turn. It's his turn every Sunday morning, except that one week he gets to visit Mom and Dad in Binghamton. They don't even have a Perkins in Binghamton anymore. Poor bastards.
Glen, if I recall.
It's time to pay now. The guy in front of us is picking up a strawberry pie, "fresh" from the "bakery", for some function where he and Gladys were asked to "Just bring a dessert!". Now, this is painful, the lady behind the register, her rhinestone brooch glistening in the compact fluorescent rays, is catching up with someone on the phone, explaining that "It's been waay too long" and "we need to get together soon". Inquiring about somebody's child, she places her hand over the microphone part of the phone, stretching the wall mounted slim line phone's cord almost to it's breaking point, and shouts into the kitchen "I NEED HELP OUT HERE!!". I can see why, the people waiting to pay for their pies or meals outnumber her, three to one, there may have been a riot. She knows the signs of a riot, too. Debit cards in hand, small talk, the small talk is deafening, the three of us waiting, looking around, hoping Glen comes to our rescue, but, before Glen had a chance to bend the rules and move from behind his lectern, aid had arrived. Payments were made. We all parted ways.
His baby blue heather button down is neatly pressed and tucked into his Navy blue 50/50 poly-cotton blend trousers. Pin straight, not quite blonde, not quite brown, parted on the side neatly, so neatly any of Dick Van Dyke's characters would be proud. The brown belt doesn't do much for the ensemble, neither does the "Shift Manager" name tag, but, who are we to judge?
The owners of Perkins have entrusted him with the waiting area public address system, not us. And why wouldn't they? He certainly knows how to "Ahem, Claire, party of four, Claire, party of four" to the fifteen waiting people, to use the term loosely, that have been waiting impatiently for a booth. A booth all to themselves, a booth to slurp coffee, a booth to choke down a "Just off the exit, easy off, easy on" breakfast, a booth with impenetrable invisible walls, like a recording studio, nobody outside of your booth could possibly hear your conversation, nobody.
He does though, the cat torturing, Sunday Morning Host with the Most, he hears your conversations. As you look through the pages of the laminated menu, trying to decide what bit of genetically modified grub you want to throw down your godless throat, mumbling about what you got up to last night, he's listening. He's heard it all before, too. He's not a fan of your t-shirt either, if he has to be white washed, why shouldn't you have to be? He doesn't care that you and your "shamrock-with-a-beer-mug-in-it" t-shirt drank the entire East Stroudsburg mile of shame in less than three hours.
"Ahem, Ellie, party of three, Ellie, party of three, Melissa will show you to your booth". He still can't believe that he has to walk past the lady with the bleach blonde half beehive, half bear claw hair do that still wears that same polyester pant-suit that was slaughtered back in '84. Wait until the phone conversation with Mom later on.
I think he knows I'm on to him. He must. He's seen people like me a million times before. I say "Hello." after he called my name, "Ahem, Larry, party of two, Ahe". I probably shouldn't have cut him off. How dare I interrupt the lines he had been given at Sunday Morning Shift Manager training, Perkins style? This is his stage, not mine. This is his starring role. He's the one in the spotlight. It's his turn. It's his turn every Sunday morning, except that one week he gets to visit Mom and Dad in Binghamton. They don't even have a Perkins in Binghamton anymore. Poor bastards.
Glen, if I recall.
It's time to pay now. The guy in front of us is picking up a strawberry pie, "fresh" from the "bakery", for some function where he and Gladys were asked to "Just bring a dessert!". Now, this is painful, the lady behind the register, her rhinestone brooch glistening in the compact fluorescent rays, is catching up with someone on the phone, explaining that "It's been waay too long" and "we need to get together soon". Inquiring about somebody's child, she places her hand over the microphone part of the phone, stretching the wall mounted slim line phone's cord almost to it's breaking point, and shouts into the kitchen "I NEED HELP OUT HERE!!". I can see why, the people waiting to pay for their pies or meals outnumber her, three to one, there may have been a riot. She knows the signs of a riot, too. Debit cards in hand, small talk, the small talk is deafening, the three of us waiting, looking around, hoping Glen comes to our rescue, but, before Glen had a chance to bend the rules and move from behind his lectern, aid had arrived. Payments were made. We all parted ways.
Thursday, April 18, 2013
Why in one breath do people want more freedoms for certain groups of people, but, want freedoms taken away from certain other groups in the very next breath?
I want government to stay out of most aspects of our daily lives.
Helmet laws, reproductive rights, gun laws, religion, marriage laws, literature, sexuality, paychecks, soft drink size, what motor vehicles I wish to operate, etc.
I don't condone censorship, prejudice, racism or any other types of bias.
I truly believe that a lot of our problems with one another are created as a distraction. I really believe it's all smoke and mirrors.
All the creators of our problems want is our money. If they have to, they'll create another problem to try to separate us from our cash. Keep us paying. Making us want. Making us consume things to make us sick, then making us pay to feel better. All the time, keeping us distracted so we don't see it.
The real money is in maintenance, not repair.
I want government to stay out of most aspects of our daily lives.
Helmet laws, reproductive rights, gun laws, religion, marriage laws, literature, sexuality, paychecks, soft drink size, what motor vehicles I wish to operate, etc.
I don't condone censorship, prejudice, racism or any other types of bias.
I truly believe that a lot of our problems with one another are created as a distraction. I really believe it's all smoke and mirrors.
All the creators of our problems want is our money. If they have to, they'll create another problem to try to separate us from our cash. Keep us paying. Making us want. Making us consume things to make us sick, then making us pay to feel better. All the time, keeping us distracted so we don't see it.
The real money is in maintenance, not repair.
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