I Would’ve Fucked Billy Joel Up

I Would’ve Fucked Billy Joel Up

There was a theme throughout some Billy Joel songs; riding motorcycles in the rain, not being too pretty or too proud, a backstreet guy. He’s from the wrong side of the tracks, a dangerous crowd. But the piano man never struck me as nefarious or intimidating in any way. He was the piano man, and I think he was like 5’4 soaking wet.

I worked overnight in this warehouse, a warehouse that imported and exported products of a Swedish company that sold cheap versions of everything in the world. The company had enough money to open a million square foot warehouse, but apparently didn’t have the funds to heat the gigantic cinder block come winter-time. So we drove around on our forklifts with multiple layers, yelling through our thermal ski masks, “IT’S FUCKIN FREEZING IN HERE, YO! WHAT THE FUCK!” They tried to tell us we couldn’t wear hoods- for safety reasons- but as one of the guys said, “that shit lasted zero, zero seconds.”

At first there was no music played in the warehouse; just the sounds of horns from the machines, machines knocking into racks, and guys dropping pallets then saying things like, “good, fuck em.” There were only about 15 of us working there, so you could go a little while without seeing anybody. All you had was your machine, the cold and your thoughts. Guys would lay on their horns, like they were whales in the wild waiting for a response from someone in their general vicinity. That was how they communicated most of the time, when they didn’t pass each other and stop for a chat about how cold it was or whatever. I hated the horn game, everybody else thought it was really funny for way too long, but that was who got hired at these places. 

The horns quieted after a few months then everybody got AirPods or brought in bluetooth speakers; neither of these were allowed… for safety reasons. The bluetooth speaker guys ruined it for the rest of us, not realizing that management wouldn’t bother us if we at least pretended to be sneaky about listening to something while on the machines. Some people just couldn’t get out of their own way. Instead they bumped their music for everyone to hear including the bosses, who in turn told us no more phones on the floor and they’d put music on for us over the warehouse speakers. They played a rotation of the same 3 Sirius stations on repeat for 10 hours a night. The phone rule went the way of the hoodie rule; zero seconds.

Each station had a few artists that dominated the playlist; P!nk and Eminem ruled Pop 2k, Stevie Wonder was all over The Groove, and Billy Joel seemed to be every other song on I’m a White Guy From Staten or Long Island/70s and 80s rock. I had my AirPods, but mostly listened to Podcasts so snippets of songs would be in the background when I passed under a speaker. Or sometimes my phone would be dead, and I’d be forced to hear the same 18 songs that played every day. Either way I was getting way more Joel than I wanted.

Billy Joel was a hero to most people from my neck of the woods; white people who couldn’t dance. My parents were from Bill’s time, and they played him quite a bit when we were growing up. My mom and sister saw him play at the Garden; it was a right of passage for people from Staten Island. I liked him just fine, but after a while it was just like, y’know, I didn’t think I ever needed to hear another Billy Joel song for as long as I lived. There was Spotify, I was spoiled and had options. I stopped going to Staten Island bars in my mid 20’s, and could say I went a few years without hearing Bill play me a memory. Until the Sirius XM barrage. 

It quickly went from, ‘I think I’m good, don’t need anymore Joel,’ to, ‘I want to fight Billy Joel. I want to go back in time and kick the shit out of a young Billy Joel.’ It was the faux tough guy act, not that I was some bar room brawler. But there I was, freezing my dick off making barely above minimum wage, and I had to listen to the guy who dressed up as a mechanic in the “Uptown Girl” video act like a hard ass. How did he get away with it for decades.

I was one of like four white guys in the warehouse. I wasn’t a fan of the other 3. They were the dumb nerd types, thinking that being socially retarded must have made them smart in some way. It always felt like they were loudly fake laughing at some barely clever thing one of them had said. They responded to each other with words like, “accurate,” “negative,” or “fuck that’s fucking funny dude shit.” They cursed like 12 year olds at the mall who were allowed public access without parental supervision for the first time in their lives. One of them was the fat dorky guy, the fat dorky guy who like wore cheap rings on a couple of different fingers for some reason. You could tell he listened to shitty death metal or Rush. Another was a frail, pocket sized guy with a biggish balding head and glasses. Always wearing a “Tough Mudder: Spartan Race” hoodie; the chosen activity of the woefully unathletic. I felt for that one, he just got the shit end of the genetic stick. The leader was the leader because he was the only one with a full head of hair, and who didn’t look like he came out of a cartoon. But he was a fuckin spaz, clomping around like a little boy wearing his dad’s shoes. His whole body swaying from right to left with every step. Since they were nerds with a dropout’s job, they had to act manly, like Billy Joel. They did this with the unnatural cursing, and by loudly talking about their gym schedule, while drinking milk purchased at the break room’s kiosk. 

Much like what I’ve heard about prison, everyone broke into groups based on their race at the warehouse. Initially, I assumed the position of loner rather than be lumped in with the dumb nerds. The only time I spoke was when the two black guys around my age were talking basketball, which turned out to be quite a bit. I played most of my life and nerded out on the NBA, so I could add my two cents with confidence, plus there was a hoop just outside the break room where I could knock down some jumpshots. I would never be adopted fully as a white black guy, because as soon as they started talking about hood politics and bad bitches, I went quiet. But I was tall, somewhat coordinated, and able to talk just enough shit to not be associated with the other whites.

The constant assault of Billy Joel wasn’t helping to dissuade the corny white stereotype either. No one else seemed to mind the repetitive playlists, at least if they did they weren’t making it known. And everything was made known in that place; I heard stories about everyones’ side pieces 40 times over. 60 year old men were bragging about their side pieces, and it just made me think, “bro, get a hobby. Why are you still putting in so much effort to cheat on your wife.” I was never the cheating kind, it just seemed exhausting, but I didn’t say as such, because then I would’ve been called a pussy in 8,000 different ways. There was no way in telling just how bad the reaction would be, if I was like, “hey fellas, don’t you think all the lying and cheating would hurt your girl’s feelings if she found out?” The response would probably have gone a little something like this- after the howling laughter died down- “THIS WHITE BOY DON’T GET NO PUSSY! HE TALKIN BOUT A FEMALE’S FEELINS! YOOOO YOU A BITCH!! MATTER FACT HE SOUNDIN LIKE A FEMALE!!” And that would go on for about 20 minutes, or however long was left on our break. I’ve worked with white guys who were the same way, their reaction would be more of anger and disgust than mockery, “you care about your girl’s feelings and well being? What’re you, some kinda liberal fag?” Those guys LOVED Billy Joel. They also loved Bruce Springsteen, because they thought “Born in the U.S.A” was a patriotic anthem, but that was a story for another day.

The president said- many times over- that it was very exciting. The president was a former game show host. But that didn’t make him wrong, necessarily; it wasn’t a dull time. It was all pretty exciting. I don’t think he meant it in the way I did. For him it seemed to be more of a conversational crutch, the prospect of everything was exciting to him, because it was another opportunity for him to win. Win what? It was never really clear.

I wanted to be fair to the president; he called it the Chinese Virus, which look, was not right. Not the right thing to say for a variety of reasons, but I did laugh. He called it very exciting in his very blasé tone. I guess he meant the potential to defeat the Chinese Virus was exciting, the former game show host loved having enemies to smite. Even invisible ones, he said something along the lines of, “and WE will, WE will, win, have victory, have victory over this invisible enemy.” It was second only in excitement to defeating the visible Chinese people. The president was also excited by how well we’d be doing as a nation once the Chinese Virus was vanquished. He also seemed to be delusional, and possibly half dead. You couldn’t really see his eyeballs; he was squinting so much. He did not want to address any negativity around people being quarantined, infected, and dying. But that was why people loved him, people loved denial and a false sense of security.

The corporation I worked for also liked to pretend that the pandemic wasn’t actually happening. All “non-essential businesses” were ordered to close down, to keep people’s exposure to the virus down. Through a loophole that listed warehouses as “essential” (likely because Amazon had warehouses), importing and exporting cheap furniture and shelving was considered to be something people needed access to, while hundreds were dying in hospitals on a daily basis. I was living with my oldish mother, pregnant sister, and asmatic brother in law. I told the job it was irresponsible for me to keep exposing myself for this unbelievably unimportant work, while New York City was in the throes of an outbreak. They responded, “we understand, you can use the rest of your vacation time, but we’re carrying on with business as usual here, and you’ll be expected back once the two weeks you have left are used up.” There were few subsects of humanity more spineless than middle management, a hoard of cowardly yes-men and women who would defend their $50,000 a year salary to the literal death. “We understand that society is crumbling, but we are undeterred in getting the soon to be dead public their haphazardly manufactured couches, which will be on a curbside in 9 months whether the customer perishes or not. It is our official position that we prefer not to kill your mother or unborn nephew, but this is a business, and we are subservient to our customers. If you have any questions… you really don’t have to ask. I think you probably know the answer. We feast on people’s desperation, stupidity, and fear.” 

 People kept showing up to work. The last day I went in, I attempted to rally the troops. Tried to get them angry that this gigantic corporation didn’t care if we got sick, and got people in our families sick. We were talking about it on break, and I opened with, “it’s only a matter of time, we’re allll gonna get this shit,” thinking that would get people worried. Except they just shrugged, the Dominican dude nodded, “yea, fuckin sucks, they don’t care. Someone in my daughter’s school had it too.” Then he shrugged, and the conversation was over. There was no outrage. 

A month or so into COVID-19, workers at the Amazon warehouse staged a walkout due to the corporation not treating their lives as a real thing that existed in the world. The guy who was the ringleader for the walkout was fired the next day, Amazon said because he was told to stay home for 14 days after coming into contact with an infected co-worker. Some middle class people on Staten Island- Billy Joel fans with a hard on for billionaires- defended the corporation’s actions, “dey fiyad him becuz he wuzn’t doin da social distance!” Based on my own warehouse experience, I’d say 99% of the workforce at Amazon wasn’t adhering to the social distancing rules. It wasn’t just poor people who couldn’t wrap their heads around social distancing. My friend who worked with educated people- engineers who worked on military defense missiles- he said people at his job wouldn’t say 6 feet apart. People can’t help themselves. My hypothesis was Billy Joel fans would still huddle together in Madison Square Garden during a pandemic if given the choice. I wasn’t sure if dumb middle class people loved billionaires or just hated poor people. Probably a mix of both, but leaning more towards the latter. They were way closer to the broke than they were to clinking glasses with Bezos. Bezos was just another omniscient being, who made their lives easier and dulled their inhibitions by delivering Hot Pockets to their front doors. The workers bees did everything but put the Hot Pocket into their microwaves then cut them into fun, triangular bite sized pieces. They weren’t better than many, but they were better than shithead Amazon workers.

I decided my best course of action was to stay home and put the ball in their court, after my two weeks of sick time were up. I bitched to anyone and everyone who would listen about how unfair warehouse workers were being treated. In particular, how unnecessary it was to keep my place of work open. A few days before my two weeks were up, my pregnant sister- the one I was supposedly saving by staying home- ordered cheap shelving off my job’s website. She laughed, “I’m sorry! I’m gonna need this once the baby comes!” I shook my head in disgust, “my own sister,” I repeated over and over again. She continued to laugh, I said, “it’s people like you, you’re the reason these corporations are able to run amok… my own sister.” She said she would put her husband’s name on the order, so our last name wouldn’t appear on the order. So my shame could be properly hid.

The betrayal along with an ugly truth snuck up and smacked me in the face, as I savored my coffee in a comfy hoodie and pajama bottoms. I glanced at the sourdough boule on my counter, whose measurements and proof times I was tinkering with over the past few weeks of freedom. I stared out the window, over to the plot of grass I turned over and smoothed with top soil. The chin up bar I had neglected for years, until this quarantine was put in place. Until I had declared myself and my co-workers non-essential. I thought about how I couldn’t listen to another mundane conversation about bitches, another stale joke followed by the roar of a horn, another pre-shift meeting about how the customer was always right. I couldn’t freeze my ass off for one more night, surrounded by rack after rack of soon to be garbage piles. I didn’t want to have Billy Joel forced upon my ears for another second.

Boring White People on Vacation II

I was going to pubs during the day, for a pint or two and some stew. When I was ready to leave and the barkeep asked if I wanted anything else, I responded with, “think I’ll just pay up.” I didn’t know where that came from. I hadn’t heard any Irish people saying that, and it wasn’t a phrase I ever used back in the States. The only instance I could recall anyone saying those words was a cliche henchman in an old timey movie, “you better pay up! Or else!” But for some reason my brain decided this was the way for a cool American such as myself to say, “check please!” while drinking and eating in Ireland.

I did it twice, with the same blond haired Irish broguing beautiful bartender. Both times I wanted to immediately throw myself into traffic upon exiting the pub. She asked, “noother pint then?” And I came back with, “think I’ll just pay up,” because I was trying to sound nonchalant and cool and vaguely Irish or something. Pathetic.

 

Americans are annoying, just inherently annoying people. If you ever look up reviews for a food and drink establishment,  you can spot the Americans right away. The Americans are the one complaining that the bartender didn’t greet them, or the waitress didn’t seat them, or the ketchup wasn’t already on the table when they arrived; they had to ask for the ketchup. They care more about being treated like a child by hospitality staff than eating food that tastes good.

Another way to tell is if you hear people laughing loudly at things that aren’t funny. Or more specifically, talking very loudly about how horrible Brexit is going to be for Ireland, in front of a bunch of Irish people who are serving them pints and stew. Acting like experts on every topic known to man, and like no else in the world exists.

 

This group of old college pals moseyed into the pub, where I was enjoying some Smithwick’s, vegetable stew with brown bread, and the blonde bartender. After much confusion as to where they should sit amongst all the vacant tables, they declared to the bartender that they were all college friends. The bartender replied, “oh,” or something, because who cares. They were the kind of people who seemed like they were born middle aged. You couldn’t imagine them being young, or having sex, or ever talking to a black person. Asking an authentic Irish where to sit was enough excitement for a lifetime. They made it very clear to everyone that they were on vacation, by shouting things like, “well since we’re in Ireland, guess we’ll have to have a Guiness!!” Then bellowing with laughter. One of the women said something about NPR, then one of the men responded with something from the Washington Post, because of course they did. At least old conservatives plant their racism and thirst for oppression out in the open for all to see. Old affluent liberals try to mask it with their one gay Spanish friend and a subscription to the New Yorker. The article pissing contest continued for some time, until they were yell-talking about Brexit. Each person doing their damndest to show how much smarter they’ve gotten since college, how many regurgitated opinions they now had holstered. I couldn’t pay up fast enough.

 

Hunny had short straight blonde hair, a thick layer of makeup, dull black pants, and a great big blue shirt draping her slender seeming frame. She accessorized with loud earrings, an even louder low hanging necklace, and a precious little pocketbook. The guy -her husband- I don’t know… a goatee, salt and pepper, who cares, he was annoying. Annoying looking, annoying sounding, who cares.

Say what you will about them, but they executed their plan to perfection. Sure, luck was on their side, but they put themselves in a position to succeed. So we have to give credit where credit was due.

 Between the “traditional Irish music” set and the local cover band who was to follow, Hunny and her husband split up like they were in a episode of Scooby-Doo. They started prodding fellow patrons with small talk, looking for future stories they could tell at dinner parties. The first few were duds (other Americans) but almost simultaneously they struck gold, before converging at another dud (me). 

I sat at the bar, across the narrow walkway were more stools set up just off the wall with a small ledge for drinks. That was where Hunny found her prey, a newly married French couple in Ireland for their honeymoon. And my God were they beautiful and French; thin, sharp features, brown hair, and smelling of cigarettes. Most importantly, they weren’t trying at all. Hunny got her hooks into the young husband, asking about France so she could talk about the few times she’d been to Paris. She informed the Frenchman that Paris was it’s own place, had it’s own speed. The Frenchman nodded, “yes.” Hunny was insatiable, the Frenchman alone wasn’t enough, so she attempted to get his wife in on the intoxicating conversation. But Hunny was shot down when he informed Hunny that his wife, “does not speak so much English.” Hunny couldn’t hide her disappointment initially, but was able to make a condescending pivot, “oh… well that’s ok. YOU speak English VERY. WELL.” The Frenchman smirked, “thank you, I learn to do it in school, but my wife… she grows up in more of a small place, so she learns now.” Hunny nodded, “well that is VERY ambitious of her,” then smiled the cuntiest smile I have ever seen.

Hunny’s husband scooted over from the bar, he would’ve cartwheeled over if he had the room or ability to do so. He cut in on Hunny’s thrilling conversation with his own catch, “Hunny? Hunny, this man is a Guiness Book World Record holder. Hunny? Hunny, he holds the Guiness World Record for shucking oysters. He’s here in Ireland for an oyster shucking competition, world wide! Hunny. Hunny? He’s from Toronto.” After a few moments of basking in his world record holding glory, the king oyster shucker laid out to the couple how they should spend the rest of their trip. “And look,” said the king, “is it the easiest place to get to? No. But the view, I mean, spectacular isn’t even a strong enough word. You just have to take it slow, take it slow and white knuckle it, white knuckle it around those tights turns and narrow bends.” Hunny’s husband nodded and repeated, “white knuckle it!” The king continued, “and, I mean look, I’m a restaurateur, I’ve eaten in some unbelievable places…” He paused for effect, “some of the best seafood I’ve ever had in my life.” All I could think was how much this guy loved the smell of his own farts. The husband lightly smacked the the small ledge with the drinks, “some of the best, Hunny, and he holds the world record for shucking oysters. We’re Colorado kids, me and my Hunny, so you can imagine, we don’t get to enjoy seafood too often, but when we do!! Let me buy you a beer, buy you a beer for all those oysters, all those oysters in such a short amount of time!”

Hunny went back to her conversation with the non-record holding French. Feeling out-experienced by the oyster king, she inquired where the French couple had been so far on their trip, so she could tell them where she had been. She told them about the first time her and her Husband had been to Ireland, 10 years into their marriage. “We took a bus tour around the Ring of Kerry, not too many people on the tour and it was ab-so-lute-ly beautiful… Had to white knuckle it a bit, but worth it, so worth it.” The Frenchman nodded, “sounds so nice.” Hunny nodded, “it really was. And the bus tour guide, the driver, he was the first Irishman we ever met,” she paused and concentrated, “proper met… the first one we really talked to, and it was fabulous.”

Hot Coffee

 

Although we had all presumably experienced the season of Summer before, Mommy and Daddy Newscaster were adamant; we musn’t venture out into the Hot Hot Heat this weekend, it would surely destroy what was left of our weak constitutions, or at the very least castrate us within mere minutes of being outdoors.

Maw and Paw telling me what to do usually enraged me, but I was secretly delighted to hear it this time, the societal obligation to make the most of my off days- particularly days off in the Summer- was an ever increasing annoyance. Saturdays were an especially hard day to motivate myself enough to leave the house. I was working 10 hour overnights Tuesday-Friday, and I generally did not become a somewhat functional human being until like 10-11 o’clock Sunday night. I’d been fighting hard to inject some pep in the early Summer Saturdays, but I felt myself sinking deeper into the couch with every passing freed up afternoon. The triple digits and promise of death if I even so much as put my sneakers on were just what the doctor ordered.

 

There were countless rebels on social media, defying our Guardians and partaking in all sorts of outdoor activities. This one or that one laughing in the Heat-Lord’s face on a beach, this one or that one splashing around without a care in the world with a fun drink in the pool, this one or that one at some dumb little cousin’s backyard birthday party. But also -of course- this one or that one pleading for the world to care that they were depressed and anxious and never liked the Sun in the first place.

I had woken up around noon then laid in bed for another hour. The Yankees were on at 1, so I moved this party to the couch, where I drank coffee and watched baseball for four hours straight.

I was in some kind of masochistic loop of drinking coffee and feeling horrible for drinking too much coffee, then trying to combat that with more coffee, and it was the only thing I wanted to do. My stomach was feeling all sorts of strange, bubbling like a percolator, and I was starting to disassociate from my body, but I kept deciding to pour cups of black coffee. The Yankee game was a blowout. Any friends I had were not contacting me and were not any of the rebels on social media, so I assumed they had already perished in the Summer Heat. I kept drinking coffee and compulsively scrolling through feeds. Some girls whom I vaguely knew were frolicking about in bathing suits, and the outside world didn’t seem as scary as Mommy and Daddy made it out to be. But Coffee was now calling the shots, and going outside seemed even more impossible than it did before. I sent out a group message to see if any comrades were alive, ten minutes past with no answer, so I put on another pot.

Before

 

They hadn’t gotten up yet, aside from periodically dragging their feet towards the bathroom. They were stuck on a loop; waking up, one making a move on the other, falling asleep, waking up, the other making a move on the one, falling asleep, waking up; no end in sight.

It was a little before 11 in the morning when it seemed like they might stay awake for good this time. They made one more move even though James barely had anything left, he was left red from exertion, but he had to strike while the iron was hot. They came and sprawled out, stretched and groaned, then James burrowed his head in between where Shayla’s armpit met the mattress, trying to disappear completely. He took a fake bite of her armpit, and she yelped like a dog whose tail had just been stepped on, then pushed his head away.

She spoke through a yawn, “get outta here you fuckin’ weirdooo.”

James kept burrowing with his voice muffled in the sheets, “I’m stahvin’, c’mon, just a little bite, whaddaya need an armpit for any damn way.”

Shayla yelped again and laughed, “eat your own damn armpit, I need mine, we’re gonna do great things together.”

He burrowed still, “what’s your armpit know about greatness… just a little bite, I’m dying over here.”

She smiled and pushed his head away, “go be a sweetheart then and make us some breakfast, whaddaya think I’m not dyin, too?”

He finally gave up on his burrowing, “you never looked more alive, that’s why your armpit is so appetizing.”

She rolled away from him, “Goddddd, how did I end up with this fuckin crazy person who won’t go make me breakfast?!”

James rolled Shayla back and forth on the bed, like she was pretzel dough. Shayla protested and kept demanding breakfast, this all went on for some time.

 

Around noon, James finally put some sweats on, and looked as though he might go make them breakfast. He laid back down, and Shayla threw her arms up in protest.

“What the hell are you laying back down for?!”

James grinned, “I gotta plan out my prep, what direction do we want to go in with this meal?”

She put her hands over her face, “WHHYYYY??”

He stared straight up at the ceiling, “what kind of journey do we want to take, y’know?”

She rolled over and put her hand just below James’s neck, pretending to choke him, “the type of journey where I’m eating in 5 god damn minutes, K?”

James nodded very seriously, and put his hands together up near his mouth, softly tapping them in deep contemplation, “the type of journey where we’re eating in 5 god damn minutes… ok, great, great. So a very fast journey? We want a day trip? We want this meal to feel like a super fun day trip?”

She rolled off of him, buried her head in her pillow and pretended to cry.

James kept contemplating, then asked, “do you have any Eggos in your freezer? I would kill for some Eggos. Leggo my Eggo.”

She slowly turned her head, “no, I don’t have any fuckin Eggos,” as a maniacal grin shot across her face.

He shrugged, “well that would take care of all our problems. Lil Eggo? Lil butter? Lil syrup? Fry a fuckin egg on the side? 5 minutes right there. Good morning, good afternoon, good night, get home safe, know what I’m sayin?”

She stared at him, still with half a maniacal grin on her face, “no, I have no idea what you’re saying. I don’t have any Eggos.”

He sighed, “wanna go out and get some?”

She threw her hands up again, “just make some waffles, I have all the shit for that.”

He grimaced, “so much work.”

“And driving to the store to get Eggos isn’t? Also, Eggos suck, and your waffles are great,” she batted her eyelashes.

He pushed away from her, “don’t try to butter me up, the only thing we’re gonna butter up is some Eggos… Eggos suck, you’re out of your mind. I use to live on Eggos, it’s the only thing I ate for like the first 13 years of my life.”

She laughed, “why?”

James shrugged, “I don’t know, I was a super picky eater. I ate Eggos, scrambled eggs, and like chicken cutlets. And I remember being like, y’know, having like laser focus with the Eggos, trying to get an  even amount of syrup in each of the waffle indent things, like when you’re filling up an  empty ice tray… is there a word for that, the indents of a waffle?”

Shayla suddenly had a very sincere look on her face, “I don’t know, but the image of you as a little boy, like standing on a little stool and trying to get an even amount of syrup in each of the waffle indents makes me want to cry.”

He smiled, “oh Jesus.”

She pulled him back in towards her, “that’s so fuckin cute, I can’t take it.”

He half-heartedly pushed away from her, “alright, ok, I’ll go make waffles.”

She ran her fingers through James’s hair, “nope, we have to go get Eggos now,” she mimicked a little boy’s voice, “and a big bottle of syrup, because a growing boy needs an equal amount of syrup in each waffle indent!!”

He laughed, “what have I done.”

Shayla tried to roll him back and forth, like he was pretzel dough, “no, c’mon, lets go, up and up.”

They threw on clothes and headed out the door, as she continued to mimic a little boy talking about how much he loved syrup.

 

Shayla reached for a cart right before they entered the Stop n Shop, indicating that this had evolved into a mini errand as opposed to just an Eggo run. They debated if the fruit was up to their lofty standards, and switched cart driving responsibilities every time one of them grabbed something off a shelf. They stopped towards the back of the produce section to evaluate the various mesh netted bag of onions, when a boy of no more than 12- with a budding mustache that didn’t match the rest of his youthful face, and a plaid shirt tucked into his dad jeans- preached to a peer of his,

“I’m done with organic, that’s why I eat Chic-fil-a!!”

His confidant nodded as if he had just read an interesting factoid from a New York Times article. Shayla and James stopped dead in their tracks, and with wide eyes looked at each other, holding back laughter and waiting for the tiny boy-dad with Mussolini like convictions to disappear out of ear shot. When they did James broke the silence.

“What was that??” He repeated as Shayla gasped for air while leaning on their cart, her face buried in her hands, “what WAS that??”

After a few more moments of bewilderments and hyena-like yelps she finally responded, “I don’t know, I don’t know,” she was about to say something else when she lost it and buried her face once again.

James panoramically looked around the store, “was he that other 10 year old’s dad? What the fuck WAS that??”

Shayla punched James with her left arm and kept her face buried in her right, then she finally came up for air and tried speaking one more time, “I don’t know, why does he hate organic so much, I don’t get it.”

James just shook his head in horror.

Shayla continued, “let’s just get the Eggos and get the hell out of here, I can’t deal with these prepubescent 40 year olds, it’s too much right now.”

Shayla pushed the cart as James ducked behind her, apprehensively following like they had just entered a haunted house.

They grabbed the Eggos and dramatically darted towards the checkout line, as the young man-dad-boy turned into the top of the frozen food aisle. They went to the self-checkout and finally felt safe. They rang up the frozen waffles along with the rest of the incomplete shopping list. As they headed to the exits Shayla pried further about the Eggos.

“So why’d ya stop eating Eggos exclusively, I’ve never even seen Eggos in your freezer.”

James considered the question for a moment before answering, “I don’t know, I guess it was around the time I started masturbating, so jerking off became an option and I stopped caring about anything else… even my precious Eggos.”

Shayla smirked, “my friends thought I was weird when I told them I started masturbating.”

James grinned, “for real?”

Shayla rolled her eyes, “yea… but I was like, ‘pfffttt, whatever! Fuck you bitches! You don’t know what you’re missing out on with your repressed asses! Feels great.’”

A wide smile shot across James’s face as he wrapped his arm around Shayla’s shoulder and swayed her from side to side while they walked out of the store, “yea, fuck those bitches any damn way, who needs em.”

After

 

His arm wrapped around the back of her neck, and draped down her shoulder, like a dead fox that kept some rich white woman warm in a 1970s cartoon, a woman who was always offended by the inherent silliness of the world around her. Their world was blocked out for the time being, by drawn shades and a job well done.

With his free arm he grabbed the vape pen off the night stand next to them, inhaled then filled their head space with faux weed smoke. She gazed at the cloud for a few moments, as if day dreaming, trying to decipher which animal the cloud resembled, “why do you always do that after?” He smirked, “I don’t think it’s always.” She side eyed him, “MOST of the time.” He shrugged and closed his eyes, “I dunno, it’s a good combo… like tuna casserole and elderberries,” he went to take another pull but laughed through a coughing fit instead. Her face scrunched up in horror, as she shook her head and begrudgingly laughed along with him, “WHHATTTT, uuugghhh… maybe we should stop in that case.” She half-heartedly pushed away from him as he curled her back in tighter, laughing all the while. “Just kidding, just kidding,” he paused for a second, the cloud thinning out above them, “it’s like peanut butter and… tuna fish casserole.” She pushed him away again and wouldn’t allow him to curl her back in, “sssttaaahhhppp.” A few minutes of laughing and fake wrestling passed then he took another pull. He was a bit more serious, “nah, but it’s like, I dunno, a preservative… slows down time when things are feelin good… it’s like turning life into strawberry jam.” That hung in the air for a minute, like a cloud of smoke, and she smiled before responding, “so you need to like… make a quick sandwich or something?” He laughed loudly, not realizing he was making nothing but food comparisons, “maybe in a few minutes, I’m still making the jam.” She shook her head but continued to smile, “well make me a sammich too, when you go.”

She rubbed his tattoos as they hung down by her bare chest, gazing at them as she did the cloud, “so colorful.” He grinned, “gotta make the most of this pastiness.” She kissed the colors, “so when’re you gonna get that one of me?” She grinned in that cute, smug way that irritated him. He rolled his eyes and took his arm away. She kept on it, “you have another girl on your arm.” He laughed, “what? She’s a dead singer that I never met, who cares… it’s not like I got it because we were in love. I liked her music.” She looked away, “well you still got it, I don’t see what the big deal is.” He shook his head in disbelief, “you do realize it’s permanent, right?” She shrugged, “you don’t seem to care about the other ones being permanent, maybe you just don’t think we’ll be together very long.” He rolled his eyes again, “not if we keep having dumb arguments like this.” She grabbed her shirt from the end of the bed, “so now I’m dumb.” He rubbed his temples with both hands, “THIS is dumb, if I got a giant tattoo of your face on my arm you’d be freaked out that I was some obsessive maniac, so what’s the point of this dumb argument. I’m not gonna get a tattoo of you like I’m not going to get one of anyone else in my life, so let’s just drop it, what’s the point.” She continued to stare straight ahead, gazing at the door as she did the tattoos, “so it’s not obsessive to have another girl’s face on your arm.” He threw his hands up in the air, “I got this like 5 years before I even met you, what the fuck do you care.” He shot up, put on his sweats and walked out of the room.

He paced around the kitchen, opening up a cabinet, then opening up the fridge, then opening up the cabinet again, closing the each door with a noticeable thud. He finally walked over to some sandwich bread near his coffee machine, and threw it over to a more spacious area of the counter. The jam jar was almost completely see through, with sporadic strawberry globs near the bottom, and remnants smeared around the sides. He lathered up two slices with peanut butter, then he scraped around the glass jar using the knife as a squeegee, trying to salvage every last red drop.

She was still on the bed when he re-entered the room, sitting upright and leaning against the back wall with eyes down on her phone. He walked over with two sandwiches in his right hand, and his left hand acting as a claw while he pinched two plastic cups of water together. He set the waters down on the nightstand next to the vape pen then sat down on his bed, and extended the paper towel wrapped sandwich over towards her, as a peace offering. She reluctantly accepted and took a bite, then inspected the sandwich after another mouthful, “what happened to making the jam?” She smiled in that cute, smug way that drove him nuts. He grinned, “shuttt uppppp,” then lunged over, trying to take a bite out of her sandwich. They wrestled and kissed random parts of one another, in between half-hearted lunges and biting at the air. Like puppies, each trying to consume what the other had left.

Can’t, Got Work

Can’t, Got Work

Doctor says I’m slowly killing myself, but not in those words, he implied that in doctor slang. And he didn’t say slowly or give any time table really, I just liked to think it would take a little while. Truth be told, it could all probably cease in the blink of an eye. Doctor didn’t say that either, it’s just what I was piecing together from what he actually said.

He said, you look like shit, like you don’t sleep or sit down for meals. Well, that part I told him, after he inquired about my sleeping and eating habits. I slept, just sporadically, and not always in my bed. I ate hunched over a counter, and rarely whole meals, generally just samplings of many meals, meals that I was trying to perfect. Meals that mattered.

I was about to tell the doctor why; why I was slowly killing myself, hunched over a meal in progress. But he said, I’m not a therapist, I’m the type of doctor that deals in people who are physically impaired, people who have bad luck or are subconsciously killing themselves; people who are treating their bodies like they mattered less than a perfect meal. He said, tell it to the judge. Well, he didn’t say that, because that’s what the no-nonsense cop says to the perp. He said, tell it to the therapist. He said, I’m just telling you the facts, and how you can try and reverse those facts, why you factualized your body into this state in the first place is for a therapist or a podcast host to find out, so, tell it to the judge. At least that was how I interpreted his doctor slang.

 

My body hurt. He said, well you stand all day and butcher large, humanely raised pigs. You move around a slippery floor while carrying heavy pots filled with boiling hot liquids, and throw large pans at the wall; full force. You digest hunched over, while sampling something else. I told him, I get these migraines. He said, you sure do. And I knew what he was getting at, who I should be telling this to instead of him.

I didn’t have the time, I told him, my girlfriend forced me to even make this appointment. He said, hey, it’s up to you, it’s your life. He said, but if I was a therapist, which I am not, I think I’d ask, is it all worth dying over. I said, these things matter, what we eat and where we get our food from matters. He said, I tried Ethiopian the other night; pretty good. I shot back, that’s not what I’m talking about, I’m talking about more than a nice meal with friends; adapting to climate change, putting an end to factory farming, working with resilient crops, relationships with local farmers and fisherman; this stuff is important. He said, I liked that sponge bread they had. I wanted to throw a large pan against the wall, but sadly I wasn’t at work. I said, aren’t you even listening. He said, I’m just telling you the facts. He said, I’m not a therapist or a no-nonsense cop or a super hero, but my guess is you can’t save the world’s future food crisis from your early grave. But, he said, I’m no food expert either. I yelled, I am! He asked, how do they make that bread so spongey?

 

I was on my way out and asked if there was any prescription he could give me. He asked, how can you save the world with a handful of Xanax for breakfast slowing you down. He then listed the side effects of Xanax. I asked, there’s nothing else aside from Xanax. Doctor said, there’s no legal prescription I can write to convince you that you’re not solely responsible for the future of man; with great ego comes great responsibility, and dire consequence. I said, you sound like a therapist. He said, how the fuck would you know. Well, he didn’t say that, exactly.

 

My girlfriend was my ride back from the doctor’s office, she was waiting out front as I exited into the daylight. I wanted to turn around, tell the doctor why, convince him that it was important work. It wasn’t about me. I wanted to tell him about my old man, how he stressed himself into an early grave, before I got tattoos or could even grow a beard. I wanted to tell him it was the only way I knew. I wanted to grab a Kleenex from the box he kept on the table, but he wasn’t a podcast host, he didn’t have a box of Kleenex ready after I spilled my guts. My girlfriend asked how it went. I said, you know… doctors… who knows. I wanted to tell her the rest of it, but if I did I might just break down on the spot. She’d have to pull over, and I had somewhere to be. She’d have a list of therapists by the end of the day, she’d be relieved, but the harder I tried to form the words in my head, the more muddled they got, until I swallowed them whole. They sat in my stomach as I stared out the window, my lips glued shut. She said, well, what did he SAY. I mumbled, I don’t know, y’know, doctor stuff. I almost coughed out the word ‘stress,’ or ‘anxiety,’ or ‘exhaustion,’ or ‘slowly-killing myself.’ I nearly mumbled under my breath, ‘therapist,’ but who had the time, when there was so much work to be done.

6 Hour Responsibly Sourced Meat

6 Hour Responsibly Sourced Meat

A guy with a gray mustache was heading the class, but everyone had a gray mustache, all the guys leading the class, and most in attendance, even if they didn’t, they exuded a gray mustache. “My name’s Vinny Garnito, that’s Billy,” as The Gray Mustache pointed towards another gray mustache. “I’m retired P.D., 28 years as a New York City Police Officer, Billy too, how many years, Billy? 28?” Billy had his arm crossed, leaning back against the bar, “31.” The Gray Mustache nodded, “well there ya go, 31, so….”

The Gray Mustache continued, “so we’re here, we’re here- not gettin’ paid or nothin’ to be here, not here just to get away from the wife- we’re here cuz we feel a responsibility, as hunters, to pass down what we know, y’know, help carry down the tradition of what we learnt, what we know. Y’know… say you got a deah in your sights,” he mimed holding up his weapon and having a deer in his sights, then he pointed to the bulletin board where there was a small cut out of a deer, “he’s in your sights… where are your tryin’ to hit him?” A few seconds of silence passed, “where are you tryin’ to hit em?” The guy next to me in a dull green hat with a curved brim finally answered, “you wanna hit em, where you kill em fastest.” The Gray Mustache shrugged and nodded unconvincingly, “aright… aright yea… but where would that be?” A few more seconds of silence passed, he slouched over slightly, impersonating a deer, and smacked his upper left rib cage one time, he stood upright and nodded as if to say, ‘well there you go.’ “To kill fastest, you wanna hit em up there, near the heart, near the lungs, you wanna pierce the important stuff, that’s what’s gonna kill em the fastest, bleed em out.” He regrouped, then started talking about proper safety equipment, perhaps realizing that was a weird way to start off this 6 hour class.

 

 

About 2 hours into it he mentioned another safety tip, in a long list of safety tips, this one about what type of game a broad-head bow tip was used for, he then stabbed the administrative test pamphlet with his pointer finger, held it up high for all to see, “MIGHT BE a test question…ok?” He was doing that for every test question, giving us all the answers ahead of time, making me wonder why we had to sit here for 6 hours if he was just going to tell us the answers. “Alright guys… let’s take a break, meet back here in 10.” The guy next to me the with curved brim hat went up to the front of the room as everyone else went off to the side, he said to The Gray Mustache, “that’s funny about those different arrow tips, I was upstate rifle huntin’ with my buddy, and he bow hunts but he never mentioned the different tips, we were up there last week and…,” Curved Hat continued, desperate to get in the good graces of The Gray Mustache after his subpar answer to open the class.

 

After spending my break standing on the far end of the parking lot, watching Vinny Garnito -in his jean shorts, tucked in shirt, high white socks, and New Balance- frantically smoke a cigarette while he mimed holding his firearm again to Curved Hat and a few other admirers, we went back inside and sat down in our fold out chairs then continued on with the safety protocol. “What’s maybe a few tings you’d wanna pack with you? Maybe a few tings you’d wanna have in case you had accident, a fall, somethin’?” Curved Hat sprang into action, “well, you wanna pack pretty light.” The Gray Mustache nodded and shrugged, “yeah… wanna pack light… but you gotta pack some essentials… so what are dey? Some of em?” He scanned the room looking for a brave, engaged soul to answer. He pulled his phone off the holder attached to his belt and held it up like Simba in the beginning of The Lion King, “fah starters… right?… got everything on these, nowadays. Every-Body got a smart phone, right? Right.” I glanced over at Curved Hat, as he mentally kicked himself for not thinking of that. “What else?” After some more silence, he picked up his camouflage refillable water bottle, and this went on for some time, because we had all the time in the world.

 

The Gray Mustache had either ran out of safety tips or had bored even himself, and was now just telling different stories of deer he had gotten over the years. “And guys… you ain’t always gonna get em right away, aright… can you get lucky? Sure. Can you see a buck as soon as you get out on the trails? Sure. Sure, it could happen, but it ain’t like these shows, these guys you see on these shows. These guys are out there for hours, days, most of the time, y’know. Takes some patience, ain’t always like the shows… Unless you’re Tommy over dere, of course, the lucky prick.” He gestured over towards an obese, baby faced gray mustache who was sitting over towards the side, on one of the bar stools. He had many chins but no neck, and no mustache except the one he exuded. Many Chins No Neck’s chubby hands rested on his gigantic belly, which sagged over where his genitals might be, settling in between his massive thighs. His smooth, pink, chubby face grinned as he responded in a squeaky manner, “don’t be mad at me cuz last time we went out, my deah was right dere when I woke up.” The Gray Mustache grinned and shook his head, “lucky prick.” The pinkinsh-white, unhealthy looking Buddha sat there, as his belly pushed his legs apart, and continued humble bragging about the warrior like slaying of his deer, “I was sleepin’, woke up, rolled ova, looked up, and this buck was about 150 feet away, grab my rifle and got him. I was just sleepin’ and rolled ova and got my deah.” He smiled wide the entire time, as his many chins jiggled. It wasn’t a funny story, it was just a story, but everyone laughed, because when a jovial man with many chins and no neck tells a story, you laugh. That has always been the case; fat guys get laughs even when they didn’t deserve them, and apparently they got deer in the same manner.

 

Vinny the Gray regained his footing, mixing safety protocol into one of his harrowing tales. He reluctantly started this one, “aright… so I wasn’t gonna tell this, but aright, y’know, it’s a good, uh, if nothin’ else a good learnin’ experience, somethin’ not to do, y’know.” He paused a moment to gather his thoughts, “cuz look, guys? Have I been doin’ this a long time? Yea. Been goin’ out there for deah, turkey, whateva? For a while, now? Yea. But anyone can make mistakes, that’s what I’m tryin’ to get across.” He paused again, before finally getting to the point, “so I’m out one day, upstate, come across some private land, and how do I know that?” The lessons never ceased with The Gray Mustache, even mid-harrowing tale, he continued after a brief pause, “they got the signs up there, right? Landowners got the signs up, ain’t like down here… so, y’know, I go up to the house, knock on the door, ‘hey sarry to bother you, I’m Vinny Garnito, P.D., I’m up here huntin’ deah, wanted to know if it’s ok I go onto your land,’ and guys… you always gotta ask, can’t just go onto anyone’s land, cuz if you get hurt, then they got a headache on their hands. But if you ask, you’re respectful, friendly… guys… a lotta the time they’ll let you use it, they don’t want tons a deah on their property neidder.” He let that sink in a few moments before continuing, “so, I says hello, ask if it’s ok, guys says, ‘sure,’ he says, ‘go ahead.’ Right, so I’m out there a few hours, not seein’ nothin’, gettin’ a little late, at this point, y’know, I probably shouldda been thinkin’ about packin’ it in for the day. But as soon as I’m thinkin’ this, whadda I see? Big buck, ten pointer, beautiful deah,” he was getting extremely animated at this point, working the front of the room, really exploring the space. He mimed raising up his rifle, “so I raise up, take a breath, ‘BOOM,’” and he gave the left side of his rib cage a single smack then stared at his audience. He continued, talking very quickly now, his hands flying all about, “so, y’know, I’m so excited, I got my deah, I’m so excited, Sun’s gettin’ lower but I’m not thinkin’, cuz I got my deah, I’m so excited. I wait, let it bleed out, start to track it, lost track of time, find it out there, bled out, get my knife out… start dressin’ my deah,” as he mimed his butchery skills, and my god, was this gray mustachioed man an artist. He had us in the palm of his hand as he pushed on, “next thing I know… Sun’s goin’ down… I been trackin’ my deah… sure I got my compass… my safety stuff… but the Sun’s goin down and I don’t know which way I was comin’ from.” He paused a little once more, then brought it home, “so what do I do? Try to find my way back?” A few moments pass, then he started to shake his head slowly, “no, right? Odds are I’m just gonna get myself more lost, so I gotta stay, luckily got my water, some protein granola bars, and I wait it out, in da snow, 20-somethin degrees,” big pause, as he pointed to the widow, to outside, where it was currently 50 degrees and sunny. “Luckily for me, y’know, I let people know where I’m headin’, for this very reason, the landowner knows I’m out there, so when DEC comes looking for me, because I let them know I’m headin’ out too, they get a better idea where I might be, right? And even with all that… guys… I was out there til 3 in the mornin’,” he really let that one hang in the room, “so, y’know, this stuff is important, alright, this stuff can be dangerous… I got lucky, and I learnt from it, right?” He was just about done before he reiterated his last point, “Always. Let. People. Know. Where. You’re. Goin. Or else maybe I’m not here right now… alright…so back to these test questions.”

 

“Guys, look… you might come across this, right? People are very… people maybe who are uninformed about what it is we do, why we do it… people who maybe are a little uneducated about hunting and conservation, but you can’t give em ammo, can’t give em a reason to stereotype us just for doin’ somethin’ that we love and care about, right?” The Gray Mustache was in the middle of explaining one of the test answers pertaining to people who are anti-hunting, “so if you want, y’know, try and educate a little, so again… really pays to know you’re stuff… but in all honestly guys, if these people are protestin’, they’re probably a little fanatical… guys,” Vinny brushed his hands together, “just walk away, don’t even engage, you don’t owe nobody an explanation… and some of these people… well, y’know, just be smart.” He went back to reading out loud from the administrative pamphlet, “’dah dah dah dah dahhhh, if you come across a protester how should react’,” then one of the gray mustaches in the back of the class said, “shoot em,” and Vinny the Gray ignored it, knowing that was not the correct answer on the test.

 

“Alright, let’s go chru these questions, right. I know everybody passed, but there were some wrong answers, so let’s uh, let’s go chru em.” The Gray Mustache dragged out the test prep for as long as he could, but the test itself only took up about 20 minutes, and we still had a an hour and a half to go. Apparently part of the course was that DEC officers had to come though and give us a briefing of sorts, so even if The Gray Mustache wanted to let us go a little early, he had to wait on them, and it seemed they were in no rush to get there. He started going through the questions, and halfway through I was embarrassed for Curved Hat at how many he got wrong. He had an excuse for every wrong answer, and used the opportunity to pick the brain of The Gray Mustache. “Ohhh see when I read that, I thought they meant after the deah already is bled out, how long should you wait to start trackin’ it, just misread it… have you ever had a situation where you can’t find your deah?” “What I thought they were sayin’ was like, a situation where the private land is actually public, do you still have to ask permission, like that kinda public-private land, I just got mixed up.” “See, I just figured, if a broad-head tip is used for big game, well then it’ll work for small game too, but I see your point, it’s like, the arrow tips are too big, maybe… Guess I’m just used to my rifle!” he laughed at this last non-joke statement, and The Gray Mustache did not. Curved Hat’s pandering made this section of going over the answers last longer than need be, the DEC officers showed up and insisted we finished going over the test before they addressed us.

There were two officers, one female, one male, the female did most of the speaking, telling us everything that The Gray Mustache had been telling us for the over the last 5 hours. Be safe, let us know where you’re heading, stay off private land unless you get permission, fill out your tags, don’t shoot other hunters, so on and so forth. She finished and then her male partner reiterated everything she said that Vinny had said for 5 hours, and I wanted to put a broad-head arrow tip to my important stuff. Finally, they left after a few more brown-nosing questions from Curved Hat. The Gray Mustache waited 5 or so minutes to make sure they were gone before wrapping it up, “alright, so that concludes the bow hunting certification, it has to process but you can probably go get your permanent license after the weekend… and guys, again… I know I gave you my card, but if you’re actin’ like an idiot out there, and get in trouble, I don’t want a call saying, ‘oh, Vinny was my instructor blah blah blah…,’ don’t work like that, alright? Right, it’s your responsibility to do the right thing out there. It’s a great tradition we’re apart of, it’s important, great way to get out of the city, away from the wife for a little bit, just be smart, don’t be an idiot…. Ok, be safe guys, have fun.”

 

I waited a few days then went to trade in my temporary license that The Gray Mustache had given me for a permanent one. I went to an establishment where they did that kind of thing, and after a few attempts the gray mustache who worked there asked if I completed my General Hunter’s Safety course, and I stared at him blankly. The gray mustache behind the counter then said, “maybe you don’t need that for bow-hunting lemme check.” The gray mustache next to me at the counter said, ‘think ya do, think ya might have to get that one too, ain’t like years ago.” After a call to the New York hunting overlords they confirmed that indeed I did need another course. The gray mustache behind the counter said very matter-of-factly, “alright, so yea, just sign up for the 4 hour general hunting course, and we can get you processed.” I nodded and said, “that’s it? Piece of cake,” and 6 months later the temporary license was still folded up in my wallet. I didn’t have the nerve to check when it expired, bureaucracies had me leaning towards vegetarianism instead.

Things I Haven’t Gotten Around To, Yet

Last week’s check had been staring at me for the past few days, from the middle console. And it was no longer 2003, when people still manually deposited checks. It was 2018, when almost nobody- and certainly nobody of my generation- partook in such an archaic activity. But I somehow botched setting up direct deposit for my new job when I first started, and the HR lady who dealt in this kind of monotony hadn’t been in for some time, to the point that I wondered if we were just now without that department. A lesson in being careful what you wished for from your Corporation. So anywho, me and a few old kooks that I worked with still received paper allowances once a week, and I kept forgetting to physically stop off at the bank, because who could be bothered with such a nuisance. Apparently I’d rather work for free than be slightly inconvenienced.

I had the check- soon to be checks, with the upcoming payday- staring at me from the front of my car, and a deconstructed dresser breathing down my neck from the back seat. During a recent cross country trip, my backseat was packed to the gills with all sorts of things that I apparently didn’t really need; spare blankets, pillows, 4-5 hats, a $200 pea coat. A couple of hobos showed me how little I needed all that junk after they cleaned my backseat out for me. They decided I didn’t need my passenger side window either, but I wasn’t in complete agreement with them on that front.

After I got home, and cleaned out all the other knick-knacks and broken glass they left behind, I vowed to keep a tidy ship. And I did for a good while, sometimes you don’t realize the small but constant anxiety a messy car- or like being down to only old, worn socks- can cause you every day. Anytime I cleaned my car out or bought fresh socks, it felt like 30 pounds was just lifted from my shoulders. Sadly, I only got around to either of those things once every 14 months. But since getting Queer Eyed by the San Francisco homeless, I was staying diligent in my war against clutter. Then my sister bought a new house, and in the midst of her packing, she needed me to clean out a dresser that I had stored in her basement about a year earlier. I had ideas of being a mole person and living down there at the time, in her basement, where I couldn’t stand up straight without smashing my head into the ceiling. To no one’s surprise, it didn’t work out.

The dresser was very awkwardly shaped, ugly, and hard to get up the basement stairs and into the backseat. I wouldn’t even call it a dresser, it was like miniature sized shipping container for one sad man’s clothes. I went over one night, sometime between our father’s funeral and her moving date, had a few beers and took apart the shipping container. I put the deconstructed frame in my trunk, and the two bulky drawers in my back seat. I hadn’t a clue how to dispose of these items- if Sanitation would just take them as they were- so for the time being they’d just occupy my car’s backseat, until I made my way to San Francisco once more. Or got around to asking my brother- who worked for Sanitation- whether or not I could simply leave them by the curb. We watched football on Sundays at his house, but I just kept forgetting to bring it up.

 

Somewhere between our father’s funeral and filling my trunk with the sad shipping container, my other sister and I drove down to where our childhood home used to be, to take her dog down to the deserted beach, and to check our old property for some buried slabs of stone. Our father’s midlife crisis- which turned out to be more like a ¾ life crisis /weird religious undertaking thing- involved harvesting these large stone slabs from the token-old-man-mayor-of-the-neighborhood’s property, and lugging them back to our house via hand-truck about ten minutes away. These stones were about 3 ft by 1 ½ ft, and probably a couple a hundred pounds. I helped him harvest one when I was like 15, and vowed it was going to be the only time that would ever happen again. It was a gigantic pain in the ass, especially with his refusal to get some enhanced, more inflated tires for the hand-truck. He probably retrieved about 25 of these slabs, the stone type of which I was not sure of. If I was a better son, I suppose I would know the type of stone, and would’ve helped him with more than just the 1… but to be fair, the whole thing was preposterous.

At first, apparently, there was a practical reason for the slabs; he arranged them over the soil where he planted his tomatoes in our backyard. The competition of pinning the tomatoes and whatever weeds were trying to grow against each other, by using the slivers between the slabs as the only crevices that allowed growth, proved to be very fruitful for his tomatoes, as they wiped the floor with those pesky weeds. Our kitchen table was packed with tomatoes the entire summer into the fall. I imagined many of the neighbors and family members just started throwing them out as they received them, nobody could keep up.

 

My car didn’t deserve this kind of neglect, it really was a great machine. The 2012 Nissan Altima made it all the way around the country during January-March- around 10,000 miles- without any hiccups, aside from the window breaking/deep cleaning, but that wasn’t the cars fault. It was so good on gas that I just plain forgot it needed to be refilled from time to time. I’d be heading to or from my new job once in a blue, and I’d catch the needle drooping down towards the E. Then I’d think to myself, “shit… well I’ll get some before work tomorrow,” then I’d forget until I was already pressed for time. Something about having to stop for gas, I always thought it was going to tack 30 minutes onto my commute and take 14 months off of my life, but to date I’ve never had an issue or been late anywhere due to stopping for gas. Yet, every time my gas gets low, it was like getting cold cocked, and every dated state inspection or registration sticker was an existential nightmare. That reminded me, I was supposed to get the car inspected today, but instead I pet my sister’s dog on and off for 3 hours. My parent’s house- where I was residing- was directly across the street from a gas station/mechanic, and an honest mechanic at that. My sister was staying over as well, as she was waiting to close on her new house, and she got a ticket the other day for having her car parked out on the street with an expired inspection sticker. You would think all of that would be motivation enough to complete this simple chore, but you’d clearly be wrong. Maybe I just got high on the excitement of pushing limits, or maybe I sucked on too many empty whipped cream canisters during my days as a barista, and my brain was now garbage. My body’s own deconstructed shipping container.

 

Somewhere between the summer of too many tomatoes and our father’s funeral, Hurricane Sandy came through and wiped away everything, aside from the rocks and the exterior of our house. We rebuilt our house, but were bought out by the government after 6 months or so of moving back. They deemed the land unfit to live on, and would buy it at a high price, which was very suspicious, but we were not rich people and the hurricane spooked us good. The hurricane also wiped away our father’s desire to garden, but it invigorated him to make an insane monument/graveyard/art project with the gigantic slabs. Already in his mid-60s, he unearthed these behemoths by himself, arranged them vertically in this maze-like circle around the large tree in our backyard; the only thing he planted that was still alive.

 

The absence of an HR department at work was fucking up more than just my ability to pay myself, I was also being stonewalled by the dental insurance I had recently signed up for. My teeth had been a disaster, well maybe not disaster, but in retrograde over the past two years, as I was approaching the age where the United States declared I wasn’t allowed to seek care for my health/teeth without financially crippling myself. I received a botched double root canal- which my life-long dentist blamed on my sinuses. And my new ear, throat, and nose doctor blamed on my teeth, until they both just said in so many words “this is just how your head/face feels, and it will slowly keep getting a little worse until you die, there’s stuff we could do, but what’s the point?”- then a few months later, I drunkenly fell on my face, smashing my two front top and bottom teeth. I went to a new dentist with my new shabby “We Don’t Care About You Anymore Person In Your Mid-20s” insurance, and he looked at my teeth that I was unable to chew on, then 14 seconds later said, “you’re fffiinnneeeee.” The next day my one tooth died, discoloring to a shade of gray, and the other 3 were still a little sore a year and a half later. I haven’t been back to the dentist since. A month after I started receiving my new insurance, I begrudgingly went to the website and looked up a dentist that took said insurance. They asked for me to register using my Member I.D. I never received such a thing, so I put my phone down and waited for another week, then sent them an email via their website. Nothing. Two weeks later I emailed again. Gmail sent me something saying they couldn’t send it, but would try again tomorrow, and again the day after, but if it wouldn’t send by then; sorry Charlie, you’re out of luck. It wouldn’t send.

After another trip to the ear, throat, and nose doctor for ear pain I was experiencing, and him saying, “I’m… not… really… seeing anything… You said you’re in pain?” I figured what I feared was becoming true; my teeth were manifesting themselves via the rest of my head. So I finally called this janky insurance overlord, and the robot insurance person on the phone gave me one option, which was, “Enter your Member I.D. then press #.” And I never wanted to speak to an HR person so badly in my life. I went to work that day, but she still wasn’t back, and apparently no one else at my job had bad teeth, so they hadn’t even tried to break through the Member I.D. barricades. This was just my head/face now; dull discomfort that slowly got worse every 14 months, until my time was finally up.

 

After they bought out the land- and got us the hell out- the next step was to bulldoze our house and tear up the land. Sweep away any sign that we had ever lived there. They did this to the entire neighborhood, sans the 6 or so families who stayed put; whose moxy I envied every day. My only hope was that the workers who tore down the house had a moment of bewilderment and terror once they got done with the house itself, and made their way to the small scale Stonehenge circling the tree in our backyard.

So we were down by the old tree, the only thing left that indicated where our property used to be. It was a few days or a week after our father had been put in the ground, and in 6 months they’d give him a headstone of our choosing, but the death profiteers of course hoped we’d choose a gaudy, diamond encrusted headstone. The death profiteers had already gouged us enough, so we went snooping around to see if we could unearth any slabs that had been left in the ground, like our father had a few years prior. It would be a perfect way to say go fuck yourselves to the death profiteers, and do something that he would’ve really gotten a kick out of. We snooped around the tree for a little while when we finally saw an angled rock buried in the ground, it was hard to tell how big it was and if it was in fact one of his cherished slabs. I had a snow shovel in my trunk that the San Francisco homeless didn’t get to, so I brought it out and started digging around the rock a little bit, but the plastic shovel was not strong enough. It had just gotten cold and the earth was hardening. We left and said we’d come back with a metal shovel, but it had only been getting colder, and the ground was like a gigantic slab of granite. Stepping out against the whipping ocean wind was like getting cold cocked, without any houses left to block it. We still had 5 months left, so we figured we’d just get back around to it eventually.

Class, With the Right Amount of Sass

Looking for my Michael Scott/Jim Halpert hybrid. I love exploring this crazy city, and all it has to offer, like food, I love the thrill of trying all new cuisines. On a Friday night you can find me either curling up with a glass of wine and some Netflix, or dancing on the bar with my best friends. I love pizza, but who doesn’t? and yoga… life is all about balance. I’m looking for a nice guy, honesty and trust is everything to me… a sense of humor doesn’t hurt either, unless you are actually funny, then it is a bit much. Basically… if you are tall, have a beard, think you are funny but in reality are not, can handle my sarcasm, and eat pizza… we are soul mates. But if your beard isn’t the appropriate length… then it is a bit much. Basically… I’m looking for a guy who I can bring home to mom… a guy to bring home to mom but can beat up my grandma… if my mom loves you, but my grandma hates you, then we are soul mates. I’m a world traveler, always planning my next big adventure, this year I hope to go somewhere with many poor people, poor people I can take pictures of. This year, I want a picture of a poor person and me laughing together, preferably with a different skin tone than my own. I love the feeling of immersing myself in different cultures, and exploiting them for social media points. At a party you can either find me on the dance floor, or with the dog. If I were sent to jail, it would be for petting too many strangers’ dogs… Basically, if you love dogs, pizza, my sarcasm, and this crazy city… then we are soul mates. If I had to describe myself… well let’s put it this way… my best friend says I’m fierce with a little bit of pierce, kind without the orange rind… we are so random together. Friends and family are everything to me, but a slice of pizza doesn’t hurt either. I’m a coffee addict, I probably drink 8 million a day, between all the coffee and wine, I don’t know how I drink anything else in this crazy city. Let’s grab some coffee and get to know each other, explore a museum for our first date, you can only learn so much from a profile… but basically, I’m just a down to earth, chill girl who doesn’t take things too seriously, aside from tacos… I mean pizza… I mean, I’m on a mission to find the best charcuterie plate in this crazy city. Basically, I love food. And this crazy city. Looking for someone to share both those things with. So don’t just message me with “Hey,” or “sup,” be a little more creative, but not too creative, because then that can be a bit much. Basically, anything else you want to know, just ask!

Boring White People on Vacation

His faced matched his shirt, which I guess matched his pants; his jeans, which were too big. He kept pulling up the waist every ten feet he walked. His shirt was also too big, too long for his stubby torso, with too many buttons. His face wasn’t noticeably big, I couldn’t remember the size of his face, just the sentiment. The sentiment of his face matched his shirt. Perhaps it would’ve been the appropriate amount of buttons if the shirt was on a longer torso, but for this stubby torso; it was simply too many. The shirt had thin white pinstripes, with slightly thicker blue stripes; the main stripes, I suppose. The stripes were too long, which I guess went without saying, but it would’ve been funnier looking if the stripes just stopped at the appropriate length for the stubby body, while the rest of the shirt and the buttons continued down too far down past his stubby quads. His face didn’t match it color or stripage; his face was red, it was vacation red. Just the sentiment matched, which was, “the wife said to wear somethin’ nice.” “Goin’ out for a nice dinnuh, and the wife said put somethin’ nice on.” He had his nice shoes on, too. His nice black shoes. They slipped right on, like glorified loafers.

 

I wanted to go to a different place for lunch; the place next door with the buzzers. They had groups and groups of people waiting outside, across the street and at the bar next door, with buzzers telling them when a table would be ready. I wasn’t going to get a buzzer for myself, a buzzer for one was too sad. I passed by a few times to see if a single stool at the bar had opened up, didn’t seem like that was going to happen. I walked around aimlessly for a while and happened back at my hostel, maybe some other desperate soul would be searching for a semi-stranger to eat lunch with. I sat in the common room for 20 minutes and drank a beer, nobody except the free spirited hottie who worked the front desk was there. She said, “oh my Godddd, Mac Miller died.” And I asked, “the ‘Thrift Shop’ guy?” She responded, “is that him?” I said, “I don’t know, the white guy, right?” She said, “yea… but I think that’s Macklemore.” I nodded, “riigghtttt. Ok, so I don’t really know anything about Mac Miller… I just assumed he sucked.” She replied with widened eyes, “you know what? I assumed the same thing, then I saw him live at this festival last year, and he was Uh-Mazing.” I responded suspiciously, “really?” She insisted, “seriously, he had like a whole orchestra and everything, he was Uh-Mazing.” I scrunched my lips and nodded as if to say, ‘ya don’t say,’ but I still didn’t believe her. She put on his latest album, and the first song was really sad and good. I thought, ‘huh, ya don’t say,” and started to believe her. A guest entered to check-in, and the free spirited hottie showed them to their room, leaving me and Mac Miller to drink alone in the common room. She came back after a few tracks and I said, “I kinda can’t believe how much I’m liking this right now.” She replied, “right? Can’t believe he’s dead.” I responded somberly, “yea… that makes these depressing songs that much more depressing.” She nodded and frowned, “yea…” And we didn’t speak anymore after that.

After the album was done, I went back to the place next to the buzzer restaurant to have some lunch, and it wasn’t very good. The bartender was nice, and beautiful, and had cool colored short hair, and was very animated in the way she shook the drinks in the shaker thing. We talked a little the day before, and I fell in love. I wanted to tell her it wasn’t my intention to come back here two days in a row. It was just convenience, the buzzer place was packed; I wanted to tell her. She gave me a big wave when I first sat down, and I fell deeper in love. She asked what I did last night, and I told her I went to some place around the corner and watched this shitty cover band cover too many Goo Goo Dolls song. She said, “yep… I know that place.” Later she asked what I had on for that night, and I said I didn’t know. She said, “dude,” and I fell deeper in love, she said, “dude, it’s your last night, you gotta do something.” I said, “I want to, but I don’t know anything around here.” She gave me the name of her favorite bar, and I nodded unconvincingly. She said, “dude… you’ve barely been off this block… it’s your last night.” I couldn’t go on knowing the love of my life thought I was uncool, so I said, “pffff, yea, I’m like, y’know, totally.” She continued, “it’s a great little spot, there’s a jazz bar next door, if you’re looking for live tunes.” And I said, “pffff, yea, jazz, that’s like, pfff, my jam.” Before I left, she gave me a shot on her, and I wondered if she was in love with me too, but decided she was just doing the cool bartender thing.

 

This other guy… it was obvious, as clear as day. We were sitting at the bar, not together, just next to each other. He was with a generically attractive blonde girl. I was drinking and eating by myself, and reading a book as to seem interesting and unpathetic.  They were drinking and waiting for their buzzer to go off, to go to their superior restaurant next door. Golf was on the T.V. and they were following along. It wasn’t even a major but they were following along. Someone would hit a nice shot, and he would go, “niiicceee SHOT.” And she would agree, “that was a nice shot,” then look back down at her phone. And all I could think was, “this poor generically attractive blonde girl.” Not because of her attractiveness, because of the golf, let me be clear. Because I imagined this guy in his collared, shiny kinda shirt- his izod shirt- with three buttons up top, and it was as clear as day what he was up to when he wasn’t waiting for the buzzer to go off, when his generically attractive blonde girlfriend “let him” bro out on weekend trips. Him and the fellas- Jake and Johnny and Sully and Chet- drinking Miller Lites out of the aluminum bottles, along the fairway, yelling, “IN THE HOOLLEEE.” Then later taking some shots of Jack Daniels, before going out to a strip club and being mean to the strippers. Then Chet yelling about how he was a lawyer, as they were being tossed out by the “big scary black bouncer.” But for now he was waiting on the buzzer, and he would order the burger at a seafood restaurant. For now his generically attractive blonde girlfriend thought of other things, as she nodded in response to his unwarranted golf analysis.

 

The older ones had faces on like, “What. A. Day.” as they set down their many bags. The younger ones… the younger ones had faces on like, “Don’ttt… talk to maaayyyy,” or at least that was how it translated. They wanted certain people to talk to them, just not me. Which was fine, because I had no interest in talking to them, but I had the feeling they wouldn’t have believed that for a second. They had very thin lips, and very straight hair, and were all wearing the same sweatshirt, in different colors. The sweatshirt with the name of the city they were vacationing in. They went to a lot of weddings, you just knew they had been to 37 weddings in the last year. They might’ve been in this city- the city that was printed in white across the sweatshirts- for a wedding. Or it could’ve easily just been a girl’s weekend… but that didn’t explain the older ones. The older ones gave the group of them that distinct scent of a wedding. But the wedding wasn’t today, today was for sightseeing and sweatshirt buying. It was for stopping in for a drink, a brightly colored drink. It was for saying, “What. A. Day.” It was for saying, “you girls hungry… wanna get something to snack on?” It was for saying to the bartender, to the love of my life, “I think we might get something small, just to snack on.”

 

I went back to the hostel, and it was more of the same; little conversations here and there that would die after a few minutes. I was drinking the entire time, and by the time it was late enough to go to the cool part of town, I was a little drunk, and a little frustrated with the lack of hostel atmosphere. I walked to the cool bar, and it was far too cool. It was bigger than how the love of my life sold it, and far more modern, with shitty electronic music. I walked in, looked around for two seconds, and walked out. I dragged my feet, defeated, to the jazz bar. Again, far too big. The clientele far too old, and the jazz was actually more like a Gov’t Mule wannabee jam band. And I thought, maybe the love of my life and I weren’t compatible after all.

I frustratingly stomped back to the hostel. Then I saw there was activity happening in the common room, and I momentarily perked up. The same kinda thing happened the night prior, when I was in a far better mood, and I ended up having a lovely conversation with a half Hawaiian half British girl. We obviously fell in love, but she left the earlier in the day, and I’d never see her again. So I grabbed a beer from the fridge then triumphantly and hopefully walked into the happenin’ common room. A quick look around showed that the room went from essentially empty when I’d been there an hour earlier, to there being no seats open. The free spirited hottie was off duty and occupying one of the seats. I couldn’t just stand over the semi-strangers’ shoulders, so I opened my beer then opened the door. I aimlessly walked around the block by myself, drank my beer then went to sleep. It was my last night in town, and I had a long drive in the morning.