.
The essence of the American Character, as a national phenomenon can be summarized by the image of a mirror overlaying a mirror. It is a character that is limned by the super-icons of American life; the Road, the Car, the War, the Celebrity, the One Night Stand. At its core it is a striding base line and a rolling chrome wheel. A chrome wheel that in it's spinning creates a mirror. A mirror that has, like Narcissus, stunned us with a terrible beauty. The world looks on appalled by our apparent indulgence and infantile stare. But they cannot hear the whisper and see only the solipsism.
The whisper is America talking to itself. It’s important to note that America talks to itself more that any other nation on earth. We cannot utter the words; Values, Family, Way of Life and many more without prefacing these with the totemic utterance of the word “American”. Our media carry an almost constant flow of navel gazing information. “What do you think America? Register your voice at dot com whatever.” The phrase “The American People” is droned by our political candidates almost constantly as a soothing mantra. In reporting any mortal tragedy, invariably the number of American dead is stated as a separate datum.
The rest of the world does not do this. These words are used as a talisman and are invoked to sustain a fragile image of our special status. The whisper begins at birth, and seems to travel over fragrant, full red lips that tickle the ear and speak of American transcendence, power, kindness, leadership, opportunity and above all wealth. It is an erotic life long susurration - seducing the soul. This is a show that fixes the mind and installs the skeleton of our national character. The skeleton is then over time and through education, popular media and social interaction fleshed out with the various trappings of class, region, style, fetish, dreams, etc... an infinite variety of expressions. It’s in this variety and through unimaginably fleeting manifestations that our character is born daily, almost hourly- it seems. Things and traditions move, are changed and disappear at an always accelerating rate. We are in a feedback loop caused by a mirror in front of a mirror. We are transfixed by a culture that is created by our transfixion.
The world, to a lesser degree, is also fascinated by the flashing, violent strobe that is American culture. They can’t look away, or more accurately feel that they look away at their own peril. However, without proximity or access to the voluptuous and false messages; the diorama becomes an inexplicable train wreck. It’s a charming, frightening and dangerous light show.
Dangerous because like all solipsists we create the truth as we go. And the truth can always be found by “staying on message”. We cannot as a nation be wrong since we are a priori perfect in countenance and action. She says so.
The face of the American character is perennially new. But the whisperer is old school and she is nationalistic and her message fuels war and consumerism. Where she comes from is another essay. And to understand why we are who we are it is essential to understand the whisperer and the message that defines the American Character for the rest of the world.
She says that red, white and blue are the most beautiful colors in the world. In fact she dresses in those colors - think Rachel Welch as Myra Breckenridge. She is in love with vast spaces as canvas for her destiny. Fireworks are more than entertainment - they are her exhalations. She says “buy that- want that- fuck that- NOW”. She says that you are not good enough for America. That without celebrity America has passed you by. She says that the rest of the world wants to live with her- but can’t. She says any evil perpetrated by our nation is first false and if proved - justified- then forgotten.
She says loudly and with no apparent embarrassment that America is the greatest nation on earth. She says that American lives are of more value than other lives. She worships the trappings of sex, military, cars, achievement, television and the ‘Mean Green’. She has great disdain for intellectuals and is made wet by action of almost any kind. She has big breasts. She is sentimental and bathetic. World War II was her high school prom. She is easily insulted, stupid in her anger and slow to forgive. She has a short span of attention. She is a bitch. Revenge is her Spanish Fly.
And she is in every American’s ear every day. Think about it.
Still to discuss the American Character in macro terms captures only the balloon’s skin and ignores the billions of atoms that through their interactions push that membrane forward. We citizens as individuals are like those atoms. And our character’s while American, are built individually, and to varying degrees by, bravely I think, editing the Bitches Whisper. Some Americans, far too many, I am afraid, have deified this Whisperer and have swallowed her utterances whole. They are the loud, dogmatic and endlessly self absorbed persons you notice as they tour your county asking “Is this food safe?” “Where is the decent food?” and other food related questions. All the while saying disparaging things about their host nation ‘sotto voce’ at a volume comparable to a bellow among the civilized. They, like our nation as a whole, are comparably rich (It may be true that utter narcissism is directly proportional to the development of financial wealth). And since the whisperer has bestowed such cash; how can she be questioned? They are also seen and heard, as all knowing right wing pundits. Who without historical perspective, human compassion, political education or much charm proudly pronounce the complete and unequivocal rightness of all things American. They are high profile and truly detested, or barely tolerated by the vast majority.
The American character en masse as translated by our institutions and rituals is greatly different than the character of ‘One American’. And at any given moment a great majority of us feel this schizoid gap between the macro and the micro. The right wing shivers at the easy moral and sexual corruptions of the left. The left wing hangs her head at the shameful abuses of power and corporate greed that constitute our foreign policy. And every iteration possible can be found between these poles. This is more than democracy at work. It is a function of an ultra rapid rate- of –change which creates a kind of cultural ‘white noise’. White noise is a conglomeration of all audible frequencies. It sounds like hissing.
We as people, as opposed to ‘A People’, choose the frequencies that resonate with our individual spirits. And I have found that while the macro face of America is garish, evil at times, fat and anti –intellectual the individual Americans who have taken only what they can or will from the great white noise are to a large degree kind, generous and non-violent. We are pathologically afraid of one another but this is without real reason, and is predicated on risk assessments that do not reflect reality. Oliver Stone while doing publicity for his film Natural Born Killers said in an interview “the media creates its own weather.” And we see only the aberrant there. So we, through a form of projection assume the aberrant to be the norm. The facts are much different.
As individuals you will find that we are overall, pretty good people. Not worldly, or multilingual in general (there are exceptions) but OK folks with a sense of humor and a live and let live attitude. That’s really what the American character was always supposed to be. And when you experience its modest individual monads as opposed to its vast global projections, that simple character can be observed. In fact it is all most of us have ever aspired to. It may be our modesty that makes us too easily lead by the few. It is the whisperer that makes us abhorrent to others.
So why has the American Character taken such a PR beating of late? It has been essential to the American Experiment that as many voices as our national conscience can bear to hear, be heard. And as the din of legitimate points of view has increased; so have the many tectonic faults at the base of our culture been revealed. And the Bitch wants to stay on message. There are no faults. Her whispers have become more shrill, jingoistic and urgent and her reactionary spirit has galvanized a mob filled with fear that have turned her volume up, way up. So now more than ever the Message of America reflects the values of the whisperer. However, the curtain is about to drop on this act. Stay tuned,
I for one can’t take my eyes away.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Thursday, July 12, 2007
A Lark of His Own
Had an early drunk day last Friday. By early drunk day I am referring to an occasional morning that I will either leave my office, or call out in order to go directly to a little waterfront dive at 8:00 or 9:00 in the morning. The place is populated at different times with commercial fishermen and women, the dentally challenged counting their change for drinks, hipsters on an occasional lark, old school retired union guys, and sometimes real scary bad asses who would like to kill you.
The sound system is far superior to the overall ambiance (previous owners over- invested and went bankrupt so the SS came with the place at basically no cost) and there is an incredible computer Juke Box with just about everything you could want- sans jazz. But I wouldn't play jazz in there anyway lest it cause a stir.
I usually start with 2 or 3 pints. Oh and I forgot to mention I only do this when I'm hung over or haven't slept the night before. I start out almost gaging when I first walk in, (it is pretty rank in there) but after a pint or two I am suddenly having the "...fucking best time of my life with the greatest people on earth." You know the drill.
Jello shots (cherry $1.50). Drinks "For all my friends" Barfly style as I engage in a couple of simultaneous conversations while the volume of everything goes up.
One of those conversations was with a serious hobo looking guy. Thick salt and pepper hair, roughly combed. a long tangled beard; full and bushy hanging down to the middle of his chest, piercing, rhumby, red rimmed blue eyes and a deep regional accent. He was an anarchist, and a self professed hermit. He lived about an hours ferry ride out in the bay, on a sparsely populated island. He didn't indicate in what kind of structure he lived in and I neglected to ask. MISTAKE (Dana Gould's portly top hat wearing man steps out of the closet- tips his hat and sings "MISTAAAKE").
It was a couple of hours before sunset when I boarded the ferry (beers hidden in jacket pockets )with my New Best Friend.
When the ferry or any boat for that matter leaves the dock an instant and amazing transformation occurs. Every time. You are suddenly surrounded by much cooler salt air, and the ocean informs you that it is in charge as surely as sunrise informs you of a new day. The light (we are famous for it here) is charged and sharp with shadows hard edged. The surface wave motion is manifestly spiritual and the colors; yellow ferry, water shades ranging from incandescent blue to nervous death inviting greens churning just below the surface. The prop wake is preternaturally white. Smell of diesel exhaust and deep hum of the engines. The water is killer cold.
My NBF and I were on the fantail with some other island commuter types he knew. We all stood there under the cloudless sky. We talked and drank beers as the Mainland got smaller. You feel as if it is kind of permanently gone. A weird illusion anytime, but weirder still when seriously drunk and a joint has been surreptitiously passed around. It occurred to me that no one knew where I was. An unsettling tremor of paranoia was towed in the wake of that thought. Fucking Weed.
It was, as filmmakers say the magic hour with gold light filling in the interstices by the time we docked at the island. NBF and I said goodbye to our buddies and started off along a path just off the main dirt road (all roads are dirt on this island). We walked for 20 minutes or so into a deep hardwood forest, up an incline across a rocky beach and back into the woods. NBF saw a piece of quartz which was as white as the wake. He gave it to me. I noticed about then that Dude hadn't spoken in a while. It was getting dark fast, the path was getting hard to see. And we were in some deep woods.
When we arrived at his place it was a converted shed, with interesting stuff hanging all over it and a door at the back of a storage area. We had to maneuver around some bikes and scrap metal , it was really getting hard to see, to get to the actual door which led into a pitch black room. He lit a lamp to reveal a couple of chairs, a wood stove, an old rug, some dishes and a large bottle of water, I couldn't make out what was hanging on the walls.
Anyway this is getting too long so I'll split it up. He handed me an old coffee cup, opened a gallon sized bottled of cheap whiskey and poured me half a cup. It was pitch dark outside.
to be continued
The sound system is far superior to the overall ambiance (previous owners over- invested and went bankrupt so the SS came with the place at basically no cost) and there is an incredible computer Juke Box with just about everything you could want- sans jazz. But I wouldn't play jazz in there anyway lest it cause a stir.
I usually start with 2 or 3 pints. Oh and I forgot to mention I only do this when I'm hung over or haven't slept the night before. I start out almost gaging when I first walk in, (it is pretty rank in there) but after a pint or two I am suddenly having the "...fucking best time of my life with the greatest people on earth." You know the drill.
Jello shots (cherry $1.50). Drinks "For all my friends" Barfly style as I engage in a couple of simultaneous conversations while the volume of everything goes up.
One of those conversations was with a serious hobo looking guy. Thick salt and pepper hair, roughly combed. a long tangled beard; full and bushy hanging down to the middle of his chest, piercing, rhumby, red rimmed blue eyes and a deep regional accent. He was an anarchist, and a self professed hermit. He lived about an hours ferry ride out in the bay, on a sparsely populated island. He didn't indicate in what kind of structure he lived in and I neglected to ask. MISTAKE (Dana Gould's portly top hat wearing man steps out of the closet- tips his hat and sings "MISTAAAKE").
It was a couple of hours before sunset when I boarded the ferry (beers hidden in jacket pockets )with my New Best Friend.
When the ferry or any boat for that matter leaves the dock an instant and amazing transformation occurs. Every time. You are suddenly surrounded by much cooler salt air, and the ocean informs you that it is in charge as surely as sunrise informs you of a new day. The light (we are famous for it here) is charged and sharp with shadows hard edged. The surface wave motion is manifestly spiritual and the colors; yellow ferry, water shades ranging from incandescent blue to nervous death inviting greens churning just below the surface. The prop wake is preternaturally white. Smell of diesel exhaust and deep hum of the engines. The water is killer cold.
My NBF and I were on the fantail with some other island commuter types he knew. We all stood there under the cloudless sky. We talked and drank beers as the Mainland got smaller. You feel as if it is kind of permanently gone. A weird illusion anytime, but weirder still when seriously drunk and a joint has been surreptitiously passed around. It occurred to me that no one knew where I was. An unsettling tremor of paranoia was towed in the wake of that thought. Fucking Weed.
It was, as filmmakers say the magic hour with gold light filling in the interstices by the time we docked at the island. NBF and I said goodbye to our buddies and started off along a path just off the main dirt road (all roads are dirt on this island). We walked for 20 minutes or so into a deep hardwood forest, up an incline across a rocky beach and back into the woods. NBF saw a piece of quartz which was as white as the wake. He gave it to me. I noticed about then that Dude hadn't spoken in a while. It was getting dark fast, the path was getting hard to see. And we were in some deep woods.
When we arrived at his place it was a converted shed, with interesting stuff hanging all over it and a door at the back of a storage area. We had to maneuver around some bikes and scrap metal , it was really getting hard to see, to get to the actual door which led into a pitch black room. He lit a lamp to reveal a couple of chairs, a wood stove, an old rug, some dishes and a large bottle of water, I couldn't make out what was hanging on the walls.
Anyway this is getting too long so I'll split it up. He handed me an old coffee cup, opened a gallon sized bottled of cheap whiskey and poured me half a cup. It was pitch dark outside.
to be continued
Friday, April 27, 2007
MOJO and The Jones-ezz (see below)
So to put a bookend on this little triptych of the 7-11.
During that long night a man walked across the parking lot, no shoes, a bandage wrapped around his head. His clothes, oddly, were not dirty or worn. Actually they looked expensive and his eyes were clear with the kind of whites that I admire. He had big eyes and was small and wiry. Being at the time almost obsessed with Miles Davis, I thought for a moment the he was Miles himself, on some mysterious sojourn (you know research, incognito, on the D.L.). He walked up to the glass front looked inside but did not come in to the 7-11. He stood there for a long minute surveying the scene through the glass. But not really meeting my eyes.
I walked out and said "yo nice evening" or something like that. He looked up at me kind of startled, and said in a real cool kind of whispery voice "You work in there? This neighborhood is fucked man you gonna get your ass shot."
I said that I was pretty much thinking the same thing. He said he was hungry. Without a second thought I told him that he could go into the store and pick out whatever he wanted. I followed him in kind of worried that he would go nuts, you know take huge arms full of stuff, but I had committed and was going to see it through.
In a very discerning manner and with no shoes he kind of delicately and slowly walked through the store. He picked out a cheeseburger, the kind you nuke, a chocolate milk, a bag of chips and an ice cream bar. He then went outside sat with his back against the glass and started to eat his picnic.
I went out and sat next to him, looking out at the parking lot.
We stayed quiet for a long time. Then he told me I was pretty cool.
And you know I was kind of. It has worn off since. He then said real raspy like "you know you got some Mojo my man." I could not have felt more proud.
But I honestly I didn't know exactly what mojo meant. I knew it was good. So I asked.
He said " You got your average Joe, right? But then you got a Joe who got MO."
I tried not to look like a grinning idiot. Man I'm a Joe with MO I thought.
He was eating his ice cream bar and adjusting the bandage on his head, I couldn't see any wound and the bandage was clean actually very clean. And he said looking at the Dove Bar " I got a Jones for these bars."
So it being "Teach the Cracker English day" I asked him what having a 'Jones' meant. I had heard the idiom of course but I had by then to realized the the etymology of seemingly tossed off phrases can be very interesting, illuminating even.
He looked at me askance and kind of smiled for the first time and said " You know when you keepin up with the Jones'- gotta get that thing or those clothes or that car- you know to look good and shit. Well that means you gotta Jones for that shit you after. It's obsession really."
So this Mojo boy ain't never keepin up with the Jones'. At least I have tried all these years to keep obsession at bay. My man showed showed me some shit that night.
Got to have a Jones for this
a Jones for that
but keepin up with the Jones' boy
just ain't where it's at.
Boz Scaggs
During that long night a man walked across the parking lot, no shoes, a bandage wrapped around his head. His clothes, oddly, were not dirty or worn. Actually they looked expensive and his eyes were clear with the kind of whites that I admire. He had big eyes and was small and wiry. Being at the time almost obsessed with Miles Davis, I thought for a moment the he was Miles himself, on some mysterious sojourn (you know research, incognito, on the D.L.). He walked up to the glass front looked inside but did not come in to the 7-11. He stood there for a long minute surveying the scene through the glass. But not really meeting my eyes.
I walked out and said "yo nice evening" or something like that. He looked up at me kind of startled, and said in a real cool kind of whispery voice "You work in there? This neighborhood is fucked man you gonna get your ass shot."
I said that I was pretty much thinking the same thing. He said he was hungry. Without a second thought I told him that he could go into the store and pick out whatever he wanted. I followed him in kind of worried that he would go nuts, you know take huge arms full of stuff, but I had committed and was going to see it through.
In a very discerning manner and with no shoes he kind of delicately and slowly walked through the store. He picked out a cheeseburger, the kind you nuke, a chocolate milk, a bag of chips and an ice cream bar. He then went outside sat with his back against the glass and started to eat his picnic.
I went out and sat next to him, looking out at the parking lot.
We stayed quiet for a long time. Then he told me I was pretty cool.
And you know I was kind of. It has worn off since. He then said real raspy like "you know you got some Mojo my man." I could not have felt more proud.
But I honestly I didn't know exactly what mojo meant. I knew it was good. So I asked.
He said " You got your average Joe, right? But then you got a Joe who got MO."
I tried not to look like a grinning idiot. Man I'm a Joe with MO I thought.
He was eating his ice cream bar and adjusting the bandage on his head, I couldn't see any wound and the bandage was clean actually very clean. And he said looking at the Dove Bar " I got a Jones for these bars."
So it being "Teach the Cracker English day" I asked him what having a 'Jones' meant. I had heard the idiom of course but I had by then to realized the the etymology of seemingly tossed off phrases can be very interesting, illuminating even.
He looked at me askance and kind of smiled for the first time and said " You know when you keepin up with the Jones'- gotta get that thing or those clothes or that car- you know to look good and shit. Well that means you gotta Jones for that shit you after. It's obsession really."
So this Mojo boy ain't never keepin up with the Jones'. At least I have tried all these years to keep obsession at bay. My man showed showed me some shit that night.
Got to have a Jones for this
a Jones for that
but keepin up with the Jones' boy
just ain't where it's at.
Boz Scaggs
Monday, April 16, 2007
7-11 after Midnight (see post below for preamble)
Very little time passed before the neighborhood started streaming into the store. Kids, a lot of kids out at 12:30 am moving in groups and craving candy. I really didn't know the price of anything not marked and was guessing prices to the point of starting to actually worry that I might be out of line here at the 7-11.
Refusing to accept that this was over my head (and how could I have ever lived with that conclusion) I bore down and started getting good at it. Jaunty even. A petite blond with nice features and long hair came in placed a candy bar on the counter, grinned at me and then opened her mouth widely. A small butterfly flew out - it was only 1:00 am.
After a couple of rushes, during which my change giving skills were questioned (I just capitulated and gave them whatever amount they felt they deserved) I experienced a lull. Whew!
It was strange how when activity halted and the store emptied - a real existential loneliness would almost instantly descend. Perhaps it was the buzzing fluorescent bulbs whose almost x-ray intensity set all shadows into a high hard-edge relief and made all the colored objects look foreign and strange. Never did figure out why that feeling came on so quickly in there.
A professionally dressed woman walked in at about 2:00 am or so. By now I was feeling almost confident and competent. She asked for a 'hot pretzel'. I had noticed that there was a delicious looking pretzel being warmed buy two spot light bulbs in a case setting up on top of the slushy machine.
Obligingly, I climbed up on the counter and reached across to the pretzel case. While standing on the counter looking down I noted to the professional looking customer that these pretzels must not be too popular because the tight fitting top to the case was very dusty.
After some effort I pried the top off the case, lifted the golden brown pretzel off its little hooks put it on a napkin and handed it to her. She stood there looking at it for just a brief moment then proceeded to the microwave. She nuked it for a minute, removed it, put it back on the napkin then walked back to me. I was watching her and waiting behind the counter in my smock and paper hat.
There was lime-green smoke coming off the pretzel. She asked me, the obvious expert "is that OK?". I said with as much authority as possible "Yeah, that's the pretzel." She paid my made up price (85 cents) and went on her way.
The shift tumbled down through the rest of the dark night for what seemed a really long time. Eight hours to a kid is tough. Then to my great joy I saw the sky start to lighten. A bird was heard singing. And my manager returned to the 7-11.
He asked if it had gone OK. Wanting to impress him I said yeah showed him the log of what I had eaten (I'd actually given my food away but that is another story) and asked him .." What's up with those pretzels?" As I asked him I naturally looked up at the now empty pretzel case.
He followed my glance and said "......?".
He looks up again at the case and said, kind of alarmed now;
"Man you sold that shit? Man that was the display pretzel --- MAN that shit been VARNISHED, the pretzels are in the freezer." He looked really worried and asked me a few more questions- I told him about the green smoke, and he kind of anxiously of let it go. He was quiet for a while then gently said,
"Come in early tonight I'll show you how some shit works man. See you later." Nice guy.
I sold the fucking display pretzel for 85 cents.
Next: how I learned about MOJO, by giving out a free burger.
Refusing to accept that this was over my head (and how could I have ever lived with that conclusion) I bore down and started getting good at it. Jaunty even. A petite blond with nice features and long hair came in placed a candy bar on the counter, grinned at me and then opened her mouth widely. A small butterfly flew out - it was only 1:00 am.
After a couple of rushes, during which my change giving skills were questioned (I just capitulated and gave them whatever amount they felt they deserved) I experienced a lull. Whew!
It was strange how when activity halted and the store emptied - a real existential loneliness would almost instantly descend. Perhaps it was the buzzing fluorescent bulbs whose almost x-ray intensity set all shadows into a high hard-edge relief and made all the colored objects look foreign and strange. Never did figure out why that feeling came on so quickly in there.
A professionally dressed woman walked in at about 2:00 am or so. By now I was feeling almost confident and competent. She asked for a 'hot pretzel'. I had noticed that there was a delicious looking pretzel being warmed buy two spot light bulbs in a case setting up on top of the slushy machine.
Obligingly, I climbed up on the counter and reached across to the pretzel case. While standing on the counter looking down I noted to the professional looking customer that these pretzels must not be too popular because the tight fitting top to the case was very dusty.
After some effort I pried the top off the case, lifted the golden brown pretzel off its little hooks put it on a napkin and handed it to her. She stood there looking at it for just a brief moment then proceeded to the microwave. She nuked it for a minute, removed it, put it back on the napkin then walked back to me. I was watching her and waiting behind the counter in my smock and paper hat.
There was lime-green smoke coming off the pretzel. She asked me, the obvious expert "is that OK?". I said with as much authority as possible "Yeah, that's the pretzel." She paid my made up price (85 cents) and went on her way.
The shift tumbled down through the rest of the dark night for what seemed a really long time. Eight hours to a kid is tough. Then to my great joy I saw the sky start to lighten. A bird was heard singing. And my manager returned to the 7-11.
He asked if it had gone OK. Wanting to impress him I said yeah showed him the log of what I had eaten (I'd actually given my food away but that is another story) and asked him .." What's up with those pretzels?" As I asked him I naturally looked up at the now empty pretzel case.
He followed my glance and said "......?".
He looks up again at the case and said, kind of alarmed now;
"Man you sold that shit? Man that was the display pretzel --- MAN that shit been VARNISHED, the pretzels are in the freezer." He looked really worried and asked me a few more questions- I told him about the green smoke, and he kind of anxiously of let it go. He was quiet for a while then gently said,
"Come in early tonight I'll show you how some shit works man. See you later." Nice guy.
I sold the fucking display pretzel for 85 cents.
Next: how I learned about MOJO, by giving out a free burger.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
7-11 in the Ghetto
When I was a kid. I was hired to work at a 7-11 for a summer job. Oddly I had to take a lie detector test before they would hire me. Dude started off asking me if I had ever stolen from an employer "No" I said kind of proud. Is your name Pynch'sB" "Yes" (this is going to be easy!).
Have you ever used marijuana? "Yes" ( Ummm?)
Have you ever used amphetamines? "Yes" (whaaa?)
Have you ever used LSD? Yes (is this one of those flashbacks they keep talking about?)
Psilocybin (I kid you not)
Downers ,PCP ,Soapers, Hashish, Opium..
Glue ...
Yes Yes Yes Yes for gods sake yes. I didn't really want to work at 7-11 anyway let me go.
And then the last drug question.
Have you ever used Heroin? "No". My pride returned and I kind of swelled up. (whada do ya think i am A JUNKIE sucka?)
Anyway I left happy that I would not be hired. My mom had set up the interview as I was on like my 5th job that summer having purposely fucked up the others and was blissfully out of work and hoping to stay that way.
They called just a couple of hours later and said i was hired and that i should report to [redacted]
@ midnight that night for the 12 to 8 am shift. It was in the ghetto and known as a very get your ass beat, cut shot etc. neighborhood.
Fucked again.
I left the bucolic burbs at 11:15 and drove across town down the dim streets to my new place of employment. I was greeted by my Hispanic manager who started the training with "We been robbed a lot just give them the money in the drawer." And big smile "they point the gun, they don't want to shoot you man, they just want the money."
He gave me a paper hat to wear. And a 7-11 smock. A smock.
He quickly showed me the register, I didn't get it but nodded anyway, the safe into which I was supposed to put all receipts over $50, told me that I was supposed to write in a log whatever I ate or drank. And split.
Alone at the helm. Fluorescent light buzzing paper hat on, looking out the glass front at a spastic sodium vapor street light blinking in the parking lot...
more about that night later....
Have you ever used marijuana? "Yes" ( Ummm?)
Have you ever used amphetamines? "Yes" (whaaa?)
Have you ever used LSD? Yes (is this one of those flashbacks they keep talking about?)
Psilocybin (I kid you not)
Downers ,PCP ,Soapers, Hashish, Opium..
Glue ...
Yes Yes Yes Yes for gods sake yes. I didn't really want to work at 7-11 anyway let me go.
And then the last drug question.
Have you ever used Heroin? "No". My pride returned and I kind of swelled up. (whada do ya think i am A JUNKIE sucka?)
Anyway I left happy that I would not be hired. My mom had set up the interview as I was on like my 5th job that summer having purposely fucked up the others and was blissfully out of work and hoping to stay that way.
They called just a couple of hours later and said i was hired and that i should report to [redacted]
@ midnight that night for the 12 to 8 am shift. It was in the ghetto and known as a very get your ass beat, cut shot etc. neighborhood.
Fucked again.
I left the bucolic burbs at 11:15 and drove across town down the dim streets to my new place of employment. I was greeted by my Hispanic manager who started the training with "We been robbed a lot just give them the money in the drawer." And big smile "they point the gun, they don't want to shoot you man, they just want the money."
He gave me a paper hat to wear. And a 7-11 smock. A smock.
He quickly showed me the register, I didn't get it but nodded anyway, the safe into which I was supposed to put all receipts over $50, told me that I was supposed to write in a log whatever I ate or drank. And split.
Alone at the helm. Fluorescent light buzzing paper hat on, looking out the glass front at a spastic sodium vapor street light blinking in the parking lot...
more about that night later....
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