Recycle

I'm by myself at the coffeehouse, have a line of eight people, and this stank ass balding hippie freak cuts in front of the line and says "Where's the recycling?"

"I don't know. Try over by the trash can, there's probably a box or something."

He does this evil, impatient half-laugh. "There is no box. Where is your recycle?"

"Sir, I don't know. This is a galleria, I'm sure there's recycling somewhere in here, but I don't know where."

He pushes his glasses up over his nose. "You don't know??? Where do you recycle?"

"At home." I say. The lady behind him clears her throat. "I'm really busy right now. There's a security guard over there who can point you in the direction of the recycle."

"I think you need to talk to your boss and get recycling in here."

"My boss owns a chain of coffeehouses, all of which have recycling in them," this is probably a lie, "but this is a galleria storefront, so only the people who run the galleria can install recycling, so why don't you go talk to the security guard, and he can point you to their offices."

"But if I talk to you, and you talk to your boss, then we can fix the real problem. Recycling is good, don't you think?"

And because Celeste is quitting, and I'm tired, and I'm all itchy from having shaved, I say "Why don't you go back to Burlington Vermont and let me work."

And he is stunned. "How did you know I was from Burlington?"

Because you smell like cheap pot and week old farts. "I used to live up there, and you look kind of familiar, now if you'll excuse me." This is a lie. But, generally, assholes who want to impress their equally stank, dreadlocked girlfriends by antagonizing coffeehop workers about environmental concerns are all from Burlington, Vermont.

Stanky goes away to try and find Canadian Hydro, and I return to the line, where someone is telling me about how soldiers are trained to kill, but no one ever untrains them, and I'm about to ask him why he's telling me this when I realize I'm wearing my "God Bless America" t-shirt, and I don't have time to explain that it's ironic, I just want him to take his machiatto and leave me alone.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/136943.html

On Microwaves And Pidgin

Whoever started the stereotype that firemen were hot, certainly didn't live in any neighborhood I've lived in. Don't get me wrong, I'd much rather have a troop of non-attractive, competent firemen than Zoolanders with large hoses. These firemen were Rescue Me firemen, which makes sense, the show takes place in Boston, I live in Boston. Still, having Dennis Leary rush into our house, then come back out and say "Your smoke detector has low batteries, everything is fine." is a very anticlimactic result to a morning fire. And, what the fuck, what kind of smoke detector is designed to go off loudly and set off the other alarms in the house when it's low on batteries? Wouldn't a simple occasional beep be sufficient? Maybe the lights could go out or something?

With tragedy averted, Dale duct taped his broken car window and drove to work. I got dressed and headed to the coffeehouse to hang out with Celeste. Poor Celeste was still stuck in New York, where she had apparently been punched in the face while waiting for the Chinatown bus, because...well because the Chinatown bus sucks, never shows up when it's scheduled, and, according to yesterday's newspaper, has a tendency to go up in flames every other month or so. Suddenly, fifteen bucks to get from Boston to NYC isn't looking so hot good. I'd rather spend the extra ten bucks to go Greyhound, and live through the experience unscathed.

Because Celeste was not there, I volunteered to work her shift, even though I haven't so much as looked at a cup of coffee in two months. Apart from a few of the regulars asking me where I'd been, the shift was largely uneventful, until the last hour.

I was pouring out the coffee of the day (Mango Duck Chutney) when I noticed someone at the counter.

"?b-l-u-e-b-e-r-r-y m-u-f-f-in?"

"of-course ?want this? ?want that?"

"that ?busy day?"

"not yes-not no ?coffee?"

And I suddenly realized I was signing to a stranger. A stranger had walked up to my counter and, without any introduction, begun speaking with me in pidgin sign language.

"no coffee thanks"

"?how you know I sign?" I asked.

"you fingerspell and" (mimes pouring) "coffee same time"

Right, I do have a tendency to fingerspell when I'm daydreaming. I wasn't aware you could notice that across a crowded room, though.

"William!" Did someone step on a bird with strep throat? No, it's just some obnoxious woman yelling at.... Who is she yelling at? "WILL-YUM" She's coming right at me. Ohhhhh.

"?name w-i-l-l-i-a-m?" I asked.

His eyes conveyed the question "Are you psychic?" while his fingers remained motionless.

"someone yell at you"

William turned around. "?what?" Then he signed something I couldn't see.

"Don't sign to me." She said. "I don't have a clue what you're saying."

"I thought we were supposed to sign to each other as much as possible so we could get fluent faster." His voice is...flawless. Deep, rich, and...not at all the voice of someone who can't hear their own voice.

"I don't have time for this." She says. "Do you have my muffin?"

"Yes." He says, holding up the bag.

"Is it hot?"

"No." I say.

She bristles that I have addressed her. She clearly wasn't asking for my input. "Well, heat it up then."

"I can't." I say. "No microwave or oven."

"Why not?" She asks.

William turns around and starts watching my lips. He definitely can't hear. I'm guessing, based on their conversation and his incredibly precise voice, that he only recently lost his hearing. And, that this cunt is his mother. "We're a coffeehouse, not a restaurant, per se. We just sell muffins, biscotti, and cookies."

"So buy a microwave to heat up muffins for people."

Twat. "We don't have room for a microwave. Plus, in the year I've worked here" this is a complete lie, I worked there for all of three or four months "you're the first person who ever asked to have their muffin heated."

"Well now I don't want it. So you just lost a customer. Maybe you should rethink your position on microwaves. Let's go William."

Yes, bitch. The $1.50 we just lost because you don't want a muffin will make me rush over to Best Buy RIGHT NOW to buy a microwave. Clearly, you win.

William looks like he just sat in water. "sorry" he says to me "mom" Then he turns away, pauses, turns back and says "see-ya"

"later" I reply.

"?later?"

"l-a-t-e-r"

"William!" Cunty McFucker shouts. "Let's go."

And because I have lost my tact when it comes to this woman, I look straight at her and say "He can't hear you, lady, he's deaf."

William's eyes telescope large.

"sorry" I sign.

"same" And his laugh sends me in orbit around the coffeehouse. I may never touch the ground again.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/134546.html

The Real Catty World (Part 7: Regular)

You are not regular. I don't care if you shit every day at 8:45 AM, spend from 9-5 in a cubicle crunching numbers and drinking coffee. The fact that you like "24" and "Desperate Housewives" makes you average, but "average" and "regular" are not the same thing. Six inches hanging straight down may be average, but it ain't regular.

Three customers at work today asked for a "regular" coffee; one meant a medium black houseblend, one wanted a small houseblend with two creams and two sugars, and one wanted a shot of espresso. Words failed me, but not as much as the word "regular" failed them.

When a person writes a personal ad, and says he's a "regular guy", I picture an obese black underwear model with blonde hair, purple eyes, wearing only a sweater vest and six Swatch watches. His ass has a door over the hole that says "unleaded only". You know, regular.

I don't like regular people. My friends have style: Zuzu is adopting a miniature dachshund (against my advice) and, because dachshunds are German, naming it Pup Ratzinger. Celeste uses a 1950's era medical kit as a purse, and even writes with pens shaped like syringes. Dmitri drinks ketchup straight from the bottle when he's nervous. My friends don't even have regular names.



Landlord woke me up at 5 AM to tell me my room was messy. I knew this already. "Why are you in my room anyway?"

"I'm looking for dishes." he said.

"Try the kitchen." I rolled over and fell back asleep. I dreamed I was on "American Idol", freestyling a Christian gospelesque song while Billy Joel plaeds classical piano. I have this dream every Tuesday. It's a regular occurrence.

I rewoke up at 9:30, had eggs and toast with my new roommate, an Australian woman who tests the effects of psychotropic drugs on schizophrenics. I call her Dr. O.

"When I was sixteen," I told her, "my roommate, JBOB and I took mescaline for the first time. Just as the high started kicking in, we were given free tickets for a preview showing of Natural Born Killers. When it let out, we alternated between hiding in doorways and searching the city for Laura Palmer's remains. I haven't touched mescaline or NBK since."

At ten thirty, I caught a bus to work. A complete stranger with piercing green eyes said, as he stepped off the bus, "I love your haircut."

I stammered out a weak "Thanks?". He turned around and waved. His shirt said "Future Fry Cook". The film version of my life has run out of extras.

I was barely at work for a half hour when Clitty called. Twice. Fuck Clitty, I should refer to her as Needy Smurf. No, that's too harsh. Needy Bitch. She's been telling my coworkers she's my girlfriend, and she constantly "calls me back", which is remarkable only because I never call her first.

After an uneventful day of pouring coffee, I took the T to Quincy to mail books to prisoners. As I opened the door to the church I heard "Safey?" And across the street was my beautiful ex-not-quite-boyfriend, MAMIP. "It really is you."

I wondered if he was surprised at my haircut, the fact that I was wearing the shirt he bought me, or that I was entering a church. Turns out, one of my illustrious former coworkers told him I'd moved back to Arizona. "Right." I said. "Just after I had breast augmentation and took up drinking kerosene and lighting my belches on fire."

He stared blankly at me. I am on the receiving end of this look more than I care to admit.

We exchanged new phone numbers and soap opera stares until he had to go to work.

When I was finished with my volunteer work, I headed over to Zuzu's for dinner and BTVS. Then I headed home and went to sleep. Alone.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/114642.html

Odd Jobs

Every morning, on my way to the hospital, I find the hottest guy on the bus and try to picture how Interesting our life will be when he realizes that I'm his soul mate. Usually, there's a body part to fixate on: eyes, hair, the back of their head.

Today's obsession was all eyes and fauxhawk until he folded his copy of The Metro, revealing a bright-green (eye accentuating) t-shirt that read "Future Fry Cook". This suits him probably more than he'd like to admit. But is this his long-term career path or do his shirts and jobs change by the season?

If this sort of honesty through t-shirt slogan catches on, I can finally land myself a blue shirted "Future Doctor" or better yet, a black shirted "Living Off Multi-Billion Dollar Inheritance".

I see myself flipping through my closet, filled with "Recovering Bartender", "Former Loss Prevention Agent", "Jester-Suited Fudge Maker Eventually Embarrassed Into Finding Real Job". I would keep the pretentious "Occasionally Makes Money Off Writing" in the back, with the stonewashed denim suit and the Kurt Cobain flannel.

Future Fry Cook clears his throat when he notices that I'm staring at him. I blink my eyes twice and redirect my imagination out the window.

At work, I tell Celeste a revised version of my fantasy: "An entire closet of patchwork t-shirts reading "Odd Jobber".

"What about 'Marginally Employed Barrista Approaching Thirty'? Or 'Whore With Crippling Emotional Distance'?"

"Laugh It Up 'Flakey Artist Who Pours Coffee Near Hospital'."

This will never catch on. I'd rather wear a shirt that had pictures of all the ugly guys I've slept with. At least then I'll be able to point out that it's all stuff from my past, not my future. No, really, someday I will be a famous novelist. I'm not a "Future Waiter", I'm a "Former Waiter".

I'm in the middle of coming up with a color scheme for my line of "Future Job Wear" when a guy with the most beautiful eyes in the world approaches the counter. He is the fourth person with "the most beautiful eyes in the world" that I've seen today.

I'm convinced that he's about to tell me how hot I look in the black hat I've been wearing to hide the fact that I didn't have time to wash my hair this morning, but what he actually says is "I'd like a hot black Colombian with lots of head."

Me, too. Oh, wait, he means the coffee.

I've really got to find a new job.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/111443.html

Doo Doooo D'Doo Doo

The radio where I work is really adept at playing static. Pop static, bluegrass static, math rock static, it runs the gambit. I'd prefer to keep the damned thing off, and rock out to the music in my head, but this week, The Catchiest Song in The World has been stuck in my head.

If you're not old enough to remember the old Muppets sketch (which is not the original time The Muppets sang that song...it goes back past the Red Skelton era...which is waaaay before my time), you've probably seen the Cherry Vanilla Dr. Pepper Commercial. Damn that song.

All day long at work, people word order Banana Nut Muffins, and since "Banana Nut" has the same rhythm as "Manamana", I'd sing "doo doooo d'doo doo/Banana nut!/Doo doo doo dooo/Banana Nut!" until I was forced to pour scalding hot espresso down my pants and slam my head in a cabinet. Still, the song would not go away. It got to the point where I actually hid the muffins to avoid people saying "Banana nut". Naturally, this plan didn't work.

Random customer: "Where are your banana nut--"
Me: "Doo doooo d'doo doo"
Random customer: "--muffins? Are you ok? Why are you slamming your head in a cabinet?"
Me: "Banana nut!"

I shall be fired before the end of next week.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/100392.html

Flyer Monkey

A witch, an orphan, and The Phantom of the Opera walk into a bar. The bartender says "What the fuck?" The orphan says "Can we use your restroom?"

Last Wednesday night, my roommate announced that he would like to go to Las Vegas. I went over the pros and cons of the city, as I saw them. One of the largest cons (besides Celine Dion and iodine filled shrimp) on my list was the barrage of people who stand outside the casinos smacking flyers against their palms and sticking them in the front of your face. I referred to those people as soulless inbred pieces of shit. This week I call them colleagues.

When Zuzu called me and said that a company wanted to pay me $20 an hour to dress up as The Phantom of the Opera and hand out flyers, I thought...well, I didn't think anything, little green dollar signs flashed in my eyes, my dick got hard, and I began to drool. This is clearly a sign that I need to reconsider my career options.

On Thursday afternoon, I listened in on The Conference Call of the Damned. Dozens of people from around the country who, like me, had chosen to sell their dignity in order to play dress up, called and asked ridiculous questions of the incompetent managers running the promotion. When the managers felt they had distributed all the appropriate knowledge to us lowly pions, they deigned we could hang up the phone, one of my boneheaded colleagues shouted "I'm SanFranPhantom2004 on AIM, IM me." I considered donating some of my pride to him, but I know he'd only abuse it.

Friday night I went to see/participate in a show with Steggy and veritable who's who of my friends list (meaning that if I posted their journal names you'd be like "who's that? I've never seen them comment before"). Unfortunately, I didn't get to do any Insafemode stuff, but that's ok, I got to satirize Steggy AND hear a bunch of my favorite poets from MA. When I got home shortly after midnight, I sat down to watch John Stewart bitch slap Crossfire. The doorbell rang. At 1:05 AM some motherfucker was ringing my goddamned doorbell. Zuzu was that motherfucker.

We drove to her house, my humble abode circa 2000, and then again circa 2001. After some pistachios and chai, she gave me the first of the bad news. Chuck the Incompetent (what can you expect from a grown man who goes by Chuck?) had told both men in the promotion that they would be the phantom. The other guy being a 75 year old man. The other character in the promotion being Oliver Twist. Now, for the benefit of mankind, I was willing to concede that I should be the one dressed as a twelve year old orphan. So I put on the torn shirt, ripped corduroys, green neckerchief, and paperboy hat (I bet you'd like to see a picture of that you sick fucks). Meanwhile, Zuzu put on her Tracy Turnblad costume.

When I lived in the house with Zuzu, her husband and their son, the neighbors gave us lots of dirty looks. More than a couple of people believed that we were living some sordid swinger life. I can only imagine what these neighbors were thinking when they peered through the windows at 3 AM and saw Zuzu in a big wig and a housedress featherdusting while I wandered around the kitchen dressed like a twelve year old orphan.

The next morning Chuck called to give us moral support. He called Zuzu's house and told us how stupid the people from the California promotion were. He called the other half of our team and told them how stupid the Chicago people were. He also mentioned how hard it was to cast the New York show, what with all the black people replying to the ads. "You can't have a black Phantom of the Opera. That would be like a gay Oliver."

The promotion was scheduled to start somewhere in the city at nine. At 11 or so, we all met in a parking garage, introduced ourselves and walked out into the public eye. Actually we walked into auditions for the fucken Real World. Picture 2 men, and 3 women dressed in Broadway show costumes weaving through hundreds of 18-24 year old "reality TV" hopefuls. There were a few cat calls. And yes, by putting on ridiculous costumes and walking the streets of Boston we sacrificed a bit of our dignity. You can make fun of us for that. But while we're losers for pretending to be somewhere else, if your narcissistic ass gets a part on The Real World, you'll be branded a loser just for being yourself. May you all get stuck on Road Rules, trailer trash.

From the very beginning of Day One, I got all kinds of flirt play. Mostly from fairly hot looking women, but from a few Broadway geek gays, too. I was returning the flirt to one such boy when I noticed this really sleazy looking Skeletor standing in a puddle of his own drool. He limps over to me and starts talking to me about how much he loves musicals, and he's really happy that young men like myself are able to make money acting in musicals. Whatever, freak. After a few seconds of me obviously trying to ignore him without being so obvious that I drop character, he asks what high school I go to.

EWWWWWW. Look you middle-sighted Skeletor looking pedophile, I'm not at all flattered that you think I look young enough to be in high school. I felt like calling over one of the cops that was in the area and asking them to beat him with their nightclubs.

I understand the attraction to youth thing, but if I'm sixty years old and approaching what I think to be a high school student on the street in an attempt to get some play, I hope they taser my testicles and drag me back to the senior citizen concentration camp.

Don't get me wrong, I don't see anything wrong with old people and young people dating (I'm a little grossed out in most cases, but to each their own deviance) but old people harassing teenagers is just bleurgh. No amount of Viagra in the world...

The rest of the day was smoother than a queen's upper lip. People loved us. Hordes of tourists demanded to take pictures of us, and then took flyers by the handful. Not one was thrown on the ground. We were promotion whores. Around oneish we hit The Commons, where we were serenaded by a homeless man dressed as The Cat in the Hat. If I'm ever down on my luck, I will write an inspirational story about this man. At three we turned around, and began our pilgrimage to the car. All in all, a fantastic day.

The second day began the badness. Being smarter than the coma patient who dreamed up this promotion, I suggested we head to the Theatre District and hand out flyers about a Broadway themed television show to the people who were paying top dollar to go see Broadway shows. This is why they pay me the big bucks. Unfortunately, parking in Boston on Sunday near the Theatre District is an ugly zoo. It took, literally, hours, for us to find parking. While the women searched for parking Grandpa Phantom and I headed to The Wang to pass out flyers. We were quickly told to disperse.

When we met up with Zuzu, The Witch, and Thoroughly Modern Millie, we decided to hit up some high traffic locations that we'd avoided the day before. On the way there, we made a return trip to The Common. This time, instead of flocks of tourists, there was a mob centered around one of the park bench areas. The Phantom and I were leary of the mob, so we stood back while the womenfolk began pestering the people of the mob. That's when I noticed the cross. So did Zuzu and "Millie," both of whom backed off. Meanwhile, during a moment of silence for the homeless Christians of Boston, a woman in a witch costume was handing out flyers for a television show. Oddly, no one was struck by lightning.

Other highlights of the day included being waved into a senior citizen home where all the residents took pictures and flyers, and getting free advertising by the Duck Tours staff who took flyers, and pointed us out every time they drove past us, making sure to note the TV show we were promoting and when it airs. Go Ducks.

On our way through the North End, we encountered some sort of hockey team who took pictures with us. After the photos were taken, I handed one of the ugly monkeys a flyer which he refused. He said "I don't watch no Broadway shows" much the way a hooker will tell a cop "I don't suck no dick for crack money."

Around two o'clock we headed toward The Opera House, where The Lion King would be getting out. Unlike those assholes at The Wang, the lovely staff at The Opera House were more than happy to allow us to hand out Broadway related flyers to the people leaving a Broadway show. Right around the corner from The Opera House, a mob of people with photos snapped hundreds of pictures of us, and took hundreds of flyers. They were there to take pictures of The Yankees leaving their hotel room. And so it was that a mob of Yankee fans, Red Sox Nation, the audience of The Lion King, and five soulless TV promoters shared the same block in Boston, MA. We gave out ten thousand flyers. TEN THOUSAND in thirty minutes. They had given us five days to give out fifteen thousand. Chuck and his bosses should each fly out here to Boston and suck my cock for coming up with the "pass out flyers in the Theatre District" idea.

They won't. Chuck would probably have said something like "I hope you didn't give any tickets to the gooks or the spics. They don't like Broadway shows."

Now we had a conundrum. We'd signed up for five days of work handing our flyers. In one and a half days, the tickets were all gone. We decided as a group to call Chuck and ask him to send more tickets, hinting that we might need more, not letting him now that we were finished with the job. So Chuck mailed us out more tickets.

For whatever reason, we were forbidden to work on Monday (further proof that Chuck belongs to some weirdo cult for the creatively challenged). So this morning, the witch, the phantom, "Millie", Zuzu and I met in the pouring rain to hand out flyers in malls. This is, by the way, completely against policy in every mall in America. Incompetent Chuck and friends had not arranged any place for us to go in case of rain. I knew, having done my tour of duty as a mall worker, that handing out flyers on their property was going to get us in trouble. Once again, I came to the rescue. I harassed the nice folks of Borders and Barnes & Noble, all of whom were overjoyed to take stacks of flyers from us. Still, we had been contracted to hand the flyers out on the streets, so in my two size too small shoes (which I forgot to mention earlier), I trudged through the rain where angry suits, aging Valley Girls, and the sort of black-eyelined cutting pseudo-goth whose LJ name likely includes the word "bitch" "pain" or "vindicated" refused to take flyers.

There are five common moves used to avoid getting flyers:

Move #1 is the no-eye contact fly by. I approve whole-heartedly to this approach. You don't want the flyer or your time wasted. I agree that you have a right not to talk to me, hot and charming as I may be.

Move #2: The two handed cell phone approach. This says that you would take a flyer but your cell phone is so heavy that you just can't carry anything else. This is usually accompanied by a shrug.

Move #3: The head shake and grimace. Kind of like the no-eye contact fly by but with a "Fuck you for interrupting my very busy day of molesting children and stealing from the poor" cherry on top.

Move #4: Feigned interest. You listen to the spiel, ask questions, then leave without taking a flyer. Have you nothing better to do? I don't. If I did, I'd be doing it. Either take a flyer or go back to your job at Starbuck's.

Move #5: Arm waving hostility. This is accompanied by screaming and moral outrage. Luckily, none of the promoters in my group were the recipient of move #5. But while we were in Harvard Square in the wind and rain, we were interspersed with people trying to get donations and volunteers for John Kerry and a similar group for George Bush. One poor sap asked some liberal looking guy if he'd like to donate to Kerry. The guy got really indignant and began waving his hands and screaming "I've already given $500 to the Kerry campaign and $500 to the Democrats. Thanks to this ridiculous McBane law (his ignorance, not mine), I can't legally blah blah blah. Why can't you guys give me a pin or something so you know that I've done all I legally can. Stop harassing me blah blah blah." While he ranted, I asked the pro-Bush people for a stack of flyers, and stuck them in the manpurse the guy was carrying.

At the end of the day, wet, sullen, burly, blister-footed, I dragged myself to the bar where I have, on occasion, met my prospective publisher. I hoped she would show, see me in all my raggedy glory so she would be inspired to either speed up the publication/check cutting process or at least see the limits I was willing to go to get material for my next book.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/67715.html

My Baby's Mama

When I first started working at my current place of employment, I was determined not to be an asshole. This can be difficult for me. I have a habit of purposely saying the wrong things to the right people in order to get laughs at their expense. I think this is why I've almost exclusively dated morons.

I lasted a record two shifts before I became the poster child for Eye Rolling and Sexual Impropriety. I got to be really good friends with Former CoWorker and She Who Would Eventually Become My Baby's Mama. A few months into our friendship she asked me if she looked fat. The girl is 5'3" and possibly 11 pounds, maybe 12 if you dip her in a vat of bacon grease. Maybe.

I told her that she did look like she'd put on a few pounds, but what did she expect? She was carrying my child. It was a throwaway joke and probably wouldn't even be memorable if it weren't for the next night.

I was hungover like a towel on a dormroom closet. Between paperwork and the actual waiting tables, I'd been working for nearly ten hours str---gay. My last table of the night was a group of frat boys. Like koala bears and Elijah Wood, frat boys are cute in their natural habitat, but you wouldn't want one up close and eating in your restaurant.

Fifteen minutes into their debauchery, I realize they hate me. I mean they HATE me. Enter, She Who Is Now Referred To As My Baby's Mama. It's her night off, but she stops in to meet some people after work for a few drinks. She looks a-fucken-mazing. You know, if you're into short chicks.

One of the guys at the table starts to get huge hearts in his eyes, his tongue falls around his ankles and his erection would have knocked over the table except for the fact that he's a frat boy, and everyone knows frat boys have macroscopic phalluses.

Frat Boy #1 turns to Frat Boy #Who Cares? and says "Dude, I could totally get her phone number." This starts a barrage of comments affirming their heterosexual machismo while reducing She Who Is Nearly Known As My Baby's Mama to nothing more than a walking ass with tits on them. An affliction of sight prevalant in the wild frat boy.

She Who Is Seconds Away From Being Known As My Baby's Mama has great hearing. She pivots towards the table, which does little to hush the bravado of Frat Boys The Musical. As she walks by me, she pushes my order book out of my hand and kisses me quite hard.

*Thunderstruck Silence*

She looks right at the table and says "You guys are lucky My Baby's Daddy isn't a jealous man," and then walks away.

The Fratboys ask me if she's seriously my wife. "No." I tell them. "We're not even really dating, we just kind of fool around, and thought it would be fun to have a kid together."

The Fratboys name me their king, toss me on their shoulders and lead me to the infinite land of keggers and Madden Football. They also leave me a sweet tip, and ask me if My Baby's Mama has a sister.

Now the offhand comment about our relationship become a long-running joke. Nine months after the comment we name the baby Unique, and make jokes about my deadbeat-daddedness. I keep leaving for three or six month sabbaticals, and never pay child support. What can I say? I'm a bastard. So is Unique, I suppose.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/15509.html

Giggles The Chowderhead

Giggles and her boyfriend arrived in the restaurant I work at, just before I was to go home for the evening. They took a seat in my section and informed me that they were waiting for six of their friends to show up. They ordered two waters (of course), and said they wanted bread on the table at all times. I got the feeling there were no other friends showing up, and that they were on some sort of prison diet.

An hour later the friends showed up, all talking on their various cell phones, and shaking their heads and shushing me every time I went to their table to ask if they were ready to order.

Giggles was the Alpha Bitch. When she was ready to order she yelled my name across the restaurant. The table ordered a plate of Cheese Fries, two salads, and a bowl of Clam Chowder.

Someone had rung in a Cheese Fries by mistake earlier, so there was an order sitting in the window when I got into the kitchen. Since I wanted to get these people out of the restaurant as soon as possible, I brought it right out to them. I then went back to the kitchen to wait for the salads and soup.

Just as the salads were coming out, one of my coworkers rushed into the kitchen and said I was needed at my table immediately.

Giggles was no longer chattering with her boyfriend, or their assorted friends. Her lips were sneered so high that I couldn't see her nose, and I'm reasonably sure there was steam coming from her eyes.

"Sir," she snorted "I usually don't like to complain" *cough* YEA, Right. "but I have never been so disgusted in my life. The clam chowder you brought out is cold, has no clams in it, and the portion is ridiculously small. I demand a refund, AND I want to see the manager. There is no excuse for such horrible food."

I did my best to keep my polite customer-service smile as I said "Miss, that's not clam chowder, it's ranch dressing."

original post: http://community.livejournal.com/mock_the_stupid/889252.html

Sexual Harassment Theatre

As a general rule, I don't mess around with people I work with. Sometimes I break that rule, but it comforts me to know the rule is there to fall back on.

I recently discovered that several people I've known and worked with for the last two and a half years don't even know I'm gay. I mean the gay people I work with don't know I'm gay. The dreaded curse of the SSGG (Straight-seeming gay guy). I don't hide my sexuality. In fact, they should make videos of the way I behave at work and show it to potential employees just to warn them away. I'm like a roving Scared-Not-Straight Campaign.

I'll be posting a bunch of stories involving myself, Jeremy The King Of Bisexual Harassment and Equality, and John The Weirdest Perv I Know Outside of My Friends List.

Here's tonight's story:

I was training a new kid. Let's call him...Jason because that's his name. Normally when I'm training I tend to be more matter-of-fact than normal, but this was the kid's fourth night. If he didn't get it by now, he was gonna be busing tables instead of waiting on them.

I thought I had been fairly low-key the past few shifts, not being the perverted ass that I can be. I was wrong. I know this because after my sincere conversation about what I expected him to do, and what I felt we should work on, I asked "Is there anything you think you need my help with?" To which he replies: "If I need anything from you, I'll scrape it off my zipper."

¿¿¿What???

I'm fairly sure he got the line mixed up, but I can guess the intention behind it, so I preceded to make the rest of his night Sexual Harassment Hell. I sicced Big Rich on him.

Big Rich is far gayer than even Big Gay Tom. Big Rich is a fiftyish year old man about 6'2", at least 300 pounds. He kisses the tops of guy's heads for no discernable reason, likes to pinch people, and seems to have a fetish for youngish looking asian and/or jock boys. Who doesn't?

Anyhow, I have Rich invading his space all night. After about a half an hour, Jason playfully slaps my ass while I'm carrying a tray of food. Oh, it's on now, motherfucker.

I start carrying a big wooden breadboard with me. I "accidentally" slap his ass with it while he's taking an order from a table. He retaliates with a bread board while I'm up at the bar. As he reaches into the bread oven I wind up and CRACK!!!

I (A)break the breadboard on his ass, which causes (B)his upper body to spasm upwards, pressing his (C)arm against the top of the bread oven (D) which is very hot causing him to (E)curse so loud you can probably hear him outside in the restaurant's parking lot, which causes (F)another server to drop a plate, and eventually the whole kitchen is involved in a very Rube Goldbergesque scenario.

His arm is not actually burnt, making me feel a little better. He whimpers out "I think my ass is bleeding." and then proceeds to go check. Of course it's not. Bruised perhaps, but it's not like I poked him with a skewer.

That ended our breadboard warfare. While I don't know if I ended up winning for the night, I know he ended up losing, as another server for reasons that had nothing to do with me took his cell phone camera thingy into the bathroom and left him all sorts of blurry dirty pictures.

Sometimes I love my job.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/4289.html

The Loop (Part 1: Studying With Monkey Boy)

I was at the stage of poor where I was salivating at the prospect of Ramen noodles. Even the mention of the word cheeseburger gave me an erection. After a month of living off popcorn, rice, and charity dinners, I knew I needed a change. More than change, I needed some paper money fast.

My friend, Penuche got me a job packing fudge. Sadly, this was not the first time I'd taken a job that some people might think was a euphemism for my sex life. I'd packed fudge in Provincetown, Cranberry Lake, Florida, and at a Renaissance Faire, and now it was time for me to pack fudge in Burlington Vermont. I hate being poor.

It was during a shift of fudge packing with Penuche that Ted the Monkey Boy tap danced into my life. "You're pretty good at that."

"Nah." he said "It's just real easy to fake on this floor."

I pretended not to stare too intently on Monkey as he and Penuche flirted. Cut fudge, wrap in tissue, center in box, fold corner flaps, wrap in bow. Cut fudge, wrap in tissue, center in "You can come, too if you like." he said.

"Sorry, I was in Chocolate Walnut Land. Come where?"

"My house. I'm having a little shindig. Do you....study?"

For those who have never lived in Burlington (which I believe is a huge chunk...maybe all of my friend's list), I should explain. One of the uberhippies in Burlington goes by the name of Jesse. Jesse is connected to one of the larger, more successful organic drug dealers this side of Canada...and the other side of Canada (that being, Canada). We'll call him The Guru. The Guru's legit job was as a book salesman. Therefore, people like Jesse called Guru at work and ordered textbooks instead of drugs. I don't remember which subjects corresponded with which drugs, but it was something to the effect of mushrooms being Biology, LSD being Calculus, Ecstasy being Anatomy, and cocaine being "look shithead, I don't deal cocaine, it's time for you to get counseling."

For this particular party, we'd be studying Anthropology. I brought my bubbler.

Do to the vast amount of studying I did at said party, I don't remember very much of it. I remember eating some sort of veganesque sandwich. About halfway through, I became incredibly full. Not just full to my stomach, but I could feel my brain pressing against my skull. Memories oozed out my ears. My two month backlog of sperm shot out covering the room with a --- you get the idea.

"I should go." I told Ted's cat. "I'm really tired, and I have to work tomorrow."

"Don't you think you should crash here, and call in high?" The cat asked.

"No. My boss doesn't mind me coming in high." This was true. During my interview, my boss, The Oompah Loompah, asked me whether I smoked. After a six hour pause where I looked quizzically at my shoes, he said "Don't worry. I just want to know if I should invite you over to my house for a few weekenders."

"Suit yourself." said the cat.

"Bye Ted's cat."

"Ted's bi."

"Huh?"

"Bye."

I staggered down the stairs of the apartment and out into the freezing fucken cold streets of Burlington. Having only been in town for a few months, and never having been to the section of town where Ted the Monkey Boy lived, I was somewhat unsure what was the most expedient way home. I knew the direction, but there was an assortment of annoying buildings and sculptures in my way. Plus a mall. Fucken malls.

I was a bit southeast of the mall when I noticed a pickup truck. I had an intense feeling of deja vu. Once I had ascertained that there was no gun rack or "I hunt red heads for sport" bumper sticker, I returned to my paranoid about everything but the pickup truck state and walked toward the mall.

About two minutes later, I noticed a pickup truck. I had an intense feeling of deja vu. Once I had ascertained that there was no gun ruck or "Honk if you love Homicide" bumper stickers, I returned to my paranoid about everything but the pickup truck state and walked toward the mall.

I was about fifty yards from the mall when I noticed a pickup truck. I had an intense feeling of What the Fuck I Know I've Seen This Pickup Truck At Least Three Times Now, and broke into a run. That's when I spotted the police car.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/49409.html

A Few Minutes In The Life Of A Fudge Packing Fool (Part 2: The Little Lesbian)

At some point during the fifteenth century, a bunch of European artists thought it would be a good idea to start a movement. Donatello sculpted saints. Michaelangelo sculpted naked adolescents and painted God on ceilings, among other things. Raphael obsessed over The Virgin Mother. Leonardo daVinci chronicled Jesus's dining habits. Five centuries later we celebrate their influence by paying absurd amounts of money to dress up in outdated clothes and talk in pigeon middle english. If we're too poor to afford that, we rent Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle DVDs.

I always imagined that The Renaissance was a fictional era created just for the purpose of pissing me off.

I attended a small private middle school where we spent several weeks of our mandatory Latin class discussing various Renaissance artists. My attempts to point out that Latin was spoken primarily B.C.E. and not seventeen centuries later were ignored. The following year, I returned to public school where our art teacher obsessed over the human versions of the TMNT. When confronted with the fact that there were other art movements throughout the course of history, she was often heard saying "Andy Warwho?" or "I think I've heard of Norman Rockwell, didn't he have something to do with Stonehenge?" After a year of the under funded over drugged public school, I went to a boarding school where my humanities teacher spent the first two months going over, you guessed it, Medieval history.

When I was at Sulfur City College, I made sure to avoid any class that mentioned the peasanty time period.

Why then, when I was free from the shackles of enforced American education, did I take a job selling fudge at a bloody Renaissance faire? Was I trying to match my poverty to a time period?

Whatever the reason, after two years of spending weekends and occasional week long vacations traveling the country peddling candy in parks, forests, museum gardens, and college campuses dressed in blue and purple tights, I had developed an intense hatred for thees, thous and sheep fucking jokes.

I had just finished training Cute Straight Boy on the finer points of not killing fat children who tried to steal lollipops, when he told me he'd gotten a job licking dog shit off asphalt or some other job that had slightly more dignity than renaissance faire fudge cutter.

"Dude. I thought you were going to help manage this stupid thing so I could take some time off."

"Sorry," he said, "It's a great business opportunity. Nobody there has ever stolen my keys, put it in their cleavage and asked me to remove it with my teeth."

"I thought you liked women's cleavage. Are you gay now?" I didn't succeed in convincing him to stay.

I spent the next day working with someone who I can only hope had been dropped on his head several times as a child. I racked my brains trying to think of who I knew that had low enough standards but high enough work ethic to hire as a replacement CSB (Cute Straight Boy for those who have trouble figuring out acronyms). No one. This was during the great unemployed cute boy drought of 99.

That night I decided to join the fair monkeys at a local bar. As much as I dreaded being surrounded by people who refused to change out of their personas in public, I liked the fact that they often bought me drinks. I was on my third Midori Sour when Erin approached me.

"Hey." She said. "What happened to your sidekick?"

"You mean CSB? He quit yesterday in order to take a job as an elephant gynecologist."

"Is he a vet or something?"

"No, he just likes sticking his head into gigantic vaginas."

"I see." She said in a tone that indicated that she didn't. "So are you looking to replace him?"

"Yea, do you know someone looking for a job?" I asked, trying unsuccessfully to restrain my glee.

It turned out that Erin wanted to quit her job at the face painting booth, but didn't want to quit the faire. Score! I told her she could start working with me as soon as she was ready.

She showed up the next day. I gave her the intense How To Resist The Urge To Throw The Fudgecutting Knife At No-Teeth Having Women Who Complain About The Size Of The Fudge training, and watched her interact with the rabble. She was great. She had a short temper that she accented with a sharp wit, and she knew how to smile while threatening to disembowel you. If she was a boy, I'd have been in love.

At the end of the second day, she offered to help me throw the tarp over the booth, and drive the unsold fudge back to my house, which was about a forty-five minute drive. "Are you sure?"

"Yea."

I packed each of our cars with fudge pans, and was about ready to take off when I noticed her pink triangle on the bumper. I couldn't say I was overly shocked. She was a tiny, buzz-cutted, sassy chick who played Ani Difranco CDs while we set up in the morning.

She smirked when she noticed me noticing her bumper sticker. "Yea, I'm gay."

"Cool. I figured."

"And it doesn't bother you?" Note to readers: I was not in any way, shape, or form out while I worked at the faire...too many aggressive unhygienic gay guys in kilts worked there.

"Why would your sexuality bother me? It doesn't effect how well you cut fudge. Dykes cut fudge just as well as straight boys."

"Dykes?" Uh-oh.

"I didn't mean it as an insult. I'm gay, I'm allowed." There, now we were on equal ground. We were each out to each other, and--

"You think I'm a girl?"

"I'm sorry, are you transgender?"

"No. I'm a boy."

"Boi. Like with an i?"

"No. Boy. Like with a penis."

Erin. Aaron. Short hair. Boyish face. "Oh. Wow, I'm really sorry, I thought..."

"I thought you hired me because you were trying to get in my pants." she said.

"No, I... you knew I was gay?"

"Yea, I saw the way you looked at CSB. And the only reason anyone would hire that meathead, Brent, is if they thought he was cute."

To be fair, I hired Brent because my boss made me. I've never had a thing for cute dumb guys. But I'd hired Aaron because I needed another employee. I'd even hired someone who I thought was a woman.

I tried to think of some way to gracefully turn the tide of this conversation. Not a single word came to mind.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/61352.html

Requited (Part 4: Kelland's Prophecy)

Maybe I’m in the minority (and I don’t just mean because of the gay thing), but I don’t find rape confessions to be a big turn on. Sex was no longer on my mind, in fact it wasn’t even in the same zip code as my mind, as I held Ryan sobbing in my arms. “I’m so sorry. I know this isn’t” sob “what you planned on tonight.”

I kissed the top of his head. “Don’t worry about it.”

I fell asleep sitting against the couch with Ryan in my lap. When I woke up it was light out. Ryan was still asleep. I wiggled out from beneath him, and put a pillow under his head. I went upstairs to shower my drunk off. It was my day off, but I had to go to work, pick up my check, cash it, and frivolously spend it on CDs. I’d get some writing done until Ryan woke up, then either fix us breakfast, or head out to a diner.

By the time I was done with my shower, Ryan was up. “Hey.”

I flashed him my ridiculous looking smile. “Morning.”

“Thanks for the pillow.”

“No problem. It’s probably not as comfortable as my inner-thigh, but it’s the best I could come up with on short notice.”

He grinned back. I’m a sucker for goofy smiles.

“I should probably head home and get ready for work.”

“Want some breakfast first? I asked.

“Nah. Never touch the stuff. Are you working tonight?”

“Nope. You’re working with Karen.”

“Mind if I stop by later? No drinking this time.”

“Sure. Give me a call when you’re on your way.”

He did his best to dewrinkle his shirt and headed to the door. Then stopped, walked back toward me and kissed me. I’m also a sucker for good kissers.

I spent the day in a daze of good music and happy thoughts. I went swimming, fired up the grill and made some chicken. I was adding my homemade teriyaki glaze when the phone rang.

“Hey Safe, it’s Ryan. I’m on my way.”

His arrival was perfectly timed with my completion of dinner, which was delicious. I felt incredibly domestic.

As Ryan and I put the dishes in the sink he threw his arms around me and kissed me on the cheek. I giggled. This was the gayest I’d ever been without having my dick in someone’s ass.

“Do you want go upstairs?” he asked. I wasn’t entirely sure I wanted to waste any energy walking all the way to the other side of the condo and up the stairs, but I said yes.

If I were to go on pure lust factor, perhaps the sex would have been mundane, very vanilla. But this wasn’t about sex. This was someone I’d been subconsciously in love with for years. Someone who, if he didn’t love me back, at least wanted to take a chance on me.

I fell asleep with his arms wrapped around me. His personal faith in humanity flotation device. I could save him.

I woke up the next day and he was gone. My panic attack lasted just long enough for me to notice the note on my computer desk.

Safe, I’ve got to go home and get some stuff done before I go to work tomorrow morning. I’d call in sick, but I don’t want you to fire me. I probably won’t be able to come over afterward, but I’ll call you. Last night was fantastic. Good food, good fun. Love you.

He loved me. I did the happy underwear dance around the room. Looked longingly at the phone. I wanted to call everyone I knew and tell them the news, but, of course, I couldn’t. I wasn’t going to be the one to push Ryan out of the closet. Not yet, anyway.

I went through the motions of my day, as though I was on ecstasy, which, in a sense, I was. I got home a little late, made myself some mac and cheese, and sat down to write. I don’t know when I fell asleep, I only know that I woke up next to a blank piece of paper and half a bowl of cold macaroni and cheese. I looked at my answering machine. No messages. I was okay with that. After only two days of knowing Ryan was gay and interested, I wasn’t going to turn into that obnoxious “Why didn’t you call me?” obsessive lover.

The next day, I got up early, headed out to work, and started doing some of the miscellaneous jobs that should have been Ryan’s. I was organizing cases of wine by brand when the phone rang.

“Thank you for calling Cranberry Liquors, this is Zachary, how may I help you?”

“Safey, it’s Karen. Is Ryan there?”

“Not yet. I was about to give him a call. I got so busy organizing the wines that I didn’t realize he was late. Want me to give him a message.”

“No. He didn’t come in yesterday.”

My Adam’s apple falls into my stomach. “What?”

“I would have called you, but it was so dead yesterday that he sort of did us a favor.”

“Ok. Well, thanks Karen. I’ll call him and see what’s going on.”

I call his cell phone, and am not terribly surprised to get no answer. I am wearing my best pessimism. He freaked out about us and moved to Tibet. His mother had another heart attack, and he’s at the hospital again, and was too overwhelmed to remember to call out for work. But Ryan isn’t the sort of employee to even call in sick, nevermind do a no-call no-show. And if there was some sort of emergency he would have called me. I’m his boyfriend. Sort of. I must have come on too strong, and now he can’t even stand to look at me.

I am just reaching the meat of my pity-me sandwich when I see him walking toward the door. I crack my knuckles, breathe deep, and say, “You’re late.”

“It’s eleven o’clock in the morning. If anything, it’s a little early to be buying a case of beer.”

“Sorry,” I say to the person who isn’t Ryan. “I thought you were someone else.”

“No problem.” As he walks over to the beer cooler, I dial Ryan’s home number.

“Hello.”

“Ms. Evans? Is Ryan there?”

“Who is this?” He is screening his calls. Or she is. She sounds like she’s holding back tears. Did he tell her?

“Safey Mode. I work with him at Cranberry Li―”

“Oh, Safe. I’m sorry. I should have had someone call yesterday. I’ve just been so―”

I remember seeing Michael Hutchence’s father, Kelland, interviewed on VH1. He was telling the story about how, on the day his son’s body was found, the first phone call he received was from a reporter asking if he had a comment for the papers. “You mean about the new album?” Kelland asked. The nervous reporter muttered only “Oh God.” and hung up.

“He died yesterday.” The beer cooler slams shut. I sit down. Ms. Evans and the man with the case of Michelob Light are talking to me at the same time. So sorry. How much? Visions of his car wrapped around a tree. Lovely day for the beach. Drunk driving. Incorrect change. Cryptic suicide note. So sorry. Dead. Have a nice day. Dead.

I hang up the phone, walk over to the door, and lock it. I pull the chain on the open sign, and walk into the beer cooler to scream.

Slow Flashes (Part 14: Staring Like A Genius)

I woke up on Beckee's bed. She was on the couch, leafing through a hard bound book. It was black, with a bunch of roses collaged on it. In the center of the book was the word Journal. Oh, shit.

"Remember when I used to play with your sword during rehearsals?" She asked.

I did.

"I had such a crush on you. And I knew you felt the same way. If that tramp hadn't showed up at The Shat...." She smiled.

Jennifer was not a tramp. She'd never taken me out to eat with her friends, and had a three hour conversation about sex and swinging. She'd never gotten me drunk and taken advantage me. She'd never...She wasn't a tramp.

"Do you still write?" She asked.

I did. I hadn't written much poetry since high school, but I'd been working on a play, and a few short stories.

"Me, too. It's funny, I started writing this years ago, and I just finished it last night." And without asking if I wanted to hear it, she began reading from her journal. Terrible poems comparing our relationship to Romeo & Juliet's. I tried not to laugh at the audacity to elevate our romantic disconnection to the world's most famous double suicide. Then came the mixed metaphors involving a white picket fence, and living underwater in Poseidon's kingdom. I wanted a cyanide pill, a razorblade and hot water. I wanted to go double Van Gogh. Anything to not have to hear these terrible cliches about our supposed relationship. "So what do you think?"

I put my hand in my pocket, to make sure the business card was still there. "Aren't you dating Harry?"

"We have an open relationship."

"Don't take this the wrong way." And I tried to find something I could say that could possibly be taken any way but wrong. Nothing came.





At some point in our mostly one-sided conversation, Beckee had excused herself to the bathroom. She was in there for a long time. I heard tearing sounds, smelled smoke, and every few minutes I heard the toilet flush. She was burning the poetry book.

I took my copy of the apartment key, and my notebook, and went out to explore more of State Street. I was in one of the music stores, flipping through their used CD section when I found the U2 fan's holy grail, a complete collection of CDs known as The Propaganda Remixes. Five bootlegs of all the non-album tracks from the Achtung Baby/Zooropa era. Each one cost twenty bucks. There was no way I could drop $100, even if it meant very happy new music to drown out Beckee's voice.

"Look," the guy behind the counter said, "Ron's too sick to come in, and that fucken Sarah girl you hired last week didn't show up today. Even with two people, it's going to take all night to do inventory. There's no way I'm doing it by myself. I know you've got a date, but...Fuck you, Alan. I..." He looked up at me. "He fucken hung up on me. Do you believe that?"

"I do. I co-manage a music store in Massachusetts. We go through three Sarahs a month, and I'm always the one stuck doing inventory."

"Massachusetts? The fuck are you doing in Madison."

Freezing. Being trapped into a possible relationship with a delusional ex-girlfriend. "I'm on vacation."

"Lucky bastard."

"Maybe." I said. "And maybe you are, too. If I help you do inventory, can you cut me a deal on some CDs?"

His eyes bulged. "You help me inventory this store, and I'll cut you any deal you want."

We agreed that I'd stop by at 9:30, a half hour before the store closed, and I'd stay until the job was finished. In exchange, he'd give me the whole Propaganda collection for free, and tell the owner they'd been shoplifted.

It was only 6:00. I decided to kill some time at The Noodle Factory. I was staring at the huge menu above the register when I heard a familiar voice behind me.

"So many choices, huh?" unHarry. "Welcome to the world of the bisexual."

"What?"

"You know. Like, the whole world is open to you, you've just got to make a choice. And like, most people only want either noodles or sauce, but bisexuals are willing to get either or both, so there's more choices."

"Uh, right." I ordered rotini with parmesan cheese, that I watched the cook sprinkle strands of cheese over my noodles. It was the most elegant macaroni and cheese I'd ever seen.

"Beckee told me she read you her poetry."

I nodded.

"Terrible, isn't it?"

"Actually," I said, "it's quite delicious."

"I meant her poetry."

"So she sent you after me?" I asked.

He snorted. "Hell, no. She was driving me batshit, so I went for a walk, and I saw you come in here. Figured I'd see how you were doing."

"Fine." I said, and returned my attention to the rotini.

He had a plate of spaghetti with marinara. The world's most boring bisexual.

We ate in mostly silence. But every once in a while, I'd look up and he'd be staring at me, elbow on the table, his head leaning on his fist.

"What are you doing?" I asked.

"I'm trying not to stare like an idiot." He said. "If you rest your head on your chin it looks more like you're staring like a genius."

"What?"

"I saw the way you were looking at me yesterday."

I choked on my rotini.

"It got me so hot that I ended up leaving the party with one of Beckee's mom's friends. I just had that craving for cock, you know?"

Fuck. I did know.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/232359.html

Slow Flashes (Pat 11: Black Friday)

I buried my depression beneath a pile of CDs. Rock and roll, rap, folk; it didn't matter. Music. Pearl Jam. U2. The Fugees. REM. Radiohead. A Tribe Called Quest. Smashing Pumpkins. LL Cool J. Ani Difranco. Whosoever played a song that didn't mention Jennifer. All the money I didn't have to spend on books or school supplies went directly to my music addiction. Florida wasn't far enough away from Cranberry Lake to keep the sound of Jennifer's voice saying I'm sorry, I just never felt that way about you out of my head, so I had to keep newer, louder music pulsing in my ears. My studies weren't interesting enough to keep my eyes floating out of my books and catching a glimpse of the boy I'd helped Jennifer not have. It would have been a son.

The music wasn't loud enough. The sun wasn't bright enough to blind me. So I abandoned college and Sulfur City, and headed back home. I enrolled in UMass Cranberry Lake, and maxxed out three credit cards buying music from local record stores. My mother, whose condo I was living in, politely suggested that I might want to take a job. Maybe one in a music store with an employee discount. That, or find a new place to live. For once, I took her advice, and set up an interview at Raspberry Records. One of those corporate music stores that adopted a hip, alternative image in the early nineties. Their logo was a face not unlike the old poison sticker faces, with a rolling tongue sticking out of its mouth. Their way of saying Stick it to The Man by buying music from an alternative music store owned and operated by The Man. My interview went okay, but not having any previous retail experience, I was doomed not to get the job, despite the fact that the manager was Fitz, a former coworker of mine from Camp Davis. Still, I filled out the application, and at eight-thirty that night, I drove to the store to turn it in. The store was scheduled to close at nine, so imagine my surprise when I pulled on the door and found it locked. All the lights were on inside, and two women were walking around tossing CDs into shopping bags. I walked over to a payphone and called Fitz's cell. "Did you guys close early tonight to do inventory?"

"No. We do inventory on the last night of the month. Why?"

I explained why. Ten minutes later he pulled up, and walked into the store. It turned out, his assistant manager and some rogue employees had been stealing a few thousand dollars worth of CDs every couple of weeks, and selling them to one of the used music stores in Boston. Every employee involved was fired the next morning, leaving Fitz, and one employee. The employee was Kevin Harris, who'd been working there since he dropped out of Cranberry Lake High. Since the store was now completely devoid of staff, Fitz was authorized to do some emergency hiring, and, despite being only eighteen and having no experience, I was brought on as an assistant manager.

"What the fuck." Kevin said, rather than asked. "I mean, I'm glad it's you and not some asshole stranger, but...I've been here a year, why didn't I get the cushy fucken assistant manager job."

The cushy job which required me to work no more and no less than sixty hours a week. The cushy job where I was not allowed to leave the store for my required, punched out, thirty minute break every six hours. The cushy job where I usually found myself alone, my coworkers routinely coming down with the killer-concert-in-town-flu, or the 24 hour Hangover Virus. The cushy job where the asshole drop out closet case who I'd been buddy buddy with when I was a kid, routinely showed up one or two hours late, and clocked out precisely when his shift was scheduled to end, no matter how much work needed to be done. Kevin fucken Harris.

I was hired in February. By November, we'd gone through four other assistant managers, and roughly three dozen retail associates, most of them named Sarah. The various Sarahs (which included both of the Queen Popular Sarahs from my elementary school days), rarely lasted more than two weeks. Queen Sarah Popular The Second being the shortest term employee in the history of Raspberry Records, when she aced the interview, then showed up positively wrecked on muscle relaxants the next morning, and screaming "This fucken job is corporate fucken bullshit" at the top of her lungs, when I asked her to check and see if we had a copy of the Pocahontas soundtrack in stock. My patience was quickly fagged, and she was quickly fired.

Unfortunately, having gone through three Sarahs in two weeks, the staff currently consisted of one manager, Fitz; two assistant managers, myself and a thirtiesh veterinary student named Madison; and one non-manager, Kevin. We had three days before Black Friday. Fitz was taking a two week vacation in Fuji, and Madison had to take a week of sick time because she'd nearly had her arm ripped off by some sort of rabid beagle. A couple of local managers had sent us some of their precious employees for a shift or two, but I was scheduled to work double shifts on Black Friday, No Relief Saturday, and Dear Fucken Jesus What Am I Doing Working In Retail Sunday. One of the more saintly managers had volunteered to help me close the store on Black Friday, but the morning shift was just me and Kevin. Kevin who had never been less than two hours late when he wasn't working with Fitz.

"You know we're opening an hour early on Friday, right?" I asked him on the Wednesday before The Apocalypse.

"Yea." He said, as though I had asked him if he knew how to spell his name. "You want me here at seven, right?"

"Yea, we open at seven-thirty. And it's going to be sick with shoplifters and people who absolutely must have that album by that singer who sings the song with love in the title. So, early. Please."

"Of course."

At eight-fifteen on Black Friday, I had a line thirty-seven people long. The credit card machine was on the fritz. I was out of ones, fives, and quarters. The phone was ringing. "Thank you for calling Raspberry Records, this is Adam, how may I help you?"

"Adam, it's Kevin."

"Thank fuc...calling. Are you on your way?"

"No. My grandmother had a heart attack, yesterday. My mom wants me to stay at the hospital with her, so I'm not going to make it in."

The line was now forty-one people long. The fax was beeping. "That sucks. Hope she recovers. I can't stay on the phone, though. Bye." And I hung up.

At three-thirty, I couldn't speak, smile, or leave the space behind the register. The line wound around the entire store, out the doors, and on to the sidewalk. "Criminy jickets!" Madison shouted, as she walked into the store. "Are you by yourself?"

Once she made eye contact, she had my answer.

"For how long? All day? Oh my goodness." She ran into the back, and came out with the cashbox for the other register. "Go. Take a minute in the back."

I expected several of the customers to jump me as I made my way to the back, but they all made space between me and the back door when I stumbled from behind the register. I peed for seven weeks, then refilled my water bottle, and made my way back behind the register. "I thought you were out on sick leave." I said, as I scanned through a pile of Whitney Houston and Jackson Five CDs.

"I was. I just came in to pick up my check, but this store is just sick busy, I can't leave you alone like this. You should have called."

I explained that I had called every store in the region, pleading for someone to send any associate they could spare. But no associate can be spared on the busiest shopping day of the year.

At five o'clock, the saintly manager from one of the Boston stores, showed up, and instead of relieving Madison, ordered me to take an hour long break. "And don't even think about clocking out. You deserve at least triple overtime for working by yourself."

I drove five minutes home, opened the refrigerator, and began devouring one of the tupperware containers filled with Thanksgiving's turkey and cranberry sauce that my mother had left. I drank an entire two liter bottle of Cherry Coke in ten minutes, belched loud enough to rattle the kitchen window, and went upstairs to take a quick shower. Full, clean, and wearing an identical (but different) raspberry red turtleneck, I had twenty minutes to make my five minute drive back to work. I decided to stop at the video store to pick up a movie to put me to sleep after work. I grabbed The Basketball Diaries and Until the End of the World, and made my way to the checkout. And there...there....there, behind the counter, wearing the blue and gold uniform of every Blockbuster video in the known world, was Kevin Harris.

"How's your grandma, motherfucker?" I asked. My smile was so wide, it knocked over a box of Twizzlers on my left, and the hat of the gentleman standing on my right.

"Hey, Adam. Look, I'm sorry I―"

"Does your boss know that you called in sick to your other job, claiming that your grandmother was dying of a heart attack?"

The other blue and gold golems lurched to the scene of the impending homocide. "Is there some sort of prob― Adam?"

The leader of the blue and golders was familiar. "Saint?"

Michael Christopher shook his head and laughed. "Why are you causing a scene in my store?"

"Well, I'm the assistant manager over at Raspberry Records, and I had to work by myself for eight hours this morning because Kevin's very ill grandmother had a heart attack, and he had to stay at the hospital with her."

"Really?" Michael asked. "The same grandmother whose funeral he had to go to last Tuesday?"

"Couldn't be." I said, pleased that Michael and I fell so easily in stride with each other. "Kevin was working with me last Tuesday. His car ran out of gas on the way over, and he was about two hours late, but he wasn't wearing funeral clothes."

Kevin was the color of my turtleneck. "Guys."

"You are so fired." I said.

"From your place, too?" Michael asked. "Damn. Fired from two jobs in two seconds. That's rough."

The person in line behind me cleared her throat. "Well, I've got to go back to my sixteen hour shift. It was fun talking with you, Michael. I'll stop in the next time I have a day off, which I think is March, and we can catch up."

"Have a good one."

And I drove back to Raspberry Records, so happy, my smile could barely fit through the door.

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/231406.html

A Few Moments In The Life Of A Fudge Packing Fool (Part 1: Debris)

I was the worst time traveler ever. On my very first day selling fudge at Renaissance Faire, I had been running late. The woman who ran the faire allowed me to drive on to the property so that I could quickly drop off the fudge before the grounds officially opened. I unloaded the product as quickly as possible, hopped back in the car, and snapped the key in the ignition.

"Maybe," I told the faire director when she was done screaming at me, "we could tell everyone it's an exotic dragon." She was not amused.

I correctly assumed that if I changed my costume from warrior to court jester, the director would think I was a different person. So the third day of the faire, I went to the costume shop and bought a set of blue and purple tights, a purple shirt, blue cape, and matching jester hat. I also changed my speech pattern and the way I walked. Instead of my usual tenor, I dropped into my low drunk voice. I also began to weave when I walked.

"I cry your pardon, sir." Said one of "The Sheriffs" who was hired to keep order. "I can't help but hath notice that you've partaken in a bit too much mead. Methinks you should repair to the sit-down coffee tents for a while."

I resisted the temptation to kick him in the face for speaking in Ye Old Pigeon English. "Actually," I said completely dropping out of character. "I work here, and haven't had a drop to drink all day."

"Canst thou walketh a straight line betwixt me and yonder tree." I could and I did. "I cry your pardon, my lord. Be merrily on your way."

While our interaction didn't necessarily drive me to drink, it certainly handed me the keys and pushed me in the direction of the car.

One of the worst parts of working at the faire (aside from the personal hygiene of some of my coworkers) was their inability to talk normally. After a long day of being forced to use "my lady", "my lord", "forsooth" and other words that no self-respecting person would say for less than $10 an hour, I was always eager to find a bar where I could drink myself silly and start saying more sensical phrases like "for shizzle my nizzle" and "don't get all up in my Kool-Aid if you doan know the flavor". Unfortunately, a good chunk of the scallywags and wenches I worked with were incapable of conversing in the twentieth or twenty-first century manner.

"The next person who says verily," I remarked on more than one occasion, "is going to find my booteth crammed up their cavity of Anus? Doth thou understandeth?"

original post: http://insafemode.livejournal.com/1997/08/28/