Dreaded Question

     Now that I have a new job, I can stop worrying about being asked the dreaded question: Where do you see yourself in five years?  (My interview last Friday was kind of a softball interaction, with no difficult questions.  I should be happy among these folks.)

     I always want to answer the question as follows.  "The usual places.  The play-side of a DVD, outside a store window.  My bathroom."

     Or maybe, "Well, Jim, quite frankly I'm an optimist: I'd like to think that in five years I will have begun seeing other people.  Trust me, I've been seeing myself long enough."  I like to keep things upbeat.

Hot Jobs

    Heat index one-o-four, and it’s door to door. 

    First day on the job.  Tuesday, July 3^rd.  I get in the truck, which is keeping the meats cold, and as it would turn out, the conversation.  You see, as I waited for my trainer, the radio was tuned to the big right wing blather station.  I probably shouldn’t turn it off, I thought, but I had to turn it down.  These radio drama queens are so sensationalistic.  You’d think we just gave Mt Rushmore to Pakistan for a mosque.  After the windbag delivered a rant imploring Obama backers to stay indoors on the 4^th, my trainer, John,  comes out of the warehouse.

     He gets in the truck and we’re off.  After a few newbie questions from me, he asks, “You follow politics?” 

    Uh boy.  It could be a long day. 

    Actually, we hit it off okay.  I was very careful with my comments, and we found  common ground in college hoops (he played), investing and guy stuff.  He seemed not to be religious, but nonetheless, his jokes did seem  kind of racist.  

   

    And he tried the usual tricks with numbers to blast the president. 

    “Yeah,” I objected as I squirted a blob of sunblock on my forehead, “but the economy is much bigger today than it was even just twenty years ago.  So I’m not particularly impressed with that statement.”

    He persisted.  "In this country, if you work hard, you can do anything."

    There is a notion, constantly inculcated by the magazine industry and self-help hustlers, that in America anyone can achieve whatever they desire.  As long as they work hard.  The fact is, most people have a genetic make-up that limits their options.  Not everyone can grow up to be a famous radio bigot.

    John's plan was to drive 60 miles east to the Canaveral area where he had many regular meat customers.  I told him that I used to date a woman over there and would try to steer clear.

    Honestly, most of the people I spoke to treated me with respect and kindness.  I always knock softly and am usually apologetic about interrupting.  My own place is built such that even light knocks on the old, weathered door project and echo wildly down the narrow hall and off the terrazzo floors.   I encountered a slight problem, though, with my appearance.  My glasses have that “transitions” shit on the lenses, so folks can’t always see my eyes when they open the door.

    In a nice little out-of-the-sun section of the neighborhood, a bright, attractive woman who appeared to be in her late 50s opened the door, and seemed interested in what I was saying.  She had the usual concerns about cost, and asked if I had a brochure or card.  “No, but my manager can show you what we have.  Here he comes.  Becky, this is John.  John, Becky.” 

    We brought in the whole works.  Two big boxes.  John opened all of a dozen flat boxes of steaks and seafood, and spread it all out on the table.  Up to this point, I had no idea how much we charged for this stuff.  When he got to price, John wrote a number on a piece of paper and laid it in front of Becky.  (I guess he couldn’t even say it.  They start off very high, and usually come down.) 

    John asked me to wait in the truck.  I felt kind of  sorry for Becky.  She was really a sweet lady.  After thirty minutes, I figured Becky was cooking dinner for him.  Another ten minutes later he  finally came out with empty cases and grabbed a credit slip from the glove box.  I felt kind of guilty sicking him on her.  He closed the deal hard.  “She’s going up to the mountains in Georgia.  I know exactly where it is.  Gave her some tips.”

    I asked John what seafood items he likes.  (They sell lobster and some kind of fish.)  "I never eat lobster," he admitted.  "Cockroaches of the sea."

    Even over there by the coast it was oppresssively hot.  By 7:00PM, we’d made some money and had some laughs.  He wanted to hit one last area, so we fanned out, so to speak, stalking the neighborhood like the robbers in Ben Affleck's film The Town.   I’m  really exhausted and soaked with sweat.  As I’m coming down the last street—two more houses before the truck—I knock on the door. 

    Of all the houses in that town, I had to knock on that door.  I’m lightheaded, withering in the sun, gasping for air like a bullet-riddled criminal.  He opens the door.  (The scope of this post prohibits a lengthy backstory.)  I instantly recognize him.  He certainly remembers me.  There is a woman I can’t quite make out lurking in the foyer.  It’s not her.  I don’t think it’s her.  It’s her best friend.  We used to drink and cookout together.  I’m embarrassed.  He  always paid the bar tab at the hotel. And I think he always wanted my girl.  He is an older man, and I can't remember his name.  After a long pause, I utter, “Hi.  Um, we’re doing a…4^th of July special…”

    “Oh, we’re good, thanks.” 

    “Right, thanks.  Have a nice 4^th.” 

     If only life could be more awkward.  Did they assume I was just coming around to see what she was up to?  After all, the truck was out of sight, and I wasn't wearing any identifying clothing or tag to lend legitimacy to my call.  But why would I have been so sweaty?   

    On our way out of town, John stopped off for one last shakedown of a regular.  As I’m recovering in the truck, drinking some bright red synthetic, harsh, no-calorie drink that a previous mark had offered, my cell rings.  Good news.  I’ve been offered a real job.  Indoors.  With air conditioning.  And health coverage.  And, I would imagine, some people who don’t hate Obama.  

I Feel Kind of Funny up Here

     Wherever there are people, you'll find a laboratory of human behavior.  Any office setting, a comedy club, the set of an in-production film, to name just a few.  The players are engaged in alliances, grudges, and power struggles within the pecking order.  ( If you don't believe me, Google Louis CK, Dane Cook, Steve Byrne.)

     One night at an open mike, a first-time stand-up, who had brought his cute girlfriend along, was bombing pretty badly.  No one was buying it, except for the girlfriend, who was busy ordering a full 13-episode season of his act.  She was  showing every tooth in her head.

     Another time there was a guy who was careful to point out that he usually plays in a band.  "I feel kind of funny up here without my guitar.  I'm really more of a musician than a comic."

     What?  Come on, man.  There are people with jokes waiting to go up.  More of a musician than a comic?  That'd be like me going down to the local strip club, hopping up on stage and saying, "Bear with me folks: I'm more of a dude than a chick.  I feel kind of funny up here without my boobs."

WHYY

    Tired of hearing the letter "w" spoken three times in a row?  "Lemme give you my address:  It's www... wait.  That's not it.  It's www..."

     "We know about the fucking w's!  Just give me the rest of it."

     How ugly are people who do this?  Uglier than the Wicked Witch of the West.

     It's more annoying than, "Call 1-800; that number once again is 1-800...  That's..."

     There is only one letter in the entire alphabet that has more than one syllable.  Right:  DUH.  Bull.  You.  Would it be so hard to say something like, "Triple-dub?"  Now, I was not blessed with  a great imagination, but even I could come up with something like that.

     And if the address is for World Wrestling Entertainment, Inc?  Or a radio station that's east of the Mississippi?  Jesus Christ.  Or the web site for 1-800 Flowers?

     When you're  holding on the phone, and they keep saying, "Did you know you can go to www..."  If I wanted to use the computer for this, I wouldn't be calling, would I?

     Why couldn't internet pioneers have used a different letter?  Like, oh, maybe the letter "Y."  You want my address?  "Why, Why, Why?"

Coney Crimes

    So we’re going to ban 32-oz sodas but continue allowing 52 hot dogs in 10 minutes? 

    It’s hard not to have mixed feelings about Mayor Bloomberg.  He seems like a very smart, effective leader who genuinely cares about people.  I happen to agree that restaurant patrons do have the right to know what’s in their food.  But you can’t legislate what people do to themselves.  There are people with hot dog carts in their house, next to the chocolate fountain and the funnel cake maker.   Indeed, some people are orchestrating the food equivalent of Nick Cage’s alcohol suicide in Leaving Las Vegas. 

    That said, publicly glorifying overeating at Coney Island every summer is a crime against the planet.  It’s why  animals hate us, and when I say animals, I’m naturally including most other humans.

    In an old Washington Post article titled Local Resident Claws Way to Lobster-Eating Championship, we learn that Sonya Thomas, known as “The Black Widow,” has eaten 38 lobsters in 12 minutes.  Another tasty tid bit:  "Thomas was coming off a baked bean victory days before in Indiana, where she ate 8.4 pounds  of beans with pork in 2 minutes 47 seconds."

    I would imagine she was also just coming off the toilet. 

   

Gee, Thanks

    Diane, a woman from my "teaching days," once told me how she was describing me to another friend of hers:  "He doesn't really have a career.  He's usually unattached."  And  then she said something that rubbed me the wrong way.  "He just kind of exists."  Just kind of exists. 

    Recently, the wonderful Maria Popova of Brainpickings.org  tweeted a link to a fascinating science article.  Her tweet headline reads, "Newly found buried microbes may live for thousands of years at the limit between life and death."   

    Why didn't Diane just tell her friend that I live like a buried microbe?  In spite of the fact that, apparently, little is known about their lifestyle, their feeding habits, how they reproduce, etc., she could have had the decency to tell her friend I live like a buried microbe:  He lives at the limit between life and death!  At least that sounds kind of cool and dangerous, like Houdini or James Dean.  But no.  Diane said that I just kind of exist.  Well, still puts me one up on the gods.

Don't Knock

One of the benefits of the internet/computer  age is that when you’re home at two on a Monday  afternoon and someone—the meter man, a sales rep, etc—comes knocking, you don’t have to make up some fake job to hide the fact that you’re slacking.  “Yeah, I work nights.” 

“Oh?  Where?”

“Uh, up at the plant.”

“The plant?”

“Yeah, Hi-Speed.  Hi-Speed  Chicken Wire.”

Now you can just say that you work from home via the Web.

On a radio call in show people were discussing the different ways in which various jobs are portrayed in the movies.  One woman was going on in the vein that most jobs are humiliating.  People endure the indignities of commuting, taking shit from bosses, customers, etc.  These, she pointed out, are all indignities.

Then you hear politicians talking about the dignity of work.  "All people deserve to have the dignity that comes with a job."


In any case, don’t knock on my  door if you are any of the following.  (I know what you’re thinking:  He’s going to attack Jehovah’s Witnesses.  Actually, they don’t come around.  Maybe all this freethinking, non-believing and questioning that's going around is having some positive effect.)

No, here are the real pests.  Don’t knock if you are…

·         A neighbor who wants to know if I’m missing a cat.  (I will never be missing a cat.)

·         A Cop with a bad attitude.  (Cops with a good attitude are okay.)

·         A contractor  working with your young son on the vacant house next door and want to know if you can plug your extension into the outlet on the side of my house.  I don’t have time to go look through the hedges every hour to make sure you’re not running a TV, air conditioner,  battery charger, game boy, hot plate and mini fridge off a power strip.

·         Any realtors, developers or boy scouts.  Fuck boy scouts.  That is, fuck THE Boy Scouts.

·         A landscaper—there  is a big, rotten stump out in the front yard—who wants to do yard work and grind the stump. 

(If it is your first day as a door-to-door call girl and you want to grind my stump, the door is open.)