Today started off like any other day.
“Chuck, you're 45 minutes late!” Lynette, our dashing secretary told me with a shocked expression as if it had never happened before. As if I had never been this late before.
“Everything's okay, just this commute. Bad traffic.”, I say in a jumbled fragmented mess before settling at my desk. And it's nice that someone here seems to care when I get in. I know my boss doesn't. And I know Roseanne doesn't.
Roseanne sits about 500 feet away from me at the back corner of the office. She is a winter solstice and I am groundhog day. We are not allowed to interact with each other or the world would be thrown into chaos.
I check the mail, hoping to find something interesting. Instead it's the usual swag that is prevalent in this job. Band after band after t-shirt after DVD have arrived for me today. I don't know why, but as a music critic, it seems I have to maintain a 3.5 pounds of music-related stuff per day. I'm not sure if the labels who send this stuff know that I have already chosen the albums I am going to review next month and the month after that. It's like they've sent me a newly produced 2008 laptop which can be used as a coupon for the 2010 model that I really want them to send me.
I set everything in my cashmere book bag. Yes, I know it's a little silly but I love cashmere. I feel confident enough in my dude-factor to say that statement and still feel straight. I grab a pen if for no other reason than to get something out of my bag. I'm going to be typing at this desk for most of the day (and not all of the typing will be work-related, I'm afraid. The day AIM Express was invented was the day my daily workload was halved.
I decide to get to work on one of my reviews for the next issue. I mean, I don't know why I bother to write such long reviews. They always end up getting shortened by our editing staff. This is amazing but true: They are trying to make the magazine (a medium which functions on written language) less “wordy”. They want the pages to pop with literal images, not textual ones. What this means is that they will chop up my review of Katy Perry's next album so the world can see a few more inches of her flesh (which I'm quite confident, thanks to the internet, they are already familiar with).
I sigh and get to work. The album is decent. I'm not sure if it's a chore to listen to because Ive been doing this as a job for the last 5 years or because the performances aren't as energetic as they should be. The singer coos and whines in a typically innocent and indecent indie fashion. The guitars are rough and murky, the perfect counterpoint to the singer's complete lack of harshness and the drummer is average. I can't remember a lick of it once it's finished. It's the best new album I've listened to in about a week or so.
I check my e-mail. It's full of something I never expected to get when I sent my resume into this periodical: hate mail. Between agents representing artists (“your review is completely unfair and you have lost any chance of interviewing Kanye.”) to the artists themselves (“The only reason you prefer Burt Bacharach to my music is because you and your kind look like Burt Bacharach. You empathize with him because you are the eternal virgin, nird and loser. Regards, Gene Simmons.) I used to let these things pile up and get me down but now my heart doesn't even sink when I read them. This really is a thankless job. When an artist gets good reviews do they thank us? No. They say “Oh, I don't care about reviews. It's nice but whatever.” Then the second they get trashed, they badmouth us. Assholes.
As I get ready to leave, I glance at Roseanne who too is busy reading e-mails. For a moment, I fantasize that she is writing an e-mail to me that she is too nervous to send. It doesn't make me feel better. I stand up, glide in a weightless sadness to the coat-rack and stomp out grumpily without a goodbye to Lynette
Sunday, February 28, 2010
Monday, February 15, 2010
Puppy Love
“What's the deal here, Mark? It seems like whenever I am partying, I always happen to run into you! Wait a second, I think I get what's going on here... Oh God...”
Crap. She knows. I've been found out. I was way too obvious in my pursuits.
Melissa brushed her hair to the side and pointed right in Mark's face.
“You're stalking me!”
Nope. She doesn't get it at all.
Mark had been at the same parties as Melissa the past couple of weeks, but it wasn't so he could get to know her. He had asked if she would be at these parties, this is true but he was more interested in who she was bringing along.
It started on 11am two weeks ago at the school library. Mark was studying for his Human Genetics quiz that Monday. As if that wasn't bad enough, he also had a double-shift at his job at two PM. He felt the same way Clark Kent must have felt when he was assigned the task of reporting on a bank robbery. He frantically tugged at the side of his crop-top of chocolate-brown hair, eyes vexed in frustration. When he opened them, he saw a woman with the flawlessness of an oil painting standing right before him.
“Are you okay?” She asked, eyes wide with concern.
“Oh yeah, I'm just... really stressed.” Sighed Mark.
She nodded as if she understood him perfectly but her eyes still portrayed a sense of confusion.
“I mean, I have to study for a test tomorrow and then I have to work a double at work tonight.”
“What I do when I'm stressed,” She began, interrupting his pity party, “Is take a deep breath and clear my mind of anything. Once you give your stressful thoughts some time to settle, you'll find that they aren't obstacles that you can not overcome but tasks that have been placed before you for a reason.” She smiled at him and patted him on the shoulder. “My mom taught me that. Good luck.” She said as she walked away. And if it wasn't for the lump in his throat, Mark would have asked for her name. All he knew was that she was friends with Melissa. And he tried to figure out her name or have a real conversation with her for the next two weeks.
“So, um... Melissa, is that one friend of yours you always bring with you to parties here?” Mark asked, only aware of how creepy this made him sound after the fact. He winced at what he just said.
“Oh her? Don't worry about her. I'm stag tonight, Mark.” She batted her eyes suggestively.
Mark sighed and continued on. “What's her name anyways? I mean not like I really wanna know... no biggie.”
Man, now I am trying waaay too hard to seem normal.
“You sure are curious about her, huh? You almost had me going there.”
“What?” Mark balked in confusion.
You don't have to pretend you aren't interested, Mark. I've seen the sideways glances, the awkwardly long stares... I've heard you raise your voice when I'm near you so I can hear what you're saying to whoever you're talking to.”
“Look, this isn't what you think it is” Mark backtracked. But it was no use, because as you might have guessed by now, Melissa had had one too many drinks tonight.”
“Kiss me, Mark.” She leaned in to kiss Mark just like film actresses do, lacking only their poetic movement, grace and charm.
“I LIKE YOUR FRIEND!” Mark shouted.
Melissa stopped, eyes still closed. She was processing what she had just heard.
“I'm sorry... I've been coming to the same parties as you so I could get to know that girl you always hang out with.”
“That girl I always hang out with...” Melissa began, opening her eyes. “Is my little sister. And she's 16.”
“What?! What is she doing at this school?”
“SHE WAS VISITING LAST WEEK, YOU IDIOT!”
“Oh... that... that makes sense. So, what's her name anyways? Just wondering...”
Melissa let out a muffled and frustrated noise and stormed off, leaving Mark to stew in his own shame.
Crap. She knows. I've been found out. I was way too obvious in my pursuits.
Melissa brushed her hair to the side and pointed right in Mark's face.
“You're stalking me!”
Nope. She doesn't get it at all.
Mark had been at the same parties as Melissa the past couple of weeks, but it wasn't so he could get to know her. He had asked if she would be at these parties, this is true but he was more interested in who she was bringing along.
It started on 11am two weeks ago at the school library. Mark was studying for his Human Genetics quiz that Monday. As if that wasn't bad enough, he also had a double-shift at his job at two PM. He felt the same way Clark Kent must have felt when he was assigned the task of reporting on a bank robbery. He frantically tugged at the side of his crop-top of chocolate-brown hair, eyes vexed in frustration. When he opened them, he saw a woman with the flawlessness of an oil painting standing right before him.
“Are you okay?” She asked, eyes wide with concern.
“Oh yeah, I'm just... really stressed.” Sighed Mark.
She nodded as if she understood him perfectly but her eyes still portrayed a sense of confusion.
“I mean, I have to study for a test tomorrow and then I have to work a double at work tonight.”
“What I do when I'm stressed,” She began, interrupting his pity party, “Is take a deep breath and clear my mind of anything. Once you give your stressful thoughts some time to settle, you'll find that they aren't obstacles that you can not overcome but tasks that have been placed before you for a reason.” She smiled at him and patted him on the shoulder. “My mom taught me that. Good luck.” She said as she walked away. And if it wasn't for the lump in his throat, Mark would have asked for her name. All he knew was that she was friends with Melissa. And he tried to figure out her name or have a real conversation with her for the next two weeks.
“So, um... Melissa, is that one friend of yours you always bring with you to parties here?” Mark asked, only aware of how creepy this made him sound after the fact. He winced at what he just said.
“Oh her? Don't worry about her. I'm stag tonight, Mark.” She batted her eyes suggestively.
Mark sighed and continued on. “What's her name anyways? I mean not like I really wanna know... no biggie.”
Man, now I am trying waaay too hard to seem normal.
“You sure are curious about her, huh? You almost had me going there.”
“What?” Mark balked in confusion.
You don't have to pretend you aren't interested, Mark. I've seen the sideways glances, the awkwardly long stares... I've heard you raise your voice when I'm near you so I can hear what you're saying to whoever you're talking to.”
“Look, this isn't what you think it is” Mark backtracked. But it was no use, because as you might have guessed by now, Melissa had had one too many drinks tonight.”
“Kiss me, Mark.” She leaned in to kiss Mark just like film actresses do, lacking only their poetic movement, grace and charm.
“I LIKE YOUR FRIEND!” Mark shouted.
Melissa stopped, eyes still closed. She was processing what she had just heard.
“I'm sorry... I've been coming to the same parties as you so I could get to know that girl you always hang out with.”
“That girl I always hang out with...” Melissa began, opening her eyes. “Is my little sister. And she's 16.”
“What?! What is she doing at this school?”
“SHE WAS VISITING LAST WEEK, YOU IDIOT!”
“Oh... that... that makes sense. So, what's her name anyways? Just wondering...”
Melissa let out a muffled and frustrated noise and stormed off, leaving Mark to stew in his own shame.
Sunday, February 7, 2010
Weekend With Grandpa
"Are you guys ready to see grandpa?!" Martin asked his son James and his daughter Alexis. They both cheered in a drool filled and raspberry-blowing uproar. They were both two years old so they were not always able to give the most thought-provoking response. But they knew what grandpa meant. It meant a kindly old man doting on them, telling them stories and of course the intoxicating scent of peppermint.
But somehow Martin had been dreading this trip for the last week. He wasn't sure why quite yet. He was usually okay with visiting his dad with the kids but lately he had felt quite negative about this little adventure.
But his machinations were put on hold by the famous capital S driveway of Grandpa's cabinesque mountain house. "We're here!" He exclaimed to the dynamic duo who, it appeared, were trying to clap. "Yaaay!" He cheered, sounding less excited than he intended.
As he unleashed 'thing 1 and thing 2' out of their car seats, their grandpa Jack opened the front door of his pudding-brown house and cheered "Heeey it's my two favorite little sprouts!" James and Alexis' eyes both widened, which was then followed by nervous giggling. They knew what was coming next. Jack charged at them with a ferocity unbecoming of a man his age and gave them both a tremendous bear-hug, knocking the wind out of them. They coo'd and giggled as he picked them up and spun them around in the air.
"Careful, dad." Martin warned to no effect. He smiled to himself. It always felt great to see his kids and his dad together. Jack set the twins down and went to greet Martin without quite the same enthusiasm. He gave him a firm handshake and a pat on the shoulder. "How're you doin' son?" Martin offered a weak shrug and a smile, followed by a mumbled "Purty good... you?" Jack nodded. "I've just been trying to stay busy up here, you know? It's nice to have visitors." For the first time, Martin wished his mom and dad were still together and felt a rush of sadness hit him, but he quickly shrugged it off.
"Who wants some chocolate milk?" Jack asked as he opened the door to the fridge while Martin and his kids sat at the dining room table. He poured a big glass for himself and two sippy cups for James and Alexis. Seeing those sippy cups set off something in Martin... because they used to be his. To recover from the shock, he looked down at the table, but this too was the same kitchen table from his childhood. And then all he could think about was breakfast on the morning of the second day of 3rd grade.
***
"You're gonna be late Jack, come on! Hurry up!" Jack's mother Rebecca urged her son, glancing at her watch.
Jack picked up his glass of orange juice and prepard to take a big sip... but his grip on the glass was not what he thought it was. The glass tumbled out of his grasp and all over his shirt and the floor. "NOOO!!! Jack that floor is expensive!!! Clean it up!!" His mom shrieked. Martin stared down, petrified at what he had done.
Just then they both shuddered as they heard some booming loud footsteps coming from the bedroom.
"Shut the fuck up, both of you!" Martin's father ordered, deep circles under his eyes. He glanced at the floor and looked deep into Martin's eyes.
"Did you do this, Mart...?"
"It was an accident, dad! Honest" He spat out quickly. But as he looked into his dad's eyes, practically glowing with rage, he knew it was too late. He knew what was coming. With a ferocity unfit for a man of his age, Jack smacked Martin on his right cheek and pounded him with his fist in his side. "Don't ever let me catch you acting like that again, you little shit." He warned before turning around and retiring back into the bedroom.
"Oh Martin," His mother choked out quietly, tears flowing down her cheeks. "Are you okay Martin? Martin?"
* * *
"Martin? I said, do you want some chocolate milk?"
"Y...yeah sure." Martin responded, still not totally snapped out of his shocking flashback.
"Attaboy," Jack replied. "Don't let me catch you daydreaming like that when I'm trying to talk to you again," He joked. But Martin did not laugh.
But somehow Martin had been dreading this trip for the last week. He wasn't sure why quite yet. He was usually okay with visiting his dad with the kids but lately he had felt quite negative about this little adventure.
But his machinations were put on hold by the famous capital S driveway of Grandpa's cabinesque mountain house. "We're here!" He exclaimed to the dynamic duo who, it appeared, were trying to clap. "Yaaay!" He cheered, sounding less excited than he intended.
As he unleashed 'thing 1 and thing 2' out of their car seats, their grandpa Jack opened the front door of his pudding-brown house and cheered "Heeey it's my two favorite little sprouts!" James and Alexis' eyes both widened, which was then followed by nervous giggling. They knew what was coming next. Jack charged at them with a ferocity unbecoming of a man his age and gave them both a tremendous bear-hug, knocking the wind out of them. They coo'd and giggled as he picked them up and spun them around in the air.
"Careful, dad." Martin warned to no effect. He smiled to himself. It always felt great to see his kids and his dad together. Jack set the twins down and went to greet Martin without quite the same enthusiasm. He gave him a firm handshake and a pat on the shoulder. "How're you doin' son?" Martin offered a weak shrug and a smile, followed by a mumbled "Purty good... you?" Jack nodded. "I've just been trying to stay busy up here, you know? It's nice to have visitors." For the first time, Martin wished his mom and dad were still together and felt a rush of sadness hit him, but he quickly shrugged it off.
"Who wants some chocolate milk?" Jack asked as he opened the door to the fridge while Martin and his kids sat at the dining room table. He poured a big glass for himself and two sippy cups for James and Alexis. Seeing those sippy cups set off something in Martin... because they used to be his. To recover from the shock, he looked down at the table, but this too was the same kitchen table from his childhood. And then all he could think about was breakfast on the morning of the second day of 3rd grade.
***
"You're gonna be late Jack, come on! Hurry up!" Jack's mother Rebecca urged her son, glancing at her watch.
Jack picked up his glass of orange juice and prepard to take a big sip... but his grip on the glass was not what he thought it was. The glass tumbled out of his grasp and all over his shirt and the floor. "NOOO!!! Jack that floor is expensive!!! Clean it up!!" His mom shrieked. Martin stared down, petrified at what he had done.
Just then they both shuddered as they heard some booming loud footsteps coming from the bedroom.
"Shut the fuck up, both of you!" Martin's father ordered, deep circles under his eyes. He glanced at the floor and looked deep into Martin's eyes.
"Did you do this, Mart...?"
"It was an accident, dad! Honest" He spat out quickly. But as he looked into his dad's eyes, practically glowing with rage, he knew it was too late. He knew what was coming. With a ferocity unfit for a man of his age, Jack smacked Martin on his right cheek and pounded him with his fist in his side. "Don't ever let me catch you acting like that again, you little shit." He warned before turning around and retiring back into the bedroom.
"Oh Martin," His mother choked out quietly, tears flowing down her cheeks. "Are you okay Martin? Martin?"
* * *
"Martin? I said, do you want some chocolate milk?"
"Y...yeah sure." Martin responded, still not totally snapped out of his shocking flashback.
"Attaboy," Jack replied. "Don't let me catch you daydreaming like that when I'm trying to talk to you again," He joked. But Martin did not laugh.
Crossing Familiar Paths
Daniel Roman was in a hurry and he had no time to pause for idle chit-chat. It was bad enough that he had to use the public laundromat but he had to use some of the change he had saved up in his "Jar o' Quarters" which he created from money he gathered from customers at his infamous local italian restaurant "Italia HQ." He was what the people in Norfolk, Nebraska called "a big deal." Daniel fished in his pocket for the lousy two quarters that would be wasted on cleaning his fancy clothes and a book called "How to be a Big Fish in a Little Pond" he had just purchased at From Mind To Page, the local bookstore. But before he could pull out his latest pipe-dream fanning purchase, he caught sight of a face he hadn't seen in eons. A face that he had never stopped loving, despite its absence in his life for the past fifteen years. "M&M?" He said aloud, barely below a whisper.
Mindy Martin wasn't just any old flame. She was "the one." She was his first and possibly only true love. She was the captain of Norfolk High School's cheerleading squad and he always felt like she was too good for him and he was the luckiest guy in the world. Well he found out that his suspicions were true when she dumped him after their year-long relationship. She said he was a great guy but he was just too boring. It hurt Daniel when he saw her at prom a week later with Kevin Greene, the meathead quarterback of The Lancers, the school football team... but somehow this hurt more.
Her face was still the work of art it had always been. Her lips adorned with The Other Woman lipgloss, her eyes could light up the neighboring town of Dinkenberg.
He wondered if he should he talk to her. Why was she still in town? Wasn't she able to get a scholarship? Maybe she was just visiting her folks. Oh, her folks. Her father Tom never did like Daniel much, he recalled, until he found out that they shared the same favorite rock band in Easter Clothes. And her mom had to be the best cook in the town if not the state. He smiled at these memories and clutched his fist confidently. I'll start off our conversation slowly, ask her how her parents are and then see if she wants to get lunch tomorrow, he thought to himself. He took one long stride forward, quickly took the same mammoth stride backwards and smacked himself in the head. "Don't ask her to lunch, you knucklehead!!" He croaked to himself, as the patron next to him wondered if this sweaty man had had one too many hits of Perfect Days.
She probably doesn't even remember you, you putz! Just finish your laundry and get out of here while you still can. He thought as he stood beside the metallic, growling machine. He tapped his foot impatiently. If she approached him, he would pretend he had i1Pod1 and shrug.
When his load finally finished, he quickly grabbed his clothes, put them in a plastic Target bag and briskly walked out the door. He gave Mindy a quick look and a nod as if to say "Though I do not know you, ma'am, I hope you have a good day nonetheless." And he really did, because whether he wanted to admit it or not, he never stopped thinking about her these last 15 years. Even if he were on Calyzio, he knew his thoughts would stay set on her. But she wouldn't care to hear about that. It was obvious that she didn't remember him. He decided to eat at Granny's Cupboard with the same person he always ate with: himself.
- - -
See Mindy? Of course he doesn't remember you. He moved on and you're old news. He's a success. Why did I have to break his heart? He was the best guy I ever had and I left him and for what? So I could feel more excited? I mistreated too many people. I guess I'm paying for that now. I wish I could have gone to college. I wish I could tell him I still think about him. I should have asked him to lunch.... God, I feel like I'm on an episode of Living and Trying...
Mindy Martin wasn't just any old flame. She was "the one." She was his first and possibly only true love. She was the captain of Norfolk High School's cheerleading squad and he always felt like she was too good for him and he was the luckiest guy in the world. Well he found out that his suspicions were true when she dumped him after their year-long relationship. She said he was a great guy but he was just too boring. It hurt Daniel when he saw her at prom a week later with Kevin Greene, the meathead quarterback of The Lancers, the school football team... but somehow this hurt more.
Her face was still the work of art it had always been. Her lips adorned with The Other Woman lipgloss, her eyes could light up the neighboring town of Dinkenberg.
He wondered if he should he talk to her. Why was she still in town? Wasn't she able to get a scholarship? Maybe she was just visiting her folks. Oh, her folks. Her father Tom never did like Daniel much, he recalled, until he found out that they shared the same favorite rock band in Easter Clothes. And her mom had to be the best cook in the town if not the state. He smiled at these memories and clutched his fist confidently. I'll start off our conversation slowly, ask her how her parents are and then see if she wants to get lunch tomorrow, he thought to himself. He took one long stride forward, quickly took the same mammoth stride backwards and smacked himself in the head. "Don't ask her to lunch, you knucklehead!!" He croaked to himself, as the patron next to him wondered if this sweaty man had had one too many hits of Perfect Days.
She probably doesn't even remember you, you putz! Just finish your laundry and get out of here while you still can. He thought as he stood beside the metallic, growling machine. He tapped his foot impatiently. If she approached him, he would pretend he had i1Pod1 and shrug.
When his load finally finished, he quickly grabbed his clothes, put them in a plastic Target bag and briskly walked out the door. He gave Mindy a quick look and a nod as if to say "Though I do not know you, ma'am, I hope you have a good day nonetheless." And he really did, because whether he wanted to admit it or not, he never stopped thinking about her these last 15 years. Even if he were on Calyzio, he knew his thoughts would stay set on her. But she wouldn't care to hear about that. It was obvious that she didn't remember him. He decided to eat at Granny's Cupboard with the same person he always ate with: himself.
- - -
See Mindy? Of course he doesn't remember you. He moved on and you're old news. He's a success. Why did I have to break his heart? He was the best guy I ever had and I left him and for what? So I could feel more excited? I mistreated too many people. I guess I'm paying for that now. I wish I could have gone to college. I wish I could tell him I still think about him. I should have asked him to lunch.... God, I feel like I'm on an episode of Living and Trying...
Monday, February 1, 2010
The Task To Become A Man
FRIDAY
I can't believe they're bringing Bob back. The worst manager in Steak and Bake history has been brought out of retirement because Sam "wasn't cutting it." All too soon, I am going to cross this parking lot, walk into this shithole restaurant, change in our vermin-infested locker room and walk out to see that balding buffoon that doesn't deserve the title of "Restaurant Manager" (and that's not really saying much). I decided to sit out here and savor my last few moments of freedom. The dashboard clock read 8:47. I flipped open my lighter and grabbed a cigarette, preparing to suck ash.
And just as the warm embrace of nicotine tucked me into the bed I slept as a child, I was awakened by a terrible noise. Bob's '87 Toyota Camery's chainsaw motor came screeching into earshot. I looked up to the heavens and prayed for an accident. My wish was not granted.
In his two months off, Bob had not taken up regular use of Rogaine. He also had not improved his posture as he crocheted to the front door in his lower case r style. I was the only car in the lot besides his. He didn't even bother to look at me though. As if I didn't exist. As if "Customer Relations Associate" meant nothing. And even though you and I both know it doesn't, it's his job to pretend that it does. And as soon as he got done hocking a loogie onto the sidewalk (which he did every day before opening Steak and Bake) I would walk out of this car and pretend to wish him a good morning.
I tapped my cigarette on the tip of my open window and gritted my teeth, feeling the gray hair tickle my gums.
"Good morning, Bob!" I greeted. "Good morning Peter." He said quietly, as a formality. He had his face practically smashed against the clipboard he was reading. I grabbed walkie-talkie (which we never used) and barrel out of there before I had to listen to him any longer.
As I walked out of the break-room, I saw Sam arrive. The time was 8:55 AM. As the store owner, this was unbecoming of him. He usually got here at 8:50 sharp every day. Something was up.
"Sam, what's going on? Why is he here again?" I asked, forgetting to greet him.
"Good morning to you too, Peter." Sam said, offering a weak smile. He looked dejected. Weak. I couldn't believe that corporate decided to fire Sam an dbring back the same guy that they had gotten rid of just months prior.
"Well, Peter... I guess I just can't do it all." He sighed, "I wanted to run the place and manage... you know, balance this bureaucratic bullshit with some real human-to-human interaction... but it looks like I'm stuck here."
I sighed, "Sam, why did they hire Bob again?"
"Bob got results. They know that he was a pain to work with for the crew, but sales numbers matter more than morale. They didn't want to take a risk hiring anyone new or promoting someone else. They wanted a sure thing."
"Wait... who were they thinking of promoting?" I asked, more anxious than curious.
"I really shouldn't say..."
"Was it someone who's been working here for 8 years?"
"Peter..."
"Someone who has never left this company no matter how many permanent grease burns I've suffered... someone who chose meager compensation over a steady sex life?"
"Look Peter... yes, your name did come up." Said Sam.
"Whoo!" I cheered triumphantly, forgetting that I would not get the job.
"Don't tell them I told you this, okay? Look, they told me that they were considering you but that they needed proof that you would lead the other workers in both a positive and effective way. I didn't have any proof of that, so we had no choice but to go with Bob's more effective style. Besides, they couldn't being in someone unexperienced to handle Staek Saturday..."
Steak Sunday, by the way is what I think Hell feels like. It's hot enough, loud enough and smelly enough that I actually begin to believe that I have died and am serving an eternity-long sentence with the troublemaker downstairs. Anyways, back to Steak Sunday... SnB has a little shindig every 2nd Saturday of the month where you buy two steaks and you get one free. It's two impending heart-failures for the price of one.
I scratched the back of my head, letting all this information Sam drilled into me sink into my skull. I don't remember the rest of that conversation, but it doesn't matter. Nothing else that happened that day mattered except for the moment when I hatched an idea. A terrible idea. A terribly, terribly brilliant idea.
SATURDAY
"Welcome back, Bob!" I cheered at my self-arranged "Welcome Back, Bob Party." You might be wondering why I threw this party for someone I clearly despise.
"Gee, thanks everyone," Bob muttered, not wanting to be there anymore than any of us. Clearly he still resented all of us for reporting him to corporate so much.
"Now since it's the end of your shift, we thought we'd give you a little gift to officially welcome you back!" I announced, peppering this statement with the occasional obnoxious, teethy grin. I set a box with blue dinosaur themed wrapping paper on the table. Under that wrapping paper was Bob's favorite cereal "Wheaties" with an extra helping of some sprinkles of Hepicap and Night-Time Tylenol.
SUNDAY
“Guys, it's 9AM where the Hell is Bob?!” Sam shouted to a crew of about 15 or so assembled, pasty, zitty teens (this did not include me, of course. I have the complexion of a twelve year old Hawaiian and have impeccable hyigene). We open at 11AM on Sundays to accommodate the churchgoing sect of our “client-base” (as they called it on our first day) but we had to spend two hours making sure the store is ready for the rampaging crowd of ungrateful, hungry customers that would be heading our way soon.
“Oh man, oh man...” Sam muttered as he paced the hallways back and forth, back and forth. He had the rhythm of a grand-daddy clock. Everyone else was frantic and confused in their own quiet, timid way... that is, except for me. Today was gonna be my day to shine and earn that seal of approval from corporate. The seal that read "Management Material."
I can't believe they're bringing Bob back. The worst manager in Steak and Bake history has been brought out of retirement because Sam "wasn't cutting it." All too soon, I am going to cross this parking lot, walk into this shithole restaurant, change in our vermin-infested locker room and walk out to see that balding buffoon that doesn't deserve the title of "Restaurant Manager" (and that's not really saying much). I decided to sit out here and savor my last few moments of freedom. The dashboard clock read 8:47. I flipped open my lighter and grabbed a cigarette, preparing to suck ash.
And just as the warm embrace of nicotine tucked me into the bed I slept as a child, I was awakened by a terrible noise. Bob's '87 Toyota Camery's chainsaw motor came screeching into earshot. I looked up to the heavens and prayed for an accident. My wish was not granted.
In his two months off, Bob had not taken up regular use of Rogaine. He also had not improved his posture as he crocheted to the front door in his lower case r style. I was the only car in the lot besides his. He didn't even bother to look at me though. As if I didn't exist. As if "Customer Relations Associate" meant nothing. And even though you and I both know it doesn't, it's his job to pretend that it does. And as soon as he got done hocking a loogie onto the sidewalk (which he did every day before opening Steak and Bake) I would walk out of this car and pretend to wish him a good morning.
I tapped my cigarette on the tip of my open window and gritted my teeth, feeling the gray hair tickle my gums.
"Good morning, Bob!" I greeted. "Good morning Peter." He said quietly, as a formality. He had his face practically smashed against the clipboard he was reading. I grabbed walkie-talkie (which we never used) and barrel out of there before I had to listen to him any longer.
As I walked out of the break-room, I saw Sam arrive. The time was 8:55 AM. As the store owner, this was unbecoming of him. He usually got here at 8:50 sharp every day. Something was up.
"Sam, what's going on? Why is he here again?" I asked, forgetting to greet him.
"Good morning to you too, Peter." Sam said, offering a weak smile. He looked dejected. Weak. I couldn't believe that corporate decided to fire Sam an dbring back the same guy that they had gotten rid of just months prior.
"Well, Peter... I guess I just can't do it all." He sighed, "I wanted to run the place and manage... you know, balance this bureaucratic bullshit with some real human-to-human interaction... but it looks like I'm stuck here."
I sighed, "Sam, why did they hire Bob again?"
"Bob got results. They know that he was a pain to work with for the crew, but sales numbers matter more than morale. They didn't want to take a risk hiring anyone new or promoting someone else. They wanted a sure thing."
"Wait... who were they thinking of promoting?" I asked, more anxious than curious.
"I really shouldn't say..."
"Was it someone who's been working here for 8 years?"
"Peter..."
"Someone who has never left this company no matter how many permanent grease burns I've suffered... someone who chose meager compensation over a steady sex life?"
"Look Peter... yes, your name did come up." Said Sam.
"Whoo!" I cheered triumphantly, forgetting that I would not get the job.
"Don't tell them I told you this, okay? Look, they told me that they were considering you but that they needed proof that you would lead the other workers in both a positive and effective way. I didn't have any proof of that, so we had no choice but to go with Bob's more effective style. Besides, they couldn't being in someone unexperienced to handle Staek Saturday..."
Steak Sunday, by the way is what I think Hell feels like. It's hot enough, loud enough and smelly enough that I actually begin to believe that I have died and am serving an eternity-long sentence with the troublemaker downstairs. Anyways, back to Steak Sunday... SnB has a little shindig every 2nd Saturday of the month where you buy two steaks and you get one free. It's two impending heart-failures for the price of one.
I scratched the back of my head, letting all this information Sam drilled into me sink into my skull. I don't remember the rest of that conversation, but it doesn't matter. Nothing else that happened that day mattered except for the moment when I hatched an idea. A terrible idea. A terribly, terribly brilliant idea.
SATURDAY
"Welcome back, Bob!" I cheered at my self-arranged "Welcome Back, Bob Party." You might be wondering why I threw this party for someone I clearly despise.
"Gee, thanks everyone," Bob muttered, not wanting to be there anymore than any of us. Clearly he still resented all of us for reporting him to corporate so much.
"Now since it's the end of your shift, we thought we'd give you a little gift to officially welcome you back!" I announced, peppering this statement with the occasional obnoxious, teethy grin. I set a box with blue dinosaur themed wrapping paper on the table. Under that wrapping paper was Bob's favorite cereal "Wheaties" with an extra helping of some sprinkles of Hepicap and Night-Time Tylenol.
SUNDAY
“Guys, it's 9AM where the Hell is Bob?!” Sam shouted to a crew of about 15 or so assembled, pasty, zitty teens (this did not include me, of course. I have the complexion of a twelve year old Hawaiian and have impeccable hyigene). We open at 11AM on Sundays to accommodate the churchgoing sect of our “client-base” (as they called it on our first day) but we had to spend two hours making sure the store is ready for the rampaging crowd of ungrateful, hungry customers that would be heading our way soon.
“Oh man, oh man...” Sam muttered as he paced the hallways back and forth, back and forth. He had the rhythm of a grand-daddy clock. Everyone else was frantic and confused in their own quiet, timid way... that is, except for me. Today was gonna be my day to shine and earn that seal of approval from corporate. The seal that read "Management Material."
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