"Faster, Faster! Until the thrill of speed overcomes the fear of death!"
We all know that guy at the Walgreens inside Lucky. We buy cigarettes from him every single day yet he always ID's us, yeah that guy, and he treats us like he doesn't even know us. That guy. Well anyway, I thought I'd post the regular exchange between him and me. Insert African accent for the clerk.
[Waiting in line..]
Clerk: Next please. (Eyes open wide, looking for the next victim of his asshole-ness)
Me: Hey, how's it going?
[Pause, clerk stares straight into your soul, eats it]
Me: Can I get a pack of Parliament full flavors?
[Clerk stops removing every one of your hopes and dreams]
Clerk: Can I see some, ID?
[This part is important, he says it the exact same way, with emphasis on ID]
Me: Yeah.
[I'll just assume that the annoyance with showing my ID every single day to the same person is obvious]
Clerk: Five twenty.
[I slide a five dollar bill and a quarter towards the man]
Clerk: Out of five twenty-five?
[This is what pisses me off the most, is this a question? Should I answer it? What happens if I say no, it's not out of five twenty-five? Regardless, I either say yes, or nothing.
Clerk: Five cents is your change.
Me: Thanks, have a good one.
[Clerk looks for his next victim whose entire life he will destroy]
Why must corporations desensitize their workers to the point that they must act like they have no idea who their customers are, like they've never seen them before, like we're all the same person?
I've had the same experience when working in a restaurant, at the shittier places that you worked, you could be yourself, whether you're friendly or quiet, whether you're a liberal or a republican, no one gave a fuck, it's either you were that server they hated, or that server who they'd have a drink with, it didn't matter though, because they had to deal with it, they had no choice in the matter. But now as I move into the higher end dining industry, I find myself having to be completely personalityless. Good waiters don't have a personality. We say "Hi, how are you?," and proceed to recite the specials. Good waiters are completely neutral. Now I realize another reason why companies in general blow. If we are trained to be no one at work, how are ever supposed to be anyone in real life?
So I thought I was working today, but it turns out I have the night off, no dealing with pretentious professors until tomorrow night. So because of this, I have a free night, and debating between:
Hanging out with Jessica, and going out for lots of money
Staying at the dorms, and drinking in a small room with lots of people
Learning more Swahili!
Nora!
By the way, everyone check out this movie at the top, it's way cool.
And here's some more music I've been listening to.
This is a short story I wrote. Listen to this while reading.
The Nevada desert never prided itself in glamour and luxury. Outside of Vegas, all that existed was the road, and the endless orange span. No one ever drove on these roads, they are dust ridden and marking free. The occasional Ford pick-up truck drove by on its unknown journey. Driving through the abandoned towns looking for a place to get gas and a pack of smokes, J.J. finally realizes that he has no final destination. He just needs to escape his life as a store clerk in Vegas. Time corroded J.J. on his journey, he had grown a thick white beard and his eyes supported painful purple marks. He had been through Arizona, New Mexico, Mexico itself even. He met truckers, ranchers and artists, and now is on his way to Alaska. In the distance he sees a big sign and a small building. It is one of those signs, round and lighted, that he was so used to, that he hated so much. J.J drives into the gravel parking lot and pulls the handbrake. Wrestling to pull the door open, he steps out and walks into the abandoned looking gas station. He hears what sounds like a news show, and a man snoring. “Hello?” bellows J.J. He has no time for distractions. Walking closer to the clerk, J.J. shakes the old weathered man. While waiting for the man to awaken, he wonders what is driving him, what is making him do what he is doing, why is he driving to Alaska? Interrupting J.J. mid-thought, the gas station clerk jumps and yells, pulling out a 12-gauge in the process. “You ain’t from ‘round here, are you?” Said the man whose name tag read August. August had a dumbfounded look on his face as he put the shotgun down. He looked J.J. up and down as he stroke his beard, a salt and pepper mix, then looked J.J. straight in the eye. This man bore a slight resemblance to J.J. They shared each others’ rugged looks and both seemed to have passed the test of time, their age clearly showing. “Now listen here, you been on the road much, have yeh?” “Yeah, so?” “Well, we don’t take kindly to you Vegas folk ‘round here,” said August while raising his 12-gauge again,” now if I was you, I’d get my gas and leave this desert, go on back to your Elvis impostors, to yer money takers, to your damn oasis in the middle of this hellhole!” Looking at him, J.J. seemed to share the man’s frustrations, his desire to get out of this area increased with every second. He knew exactly what August was talking about, and he agreed. He hated Vegas as much as August, with all the fake people coming through, the weekend businessmen, and the sorry people still left tending to these others. “Fair enough, goodbye,” replied J.J. as he paid for his merchandise. As he opens the door to leave, a loud flash blows up the television screen, catching both of J.J.’s and August’s attention. A man with a long face and slicked black hair was yelling at the camera from a podium. J.J. faintly remembers him from his college years. It was Neil Johnson, his overachieving and professionally oriented roommate. Although the volume knob remained at zero, both J.J. and August could tell that something big had just happened. Reading the caption, Jimmy now knew what he had to do. He walked out the door and wished August a good life, thinking he’ll never see him again. “Hey, just you wait a minute there,” yelled August just in time to stop J.J., “you got a son yourself?” “Yeah, going to go get him right now.” “Good luck.” “Thanks.” This short exchange made J.J. think, does August have a son too? If he did, maybe he felt like J.J., then again maybe he didn’t. It didn’t matter at the moment, J.J. had to go to his son, he would figure out what to do from that point on. Stepping into his truck, he shuts the door and turns the key. No result. How was he to get to Oregon without his truck? Heart pounding, J.J. opens the hood and realizes that this is the first time he has been nervous for the past month, but he doesn’t know if this is a good thing or a bad thing. Looking at his engine, he notices that his spark plug is shot. A wave of fear rushes through his body as the reality of the problem crashes down on him. He needs to get to his son. Walking back into the store, J.J. asks about hitching a ride, and finds that the highway is twenty miles away. As J.J. is thinking, another man walks through the door, ringing the bell in the process. This man, blond haired and clean shaven, nervously walks up to August and asks to pay for his gas. “Where you headed?” asks J.J. “I’m going up to Washington,” replied the fidgety man, “why do you ask?” “Need to hitch a ride, think you could take me up?” “Well I suppose, I’ll take you as far as I can.” J.J. gets in this man’s SUV and drives on into the desert, no other cars in sight. He finds that his name is Mark, and that he’s going up to his son too. They exchange life stories and find that they can stand each other. Mark is a pastor in New Mexico; he had heard the news a few hours ago and decided to drive through Nevada. Although Mark and J.J. are near opposites, Mark being a family man, football games and ice cream socials, they shared the same mission. If it were any other situation, they would not have been able to stand each other, with Mark’s Christian Right upbringing and J.J.’s fading thoughts on religion. Nevertheless, they drove up through the desert, exchanging stories and telling jokes. They grew fond of each other, and as their trip ended, they exchanged phone numbers and said that they’d keep in touch, although both were superficial and knew they would never once talk again. J.J. gets dropped off at one of those truck stops with the diner and the hotel. He sits down at the counter and asks for a coffee. The waitress’s name is Mandy, her looks reminding him of pictures of his mother at a young age. She a large amount of make-up on and spoke in a croaky voice. Her face showed early wrinkles and her breath smelled of coffee. “What brings you here stranger?” asked the waitress like she’s asked every single customer that question. Getting closer, J.J. sees that he underestimated the amount of make-up she had on. “Well I’m going up to see my son, he’s in Oregon. Got any regulars you think I could hitch a ride with?” “Well we sure do, but tell me, why are you doing this?” J.J. proceeds to tell her the whole news story, with his roommate at the head of it. He tells her of his son and how it is terribly important to go see him. He says that the government is going too far, that they have no right to impose this new policy. She agrees, but she calms him down, restating his thoughts that there really is nothing to be done about it. It can’t be stopped, one just has to adjust to it. With this final note, she directs him to Hank, one of the regular truckers that stops in, who is also headed to Oregon. J.J. shakes Hank’s hand and they head out. The whole way to Portland, Hank merely grunts at everything J.J. says, leaving J.J. wondering if it is that he doesn’t like him, or if he honestly doesn’t have anything better to say. He settles with the thought that Hank just doesn’t have an intelligent reply and resorts to his small, curt answers to do his bidding. The sound of country music floods J.J.’s ears as they drive on down the highway. Hank pulls out a flask from inside his coat and takes a generous drink. J.J. finds this disturbing as getting in a car accident with a massive eighteen wheel truck was not on his agenda. The man’s drinking helps paint a clearer picture for J.J. He had seen this type of trucker before while driving through the southwest. He had the same unkempt facial hair as the other truckers he had met; he wore the same pair of glasses as all the others, much too big for his small beady eyes. He had a big stomach and wore the typical trucker hat. His only source of joy came from drinking his poison and smoking the cartons, that and his CB radio. J.J. rode on in silence with the quiet hum of Garth Brooks filling the silence. He found himself envying this man, he had no worries, just him and the road for the rest of his life. J.J. decided that he would drive a truck for some time after all of this passed over. They pulled into a truck stop on the outskirts of Portland; Hank informed J.J. that there is a bus running from here to most of Portland. J.J.’s heart started beating faster again, realizing that this will be the first time he would see his son in years. He calls him and goes through the awkward conversation between a son and a father separated for years. It ends: “Have you been watching the news?” “Yeah, where do you want to meet?” J.J. steps through the doors of the typical college coffee shop. Door creaking, he walks in and hears a mixture of sounds including coffee machines at work, typing on laptops, and the constant sound of hushed talking. His son waves to him and they look each other in the eye, not really sure whether they should hug, shake hands, or just sit down. James, his son, sits down, breaks the tension and orders two cups of coffee. “Are you going?” “Yeah, I’m going. I don’t know if I’m coming back, we’re being shipped out next month, we’ll be there for a while, I don’t know when I’m coming back.” “Well what can I say, good luck son, sorry I couldn’t be there for you earlier, thought I’d come here to say my goodbye, not that you’re not coming back or anything.” With this, the two looked into each other’s eyes for what seemed like eternity, both thinking about their lives in the future, and if they’d ever see each other again. Lacking custody, J.J. never had a chance to see his son grow up, and now, for the first time, J.J. sees his son as a grown man, and is comfortable with it. “Well I guess this is goodbye, have a good life son.” In another moment, J.J. walks out, and hitches his way back to Nevada, back to his life in Vegas, back to August and his run down gas station, to pick up his Ford truck. When arriving at the store, he sees another man there, and finds out that August’s son had been drafted as well, and he left to say his goodbye.
Yeah, just got done wrestling a grizzly bear. I need to write a 4 page paper. Getting some sweet boots soon. I've been getting into the movie Shortbus lately. Here's a clip. Meh, I need to get fucked.
"Faster, Faster! Until the thrill of speed overcomes the fear of death!"
