August 9, 2008
Scientology. Things are going well in the ward. People were pissed but able to deal with their situation, most of the time. We had a manic guy from Jersey in rounds who lost it. Mack wasn’t the most compassionate doctor in the world, so had the tendency to make people not so at ease., unfortunately
“You can’t fuckin talk to me like that.” His was boiling days were over and the eruption was no longer secondary.
“Ok, you are going to have to leave now.” Mack got up and so did he. He walked straight toward the other end of the room, and behind me.
“I’m not leaving unless everyone holds hands together and walks out together.” I leaned forward not sure if I should ostracize him more by standing up and saw C, the other social worker on the team, stand up and stand away from the shaky beats of his face on manic overload. I stayed seated cause it all happened so fast that he was out sooner than I could contemplate getting up out of the way.
She was white and had something to say about the fact that she didn’t feel comfortable being one of the only white people in the ward. I stopped to think, “Was there a heavy certain race walking down the catwalk?” She didn’t like black people. She didn’t like much. She was a scientologist. At least that’s what she tired to be before they threw her out. It is not clear to me if she was poisoned by the craft of bullshit driven acid forming nitrates on the soul, or was lost and off to begin with. Well, it’s certain that she was like that to begin with cause we are born ready for dubious times, but still. Mack came into my office to inform me that,
“We don’t treat scientologist.”
“Oh, ok.”
“They don’t believe in medication so there’s no point.” But so many people on the ward didn’t want their meds, which I equate with not believing in them, versus being in denial and not wanting to admit they’re harmful without them.
So if Scientologists reject people, and they end up on the ward, and the ward shuts their doors to them, were do they go.
August 13, 2008
LILY
Her leg was suspended in the air
Like a mime
Sleeping.
Sinking into the bed on her stomach
Sleeping she had a leg
One leg up
In the air
Casually resting there
While she slept.
Lily was a young girl with a bad meth history and a history of sleepwalking when she was a youngster. Enough to end up out on the street running away from her family. She had a father that was accused by everyone, but Lily, of molesting her.
“He was my best friend, my idol.” Tears welled up in her dark brown eyes. Who’s to say what is the truth, or the non truth. Or just bites and pieces of what matters to glean enough information to make a clear assessment on why she is here in the psychiatric crisis ward sleeping face down, with one leg like it’s sitting in a chair upside down.
I let Lily sleep and decided to come back later to check on her. I wandered back down the hall and ran into…
Valerie.
“You can call me Gelesco. That’s what you can call me.”
“Is that your name? Why did you change it?
“They call me that, you can call me that.”
“What about Valerie? You don’t like that name?” She thrusted her hospital bracelet out onto the scene. In front of my face, dropped enough to see it.
“I go by Gelesco.”
“Ok. How are you doing?”
“Are you a doctor?”
“No. I’m a social worker.” It was the first time my title was said across the smelly tiles, or anywhere else of that matter. But I was a social worker. At least finally I knew that and could justify wearing my chain of keys to enter the dungeon of walls outside severely deranged species that walked in circles, not for fun, but cause their feet had to.
Wednesday, August 13, 2008
Friday, August 8, 2008
HOLLYWOOD
AN EXCERPT FROM A DWGHMF - Diary of a Writer Gone Hollywood Mother Fucker
People come to Hollywood to be in the industry. The allure. The obsession with celebrity fueled by the media, carries over to men and women that want to make something that will give them a voice. A voice unlike any other. There lies a massive problem. A town that follows trends fueled by fear is not going to bank on your ‘voice.’ It is going to hustle to work to read the trades and find out what won at the box office and turn around and do everything to reinvent that box office hit. They don’t want to be in People, or in tabloids. But they want to know those people. It’s all about being in the know. They make sure those precious clients, actors and producers, are at the top of their call sheet and makes a valiant attempt to sound smooth; in control.
“Get me Rex.”
An agent barks at his assistant who, if they are seasoned, already has dialed the client, and is ready to transfer the call.
“Rex, hey buddy, great numbers this weekend. You should take a vacation with that beautiful family of yours.”
Chances are he’s never met the client’s family, nor does he really care. There is some major money in publishing a catch phrase book for the dimwitted agent that runs out of obsequious remarks to spew on his clients. Key phrases like, ‘Hey big guy!’, more. The psychological games that agents play are quite entertaining in their ridiculousness. The delicate relationship between an agent and his client is a dance that changes over time depending on the success of each person’s career. If it is new talent paired with an accomplished agent, that agent makes it very clear from the start that ‘you need me more than I need you.’ The delicate dance is a mixture of ass kissing veiled with a threatening tone. This agent is not going to be on the horn very long with his new client, he has other Bigger clients to attend to, not to mention an afternoon of poaching to look forward to.
“Get me Fickle.”
“I already left word.” That’s code for ‘ I left a message.’
Are you ready to puke? I’ll do my best to spare you.
As I mentioned, the relationship evolves over time. What starts as an obnoxious façade of pretending to be more important than breakfast evolves into a beast, a bitch of a dance rooted in fear, where the agent must carefully maintain his seat of being necessary. The continual success of a client manifests the fear intrinsic to the job. The turning point in this relationship happens when the client realizes that at some point the agent needs him. The panic of losing that client helps fuel the fire of poaching. Here, once again, we find the sick dialogue that oozes with pathetic desperation at the core yet is masked with an upbeat tone. And, of course, the threat remains part of the strategy of poaching. A strategy of dropping names and educating a person on why Agent A is better then any alternative. Agent A has a commercial spot to convince a poor soul to join his team.
“We should have lunch.” Free food is always welcomed, everybody knows that. So how do you chew through the fat and know any truth behind all the silliness that spews out of Agent A? Simple, you can’t. Unless you are an assistant, you’ll never know anything about Agent A or the agency that he bleeds for.
Starters in this town enter a world of terror and abuse and quickly assimilate into the attitude one must take to survive.
Insecurity is the pink, fat, two faced elephant sitting in the latest lunch boat. Agents, managers, producers, writers, directors, all grapple with the polar society of Hollywood. You act like you own it, but you fear fear fear all the time. It’s not about rejection but learning to act like you are the shit (yet knowing you are the shit, but you are sitting across a table with a person full of the worms that are suppressed beneath the shit on the grass who will never see Plato's light of the sun.)
It is a tough game, for the worms that feed and need that shit, the agent, represents you. Fund your film. Make shit happen. But, when you are not ‘the shit’ and attempt to stay far from the grass, you enter a different sphere and find yourself wondering how you can assimilate and be ‘normal’ shit so you are taken seriously and not fail. Independent film was born on this notion. Screw the fat lunches, the SHIT in the yard of Hollywood…I am going to do it myself. And several do. Independent filmmakers were pioneers and said fuck you (thank God,) to the whole studio field of filmmaking.
Pathetic is thinking you are being real and dealing with bullshit and not walking away. Why would I put myself through horrific scenes just to hold onto some notion that honesty will conquer?
People come to Hollywood to be in the industry. The allure. The obsession with celebrity fueled by the media, carries over to men and women that want to make something that will give them a voice. A voice unlike any other. There lies a massive problem. A town that follows trends fueled by fear is not going to bank on your ‘voice.’ It is going to hustle to work to read the trades and find out what won at the box office and turn around and do everything to reinvent that box office hit. They don’t want to be in People, or in tabloids. But they want to know those people. It’s all about being in the know. They make sure those precious clients, actors and producers, are at the top of their call sheet and makes a valiant attempt to sound smooth; in control.
“Get me Rex.”
An agent barks at his assistant who, if they are seasoned, already has dialed the client, and is ready to transfer the call.
“Rex, hey buddy, great numbers this weekend. You should take a vacation with that beautiful family of yours.”
Chances are he’s never met the client’s family, nor does he really care. There is some major money in publishing a catch phrase book for the dimwitted agent that runs out of obsequious remarks to spew on his clients. Key phrases like, ‘Hey big guy!’, more. The psychological games that agents play are quite entertaining in their ridiculousness. The delicate relationship between an agent and his client is a dance that changes over time depending on the success of each person’s career. If it is new talent paired with an accomplished agent, that agent makes it very clear from the start that ‘you need me more than I need you.’ The delicate dance is a mixture of ass kissing veiled with a threatening tone. This agent is not going to be on the horn very long with his new client, he has other Bigger clients to attend to, not to mention an afternoon of poaching to look forward to.
“Get me Fickle.”
“I already left word.” That’s code for ‘ I left a message.’
Are you ready to puke? I’ll do my best to spare you.
As I mentioned, the relationship evolves over time. What starts as an obnoxious façade of pretending to be more important than breakfast evolves into a beast, a bitch of a dance rooted in fear, where the agent must carefully maintain his seat of being necessary. The continual success of a client manifests the fear intrinsic to the job. The turning point in this relationship happens when the client realizes that at some point the agent needs him. The panic of losing that client helps fuel the fire of poaching. Here, once again, we find the sick dialogue that oozes with pathetic desperation at the core yet is masked with an upbeat tone. And, of course, the threat remains part of the strategy of poaching. A strategy of dropping names and educating a person on why Agent A is better then any alternative. Agent A has a commercial spot to convince a poor soul to join his team.
“We should have lunch.” Free food is always welcomed, everybody knows that. So how do you chew through the fat and know any truth behind all the silliness that spews out of Agent A? Simple, you can’t. Unless you are an assistant, you’ll never know anything about Agent A or the agency that he bleeds for.
Starters in this town enter a world of terror and abuse and quickly assimilate into the attitude one must take to survive.
Insecurity is the pink, fat, two faced elephant sitting in the latest lunch boat. Agents, managers, producers, writers, directors, all grapple with the polar society of Hollywood. You act like you own it, but you fear fear fear all the time. It’s not about rejection but learning to act like you are the shit (yet knowing you are the shit, but you are sitting across a table with a person full of the worms that are suppressed beneath the shit on the grass who will never see Plato's light of the sun.)
It is a tough game, for the worms that feed and need that shit, the agent, represents you. Fund your film. Make shit happen. But, when you are not ‘the shit’ and attempt to stay far from the grass, you enter a different sphere and find yourself wondering how you can assimilate and be ‘normal’ shit so you are taken seriously and not fail. Independent film was born on this notion. Screw the fat lunches, the SHIT in the yard of Hollywood…I am going to do it myself. And several do. Independent filmmakers were pioneers and said fuck you (thank God,) to the whole studio field of filmmaking.
Pathetic is thinking you are being real and dealing with bullshit and not walking away. Why would I put myself through horrific scenes just to hold onto some notion that honesty will conquer?
Wednesday, August 6, 2008
BAD TIMES WAITING FOR GOOD TIMES
JOURNAL ENTRY – STALE BREAD
I wake up after hours, almost a day, of sleeping and roll from my bed to the chair in my living room. I thought dismantling my TV would keep me from falling into a tvpression but now I only watch my one DVD over and over and over to the point that I hope I’ll come to be over it and get my ass up and out of my apartment. But I don’t. I continue to watch it, and am thankful to have something to watch. My brain is stale bread but not hard. It’s just stale, sitting there on the shelf of my head and flat as a pancake. I have no thoughts, no words, no passion, nothing. I thank God I have no phone calls to return because it gives me a panic attack to have to check my messages to hear someone on the other end wanting to know where I am, what I’ve been “up to.” And I can’t say absolutely nothing because they know. The people left holding onto an absent friend know about me and would think things about my state of mind. I don’t want to burden anyone with my sterile world, but maybe that’s a lie. I don’t want the burden of people knowing and having them think about it, or try and talk to me about it, because no one has any idea what my world is here stuck in my hollow apartment where the only thing keeping me cognate of some relationship to life is my cat. I wish I could just cry and let it all out so I can be done with this. But I can’t. It’s worse. I feel nothing but am sure what with all the personal pressure to stay on top of my mental state, go running, be productive (whatever the hell that means at this point) which is void is a deep internal long cry that has no end. I went to Santa Barbara to the premiere of my friend’s film and drove home with light on my cheeks. I wish I knew what was that thing that made me get up and go. I know i'm scared for myself and the myriad of days and days going by with nothing other than some cheese and a screen. Even preparing my plate of cheese and crackers is doing something that makes me feel alive. So it would be nice to capture whatever made me get in my car and drive in a jar and breath into it when I am scared again. How does fear lead to strength I’ll never know. I was anxious when I was trying to get out of the city mostly because I slept 14 hours and was 6 hours behind my attempt of a schedule. I only spent one night out of the city and actually had someone say I was glowing when I went to my usual local market to get some more cheese. Just that little accomplishment brought some life back into my face.
JOURNAL ENTRY – THE ROLLERCOASTER RIDE
I’ve had some sudo manic nights for the past few weeks. Going out meeting random guys and taking them home or going home with them. I’m not having sex but long for a kiss so do that. I did have two boys in my bed at one point and managed not to do anything with either of them but was in the middle with no space on either side to fall from. Fleeting physical companionship in a night over does make me feel better than no one and I don’t think it makes me lonelier in the end. It is something to hold onto and recall in my memory so I know I am not a total recluse. I even started talking to a neighbor a few blocks down and went out to dinner with him and his pose which I enjoy. I like plummeting myself into other peoples social lives and know that I can hold my own socially without exposing the truth about my silent life. Since I’ve lost weight I do see a significant difference in how men treat me and it should give me some power but it’s more that I don’t want to eat. I’m hungry but don’t care. In fact, when I do eat I cook so I am having some type of social interaction with something, even if it is food it’s something other than just a screen. Food’s a living thing right?
I know that D is onto me and says she can “tell” I’m manic from my text messages. So, there’s another one I have to watch out for. She is the only person in my entire life and journey of shit that is close enough to me and my disease to know when it’s taking hold of my existence. She has enough to deal with than to worry about me. And the last thing I need is for her to tell my parents and have them get that whole can of “what am I supposed to do” opened up all over the sink.
JOURNAL ENTRY – EVERYTHING’S MARVELOUS
One of my best friends from grammar school is in town and I can’t even muster the will power to get in my car and meet her for frozen yogurt. I have nothing to report about my life and am ashamed. Plus, I am pretty sure I can’t pull of the smiley everything’s marvelous and I am full of life and happiness when my eyes are like gray coals sucked into my head as the depression has lodged itself onto my sockets and has managed to slowly suck the life out like a goddamn leech.
I have to do something because death is not a solution. Death is way to scary to even speak of and I am thrilled that I have no intentions to think about death. But, having said that, living in a coffin, my bed, most of the day and night, in a funeral home, my quiet apartment, day after day with consciousness of a living death sucks pretty bad too. I just don’t care and want the days to melt by so I can wake up and hate myself for wasting another week.
If only my music was in me so I could dance around my apartment. Music has always saved me in the past and even that is of no interest. Now THAT is the beginning of the end.
I love dusk. It is staring at me in the face and if I move from my chair to the balcony chair I will be forced to be there alone, with myself. The silence of my brain living in the silence of the balcony and sadness that dusk is slowly fading away to night is too depressing so….I’ll keep watching my DVD instead.
JOURNAL ENTRY – DICKWADES
So I stopped by my local pub to get a beverage and started talking to a guy who showed me pics of his daughters and then he had to go because his wife was calling him and he texted me when he was outside asking me to come out so he could kiss me. I’m not sure why that happened, but if I had a shot of my face when I got that text it would be worth getting it to begin with. Assholes and their dicks and the poor women that fuck them.
JOURNAL ENTRIES – MEET THE NEIGHBORHOOD WHY DON’T CHA
I am meeting some more neighbors. I was on my way home from my taco bar when I saw a couple on the street open a door to a staircase heading toward a party. I smiled like I was also a party invitee and climbed the stairs to a huge loft full of people drinking and chatting. I made my way to the balcony where I found a nice warm seat by a fire and was immediately hit on by some guy. I told him I would make out with him but not have sex. He wasn’t so keen on the idea and I excused myself to go find someone else to talk with. I walked up to a hot guy chilling in the kitchen and the next thing I know we headed toward the bathroom. Clothes flew off our backs as we devoured each other. I felt sexy. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and sure looked sexy. It was just what I needed. Some hot make out time with a hot stranger in a scandalous outpouring of lust all over the bathroom tiles. I walked home feeling refreshed and hit my pillow wondering how I was going to get sex, especially with my “no sex” rule that was beginning to result in wild outrage that ended with me walking out of someone’s bathroom while people in line gave that look, ah, yeah. What I should have done is tell the guy that I was interested in having him as my booty call, no names, no details, just someone to call on a moments notice for some sex. That kind of sex I can justify because it would be with the same person and a way for me to stop having bursts of “why am I doing this no sex thing and is it driving me to insanity” moments in the kitchen when I unload my Portobello mushrooms.
At least I still have my dildo. I even changed the batteries today after trying every way to figure what which way they go. I thought I had just replaced the batteries recently but they were already dead so was thrilled to find it working again once I put new ones in.
JOURNAL ENTRY - CARDS
I realize now when I picked up a few cards on the table by my door that they are more people than I realize that I have interacted with who happen to have significant others early in their relationships. If I had a filing cabinet for every card I’ve ever received from a man it would be like one of those overstuffed recipe index card holders with all your grandmothers recipes stuffed inside and handwritten by herself with her cursive pen and neatly packaged in a clear plastic covering. Maybe it’s because I am thirty that I seem to come across more unavailable men who are in the early stages of a relationship and, depending on their face, part of me wants to get in early and try and show them the light of my jazz. The guys card I hold how was someone from the Santa Barbara film festival who was, not my style, but someone who seemed to be there: in the hotel room chillin’ with some actor I was supposed to know, at the bar grabbing his drink, at breakfast next to me, unlike the guy in the bathroom recently who I wanted badly who also had a girlfriend, or the guy from the bar with pictures on his phone wallpaper of his kids that send me that text about kissing me who I definitely did not want. They all had second date girlfriends and I wasn’t interested in two of them but enjoyed their conversation, which means I only wanted the bathroom guy because he was hot so I can’t say I am being “good” at this point, it is all physical. What I want is a hot booty call. I’ve never wanted that in my life but think my no sex thing is not working. Nor would a relationship right now in my wine and cheese life.
JOURNAL ENTRY – PORTABELLO MUSHROOMS
I like to cook Portobello mushroom in marsala wine sauce and put them in the oven for two minutes with some shredded parmesan reggano from trader Joes and put them in the broiler for two minutes, (anything more than that will burn the top beyond the brown crust you want) and pop them in my mouth. It’s sad, or maybe funny, how something so passing to most people is just that, passing, to me it’s something to do today, tonight, to look forward to, to do, to prove that I am still human and can enjoy the act of making food even if I don’t want to eat it. Anyone would be thrilled to not want to eat, I mean women and the faggots in my hood, but to me it’s a red flag.
JOURNAL ENTRY – THE PHONE CALL
I went for a run for the first time weeks and came home to my voice huffing and puffing behind I'm not tired vocals in the answering machine of my psychiatrist. I sounded ok, at least I think and was not crying when I said I needed to come in before my scheduled time in two weeks. When he returned I was sorting through tulips in trader Joes with my cart filled with four bags of parmesan reggiano and two packs of Portobello mushrooms, the small ones that you can pop in your mouth instead of the large ones that I was accustomed to, and lowered my head when I heard his voice on the line and he asked if I was ok. Ok. Actually he asked if I was alright with a pulse in his voice like he was worried that I was not ok, like suicide or in a bad place to the point where I was in bad company with myself, and he even asked me in the meeting the next day if I was suicidal and I was ready for it when I said it would at least be a thought to have versus not having any thoughts at all to the point where I don’t even care enough to even care that I don’t care. About anything, or running, or showering or dancing or wandering thoughts or analytical purpose in the trees when I walk by sad people or those that aren’t sure why they are disthoughtful. Disthoughtful is the worst way to be, and that’s what I told my psychiatrist today because it takes a trunk to those that want to die and plan something. In the drivers seat you have a choice but in the trunk you have yourself bound and gagged with darkness and no clue who or what is keeping you hostage. But at least you are not ready to die but know that you don’t know when you will be released from the uncomfortable fetal position you live in inside the metal hole.
I took at bath tonight, the first since my days of eating mangos in the bath tub on East 77th and was stared down by the man with his cork screw eyes and his long nose taking down the water that was above the rim. I put a firming mask on and once I got it frozen pack sealed on my face I smiled at my outrageous yellow walls beating out against the mirror and was pissed. I took the tube of whiting and splurged it all over the face pack and sat in the tub spitting periodically to aleve my mouth from the chemical paste of so help me God I have yellow teeth. And then I got out. And I felt good and removed my plastic guard only to save the remaining amount of paste that was probably four times the amount of what I needed and put it in its neon home and smiled. I saw some great results and feared the rest of my wine glass would destroy the chemicals that were still eating at my yellow grinds and took a straw to the matter. It’s harder than you think to suck down a sip, gulp, pour, amount of wine down your cheeks without hurting the white workers at their best to absorb the plastered gel smeared across your franks.
JOURNAL ENTRY – OFF THE PILL
I saw my psychiatrist today and told him I was staying off the pill because I like feeling like an animal with fierce sexuality and he wanted to make sure I was being safe.
“So you do use condoms right?”
“Yeah.” Flies out my mouth with a wave of laughter to make it sound like a ridiculous question to mask the fact that I had sex three hours earlier with my neighbor that I befriended on the street against a shower wall. No condoms there. I did, however, manage to stop myself the night before when I was out w my new roommate and ended up in a BMW SUV with a group of guys smoking a j and found that I was wasted enough to realize that I was severely wasted, which is pretty wasted. He was hot in a presence way and I managed to just make out w him in his home in studio city and was thrilled to find the lines he told me that I said the next day on the ride home thinking he just didn’t get me, not that I was out of the Jupiter red spot. So when my psychiatrist said he thinks I am at a point where I feel the mania and can go with it or decide to steady myself and I laugh now thinking that there is no fucking way I would NOT dive into the mania and thank God I am not that stale, slow, pathetic, lame, lonely, tired asshole I was on the swing shift so don’t know why anyone wouldn’t magnet themselves to the fridge when that its comfortable space. Fuck that. I am milking the wild excursions as long and hard as I can. I am NOT returning to anything. But I will say I cut back on my limectal because I was twitching at night and the guys I have slept with can feel it and think I am just in a REM sleep when really I am on meds that have long term effects which sucks because if my brain needs it, it should not have any affects…..but no one seems to have a grip on bi-polar minds so we suffer as a result. I’ve decided I am going to pull back on most of my meds and see if I can utilize my energy for wild accomplishment. If only I didn’t open my Charter School Teacher interview with a soliloquy from Shakespeare to be or not to be speech and say
“To live or to die, how many people think this is the opening to a suicide letter?”
Didn’t think it was a problem at the time, but now, wonder why I never crossed my mind that it might just be a little too much. It was still a good speech so fuck it.
P said his neighbors think I am negative and now I wonder how I can balance honesty with smile. It’s hard to view the world honestly and not laugh with a fake smile to confuse the person to the point where they are not sure if I am kidding or actually meant what I said, honestly and smiles are bi polar. Honestly is real and smile is fake. Why would you pick a view that pasted a smile on your face to be “positive” when you can bright smile your chops and shine your gleaming pearls when you knock back a smile.
Why would anyone decide to stop a manic delight and pull themselves in? It’s not a release; it’s a lease on yourself. Take it and lease it until you can’t afford to anymore because you have bad memory.
JOURNAL ENTRY – BRITNEY SPEARS IS UNDER SIEGE
Britney Spears under siege. The narrator discussed her behavior as manic. It’s hard to tell since she is under drugs and alcohol and god knows what roots from hell and it gives the wrong voice for bi-polar disorder. All you have to do is sit with her in a room and hear her speech, her mannerism, and start to deconstruct her brain. And there are people all over the world walking around with more severe conditions.
It takes a pop culture icon to bring a magazine cover “Britney is bi-polar” to add to the constant confusion about this unique disease and make it seem a question and a new buzz world. It is bad. Why do we have to have a fuckin E true Hollywood story to contemplate conditions? They should all go fuck themselves and stop raping people for dinero.
JOURNAL ENTRY – THE DEFINITION OF DEPRESSION
I am searching for cheap therapy help since my psychiatrist thinks it sooo needed for my ANGER and everything else. I think when P said I was negative it stuck a chord as did some personal attention to my ingestion of information in this world.
So… The term depression is used to describe a persistent sad mood and/or loss of interest or pleasure in most activities.
They forgot to add….a stare at your balcony and wondering why you are not able to crawl to your chair and be alone in the night. When being alone is part of depression but being alone in your dusk is too much. Most activities? There are NO activities and since your activity is watching DVD’s then you are actually doing something. It’s an activity you enjoy so that’s not depression, it’s senseless noneness. That’s what they should say as a description:
Depression is a place you are and don’t know it is, not you, until you get a line of thought that crosses the blank field that says, ah, this is life and I don’t know anything else and so fuck it.
That’s it.
JOURNAL ENTRY – CODE WORDS
I went to visit my best friend today and she suggested implementing a plan. A code word when things are bad. She is the only friend that actually was persistent to reach out to me and that was beauty. Sheer beauty. I can be sometimes and not in that state and told her I can’t have her see me like that. Like a blank wasted out face that stares back at me in the mirror when I try to find me. When that’s me. You could not ask for a more amazing force in the universe to keep attempting and knowing when to leave a message that states, if you are not talking to anyone just let me know that so I know. And I got messages from my dad when he was at the beach with the dog in Malibu and sharing his time in an optimistic message about the beach, which he hates, but goes to with the dog. And yesterday I am at lunch with my parents and not able to tell them the dark January and now at S’s patio table folding my face in my hands as I cry and fight back falling forward because if I do than I will not stop crying because the memory hurts, but more the memory of these people trying to help me, call me, talk about the beach or chipper life.
Having said that, I don’t regret talking about all the badness this past month, despite my psychiatrist suggestion to clue them in, and now I am in a war, once again, with the cut and paste go to line that is now a night that always comes “I don’t’ have any money, so I’ll write you a check after X.” It’s like my older sister that always has a deadline. Such bullshit. Or maybe just something they are used to. Regardless, my mother didn’t want to write me a check for the last two emergency sessions because it was a whopping 300 dollars which is so much to her after spending twenty dollars at Ross on clothes that night times…what, a week? Sick. Now I have to go back to G in two weeks and now that I am catching up in checks it’s only going to be that worse. I want to send an email to my Dad and tell him I need him to send checks in advance for G but don’t want to shit on anymore of their relationship that is already fragile. I can send an email claiming furniture from the house but not state the fact that I need checks for my mental health. I will do it. I have to. If my shrink thinks I need therapy more than music than at the very least I can set up a system where I can get my, wake up in the night and want to leave a everything’s not ok message, on my shrinks phone, thus have to go see him and know that I can get a check to reimburse it. It’s ultimately sad that I can’t have a free flow of necessity to myself and to them to ensure that I don’t have to battle for help.
JOURNAL ENTRY – EMAIL TO AN OLD FLAME
Is it that much easier to hate me, than to love me?....at least I know you'll never have apathy, just yet.
Erica
And that is my solution to a back alley dripping dirt off the fire escape water that is mine. It’s myself and I’m tired of thinking about it or him and not doing or being or saying anything. It’s boring, unknown, unplaced and not what we should live for, to be, to be alive, action driven, sweaty, crying, pathetic, lying, expressionless, dirty. Without that why do people even think to stop and drop those inside of their bubble of known.
JOURNAL ENTRY – LATE NIGHT AT NORMS
I got through dinner with my dad without thinking about the big J issue and had a good time. We ended up at Norms on La Cienaga and had beads thrown on your backs while I slide a chocolate milkshake down my throat and tossed Tabasco on my eggs and left a sausage half knifed so my dad could take the rest and enjoy our time at a diner on La Cienaga.
I wake up after hours, almost a day, of sleeping and roll from my bed to the chair in my living room. I thought dismantling my TV would keep me from falling into a tvpression but now I only watch my one DVD over and over and over to the point that I hope I’ll come to be over it and get my ass up and out of my apartment. But I don’t. I continue to watch it, and am thankful to have something to watch. My brain is stale bread but not hard. It’s just stale, sitting there on the shelf of my head and flat as a pancake. I have no thoughts, no words, no passion, nothing. I thank God I have no phone calls to return because it gives me a panic attack to have to check my messages to hear someone on the other end wanting to know where I am, what I’ve been “up to.” And I can’t say absolutely nothing because they know. The people left holding onto an absent friend know about me and would think things about my state of mind. I don’t want to burden anyone with my sterile world, but maybe that’s a lie. I don’t want the burden of people knowing and having them think about it, or try and talk to me about it, because no one has any idea what my world is here stuck in my hollow apartment where the only thing keeping me cognate of some relationship to life is my cat. I wish I could just cry and let it all out so I can be done with this. But I can’t. It’s worse. I feel nothing but am sure what with all the personal pressure to stay on top of my mental state, go running, be productive (whatever the hell that means at this point) which is void is a deep internal long cry that has no end. I went to Santa Barbara to the premiere of my friend’s film and drove home with light on my cheeks. I wish I knew what was that thing that made me get up and go. I know i'm scared for myself and the myriad of days and days going by with nothing other than some cheese and a screen. Even preparing my plate of cheese and crackers is doing something that makes me feel alive. So it would be nice to capture whatever made me get in my car and drive in a jar and breath into it when I am scared again. How does fear lead to strength I’ll never know. I was anxious when I was trying to get out of the city mostly because I slept 14 hours and was 6 hours behind my attempt of a schedule. I only spent one night out of the city and actually had someone say I was glowing when I went to my usual local market to get some more cheese. Just that little accomplishment brought some life back into my face.
JOURNAL ENTRY – THE ROLLERCOASTER RIDE
I’ve had some sudo manic nights for the past few weeks. Going out meeting random guys and taking them home or going home with them. I’m not having sex but long for a kiss so do that. I did have two boys in my bed at one point and managed not to do anything with either of them but was in the middle with no space on either side to fall from. Fleeting physical companionship in a night over does make me feel better than no one and I don’t think it makes me lonelier in the end. It is something to hold onto and recall in my memory so I know I am not a total recluse. I even started talking to a neighbor a few blocks down and went out to dinner with him and his pose which I enjoy. I like plummeting myself into other peoples social lives and know that I can hold my own socially without exposing the truth about my silent life. Since I’ve lost weight I do see a significant difference in how men treat me and it should give me some power but it’s more that I don’t want to eat. I’m hungry but don’t care. In fact, when I do eat I cook so I am having some type of social interaction with something, even if it is food it’s something other than just a screen. Food’s a living thing right?
I know that D is onto me and says she can “tell” I’m manic from my text messages. So, there’s another one I have to watch out for. She is the only person in my entire life and journey of shit that is close enough to me and my disease to know when it’s taking hold of my existence. She has enough to deal with than to worry about me. And the last thing I need is for her to tell my parents and have them get that whole can of “what am I supposed to do” opened up all over the sink.
JOURNAL ENTRY – EVERYTHING’S MARVELOUS
One of my best friends from grammar school is in town and I can’t even muster the will power to get in my car and meet her for frozen yogurt. I have nothing to report about my life and am ashamed. Plus, I am pretty sure I can’t pull of the smiley everything’s marvelous and I am full of life and happiness when my eyes are like gray coals sucked into my head as the depression has lodged itself onto my sockets and has managed to slowly suck the life out like a goddamn leech.
I have to do something because death is not a solution. Death is way to scary to even speak of and I am thrilled that I have no intentions to think about death. But, having said that, living in a coffin, my bed, most of the day and night, in a funeral home, my quiet apartment, day after day with consciousness of a living death sucks pretty bad too. I just don’t care and want the days to melt by so I can wake up and hate myself for wasting another week.
If only my music was in me so I could dance around my apartment. Music has always saved me in the past and even that is of no interest. Now THAT is the beginning of the end.
I love dusk. It is staring at me in the face and if I move from my chair to the balcony chair I will be forced to be there alone, with myself. The silence of my brain living in the silence of the balcony and sadness that dusk is slowly fading away to night is too depressing so….I’ll keep watching my DVD instead.
JOURNAL ENTRY – DICKWADES
So I stopped by my local pub to get a beverage and started talking to a guy who showed me pics of his daughters and then he had to go because his wife was calling him and he texted me when he was outside asking me to come out so he could kiss me. I’m not sure why that happened, but if I had a shot of my face when I got that text it would be worth getting it to begin with. Assholes and their dicks and the poor women that fuck them.
JOURNAL ENTRIES – MEET THE NEIGHBORHOOD WHY DON’T CHA
I am meeting some more neighbors. I was on my way home from my taco bar when I saw a couple on the street open a door to a staircase heading toward a party. I smiled like I was also a party invitee and climbed the stairs to a huge loft full of people drinking and chatting. I made my way to the balcony where I found a nice warm seat by a fire and was immediately hit on by some guy. I told him I would make out with him but not have sex. He wasn’t so keen on the idea and I excused myself to go find someone else to talk with. I walked up to a hot guy chilling in the kitchen and the next thing I know we headed toward the bathroom. Clothes flew off our backs as we devoured each other. I felt sexy. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror and sure looked sexy. It was just what I needed. Some hot make out time with a hot stranger in a scandalous outpouring of lust all over the bathroom tiles. I walked home feeling refreshed and hit my pillow wondering how I was going to get sex, especially with my “no sex” rule that was beginning to result in wild outrage that ended with me walking out of someone’s bathroom while people in line gave that look, ah, yeah. What I should have done is tell the guy that I was interested in having him as my booty call, no names, no details, just someone to call on a moments notice for some sex. That kind of sex I can justify because it would be with the same person and a way for me to stop having bursts of “why am I doing this no sex thing and is it driving me to insanity” moments in the kitchen when I unload my Portobello mushrooms.
At least I still have my dildo. I even changed the batteries today after trying every way to figure what which way they go. I thought I had just replaced the batteries recently but they were already dead so was thrilled to find it working again once I put new ones in.
JOURNAL ENTRY - CARDS
I realize now when I picked up a few cards on the table by my door that they are more people than I realize that I have interacted with who happen to have significant others early in their relationships. If I had a filing cabinet for every card I’ve ever received from a man it would be like one of those overstuffed recipe index card holders with all your grandmothers recipes stuffed inside and handwritten by herself with her cursive pen and neatly packaged in a clear plastic covering. Maybe it’s because I am thirty that I seem to come across more unavailable men who are in the early stages of a relationship and, depending on their face, part of me wants to get in early and try and show them the light of my jazz. The guys card I hold how was someone from the Santa Barbara film festival who was, not my style, but someone who seemed to be there: in the hotel room chillin’ with some actor I was supposed to know, at the bar grabbing his drink, at breakfast next to me, unlike the guy in the bathroom recently who I wanted badly who also had a girlfriend, or the guy from the bar with pictures on his phone wallpaper of his kids that send me that text about kissing me who I definitely did not want. They all had second date girlfriends and I wasn’t interested in two of them but enjoyed their conversation, which means I only wanted the bathroom guy because he was hot so I can’t say I am being “good” at this point, it is all physical. What I want is a hot booty call. I’ve never wanted that in my life but think my no sex thing is not working. Nor would a relationship right now in my wine and cheese life.
JOURNAL ENTRY – PORTABELLO MUSHROOMS
I like to cook Portobello mushroom in marsala wine sauce and put them in the oven for two minutes with some shredded parmesan reggano from trader Joes and put them in the broiler for two minutes, (anything more than that will burn the top beyond the brown crust you want) and pop them in my mouth. It’s sad, or maybe funny, how something so passing to most people is just that, passing, to me it’s something to do today, tonight, to look forward to, to do, to prove that I am still human and can enjoy the act of making food even if I don’t want to eat it. Anyone would be thrilled to not want to eat, I mean women and the faggots in my hood, but to me it’s a red flag.
JOURNAL ENTRY – THE PHONE CALL
I went for a run for the first time weeks and came home to my voice huffing and puffing behind I'm not tired vocals in the answering machine of my psychiatrist. I sounded ok, at least I think and was not crying when I said I needed to come in before my scheduled time in two weeks. When he returned I was sorting through tulips in trader Joes with my cart filled with four bags of parmesan reggiano and two packs of Portobello mushrooms, the small ones that you can pop in your mouth instead of the large ones that I was accustomed to, and lowered my head when I heard his voice on the line and he asked if I was ok. Ok. Actually he asked if I was alright with a pulse in his voice like he was worried that I was not ok, like suicide or in a bad place to the point where I was in bad company with myself, and he even asked me in the meeting the next day if I was suicidal and I was ready for it when I said it would at least be a thought to have versus not having any thoughts at all to the point where I don’t even care enough to even care that I don’t care. About anything, or running, or showering or dancing or wandering thoughts or analytical purpose in the trees when I walk by sad people or those that aren’t sure why they are disthoughtful. Disthoughtful is the worst way to be, and that’s what I told my psychiatrist today because it takes a trunk to those that want to die and plan something. In the drivers seat you have a choice but in the trunk you have yourself bound and gagged with darkness and no clue who or what is keeping you hostage. But at least you are not ready to die but know that you don’t know when you will be released from the uncomfortable fetal position you live in inside the metal hole.
I took at bath tonight, the first since my days of eating mangos in the bath tub on East 77th and was stared down by the man with his cork screw eyes and his long nose taking down the water that was above the rim. I put a firming mask on and once I got it frozen pack sealed on my face I smiled at my outrageous yellow walls beating out against the mirror and was pissed. I took the tube of whiting and splurged it all over the face pack and sat in the tub spitting periodically to aleve my mouth from the chemical paste of so help me God I have yellow teeth. And then I got out. And I felt good and removed my plastic guard only to save the remaining amount of paste that was probably four times the amount of what I needed and put it in its neon home and smiled. I saw some great results and feared the rest of my wine glass would destroy the chemicals that were still eating at my yellow grinds and took a straw to the matter. It’s harder than you think to suck down a sip, gulp, pour, amount of wine down your cheeks without hurting the white workers at their best to absorb the plastered gel smeared across your franks.
JOURNAL ENTRY – OFF THE PILL
I saw my psychiatrist today and told him I was staying off the pill because I like feeling like an animal with fierce sexuality and he wanted to make sure I was being safe.
“So you do use condoms right?”
“Yeah.” Flies out my mouth with a wave of laughter to make it sound like a ridiculous question to mask the fact that I had sex three hours earlier with my neighbor that I befriended on the street against a shower wall. No condoms there. I did, however, manage to stop myself the night before when I was out w my new roommate and ended up in a BMW SUV with a group of guys smoking a j and found that I was wasted enough to realize that I was severely wasted, which is pretty wasted. He was hot in a presence way and I managed to just make out w him in his home in studio city and was thrilled to find the lines he told me that I said the next day on the ride home thinking he just didn’t get me, not that I was out of the Jupiter red spot. So when my psychiatrist said he thinks I am at a point where I feel the mania and can go with it or decide to steady myself and I laugh now thinking that there is no fucking way I would NOT dive into the mania and thank God I am not that stale, slow, pathetic, lame, lonely, tired asshole I was on the swing shift so don’t know why anyone wouldn’t magnet themselves to the fridge when that its comfortable space. Fuck that. I am milking the wild excursions as long and hard as I can. I am NOT returning to anything. But I will say I cut back on my limectal because I was twitching at night and the guys I have slept with can feel it and think I am just in a REM sleep when really I am on meds that have long term effects which sucks because if my brain needs it, it should not have any affects…..but no one seems to have a grip on bi-polar minds so we suffer as a result. I’ve decided I am going to pull back on most of my meds and see if I can utilize my energy for wild accomplishment. If only I didn’t open my Charter School Teacher interview with a soliloquy from Shakespeare to be or not to be speech and say
“To live or to die, how many people think this is the opening to a suicide letter?”
Didn’t think it was a problem at the time, but now, wonder why I never crossed my mind that it might just be a little too much. It was still a good speech so fuck it.
P said his neighbors think I am negative and now I wonder how I can balance honesty with smile. It’s hard to view the world honestly and not laugh with a fake smile to confuse the person to the point where they are not sure if I am kidding or actually meant what I said, honestly and smiles are bi polar. Honestly is real and smile is fake. Why would you pick a view that pasted a smile on your face to be “positive” when you can bright smile your chops and shine your gleaming pearls when you knock back a smile.
Why would anyone decide to stop a manic delight and pull themselves in? It’s not a release; it’s a lease on yourself. Take it and lease it until you can’t afford to anymore because you have bad memory.
JOURNAL ENTRY – BRITNEY SPEARS IS UNDER SIEGE
Britney Spears under siege. The narrator discussed her behavior as manic. It’s hard to tell since she is under drugs and alcohol and god knows what roots from hell and it gives the wrong voice for bi-polar disorder. All you have to do is sit with her in a room and hear her speech, her mannerism, and start to deconstruct her brain. And there are people all over the world walking around with more severe conditions.
It takes a pop culture icon to bring a magazine cover “Britney is bi-polar” to add to the constant confusion about this unique disease and make it seem a question and a new buzz world. It is bad. Why do we have to have a fuckin E true Hollywood story to contemplate conditions? They should all go fuck themselves and stop raping people for dinero.
JOURNAL ENTRY – THE DEFINITION OF DEPRESSION
I am searching for cheap therapy help since my psychiatrist thinks it sooo needed for my ANGER and everything else. I think when P said I was negative it stuck a chord as did some personal attention to my ingestion of information in this world.
So… The term depression is used to describe a persistent sad mood and/or loss of interest or pleasure in most activities.
They forgot to add….a stare at your balcony and wondering why you are not able to crawl to your chair and be alone in the night. When being alone is part of depression but being alone in your dusk is too much. Most activities? There are NO activities and since your activity is watching DVD’s then you are actually doing something. It’s an activity you enjoy so that’s not depression, it’s senseless noneness. That’s what they should say as a description:
Depression is a place you are and don’t know it is, not you, until you get a line of thought that crosses the blank field that says, ah, this is life and I don’t know anything else and so fuck it.
That’s it.
JOURNAL ENTRY – CODE WORDS
I went to visit my best friend today and she suggested implementing a plan. A code word when things are bad. She is the only friend that actually was persistent to reach out to me and that was beauty. Sheer beauty. I can be sometimes and not in that state and told her I can’t have her see me like that. Like a blank wasted out face that stares back at me in the mirror when I try to find me. When that’s me. You could not ask for a more amazing force in the universe to keep attempting and knowing when to leave a message that states, if you are not talking to anyone just let me know that so I know. And I got messages from my dad when he was at the beach with the dog in Malibu and sharing his time in an optimistic message about the beach, which he hates, but goes to with the dog. And yesterday I am at lunch with my parents and not able to tell them the dark January and now at S’s patio table folding my face in my hands as I cry and fight back falling forward because if I do than I will not stop crying because the memory hurts, but more the memory of these people trying to help me, call me, talk about the beach or chipper life.
Having said that, I don’t regret talking about all the badness this past month, despite my psychiatrist suggestion to clue them in, and now I am in a war, once again, with the cut and paste go to line that is now a night that always comes “I don’t’ have any money, so I’ll write you a check after X.” It’s like my older sister that always has a deadline. Such bullshit. Or maybe just something they are used to. Regardless, my mother didn’t want to write me a check for the last two emergency sessions because it was a whopping 300 dollars which is so much to her after spending twenty dollars at Ross on clothes that night times…what, a week? Sick. Now I have to go back to G in two weeks and now that I am catching up in checks it’s only going to be that worse. I want to send an email to my Dad and tell him I need him to send checks in advance for G but don’t want to shit on anymore of their relationship that is already fragile. I can send an email claiming furniture from the house but not state the fact that I need checks for my mental health. I will do it. I have to. If my shrink thinks I need therapy more than music than at the very least I can set up a system where I can get my, wake up in the night and want to leave a everything’s not ok message, on my shrinks phone, thus have to go see him and know that I can get a check to reimburse it. It’s ultimately sad that I can’t have a free flow of necessity to myself and to them to ensure that I don’t have to battle for help.
JOURNAL ENTRY – EMAIL TO AN OLD FLAME
Is it that much easier to hate me, than to love me?....at least I know you'll never have apathy, just yet.
Erica
And that is my solution to a back alley dripping dirt off the fire escape water that is mine. It’s myself and I’m tired of thinking about it or him and not doing or being or saying anything. It’s boring, unknown, unplaced and not what we should live for, to be, to be alive, action driven, sweaty, crying, pathetic, lying, expressionless, dirty. Without that why do people even think to stop and drop those inside of their bubble of known.
JOURNAL ENTRY – LATE NIGHT AT NORMS
I got through dinner with my dad without thinking about the big J issue and had a good time. We ended up at Norms on La Cienaga and had beads thrown on your backs while I slide a chocolate milkshake down my throat and tossed Tabasco on my eggs and left a sausage half knifed so my dad could take the rest and enjoy our time at a diner on La Cienaga.
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
CATATONIC
July 29, 2008
“You’re too red to work here.” Abigail was warming up to me. She had called me a conceded bitch the day before. Thus far she had had twelve elector shock therapy treatments. I found out she was open to doing the electic so felt a little better about the whole thing. Rico was thrilled to be moving out of the hospital to La Casa.
“Whooo, hooo.” He scurried down the hall way his arms jumping up and down in the air in pure delight. Have you seen the shit hole you are about to live in? I suppose it’s better having a moment of fun before you entered hell and even better to enjoy the idea of moving on then being restrained against your will to a place you didn’t know. He ran by Oni. I found out about Oni earlier that day in rounds. Oni was catatonic.
"Catatonia is a syndrome of psychic and motoric-disturbances. In the current Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders published by the American Psychiatric Association (DSM-IV) it is not recognized as a separate disorder, but is associated with psychiatric conditions such as schizophrenia (catatonic type), bipolar disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, depression and other mental disorders, as well as drug abuse and/or overdose."
In other words, we are not really sure what the fuck it is. Since the doctors weren't totally sure where catatonic surfaced from or were it fell on the desert of crazy, Oni was a case study for us to try and learn from. We walked into the hall and he was standing still with one arm straight out in front of him and the other by his side.
“Hi, Oni. Can we talk to you for a moment?” Nothing.
“This is our team of doctors, nurses and social workers and we would like to ask you a few questions.” Nothing.
“Do you know why you are here?” He made an eating motion. He was fiercely skinny and hadn’t had anything but an orange in the last two days. He also had long thick nails but that was the lease of his worries.
“Can I move your arm?” Dr. Mask moved his arm to the side and Oni left it there like a diving board.
“Can I touch your forehead?” Before Mask could glean the surface of his skin, Oni was on the ground on all fours staring straight ahead like a dog staring at a rat he’s about to pounce.
“Ok, well not now. We’ll come back another time.”
Later that day, I walked to my hole and Oni’s mother was standing there, in the hallway, staring in disbelief at Oni’s strange postures. Her face was white and her mouth was agape like she was staring at a terrible thing. She was still. He was still, then he walked over to the wall and starting playing his imaginary piano next to the wall.
“Come on Oni, don’t you want to watch TV with your mother?” The nurses were trying to get him to spend some quality time with his mom in the common room, but he just stood there. Then he walked over to his bed and lied down. A nurse took the pillow out from under his head to try and get him up and his head didn’t move. It stayed there floating in the air sideways like he was still resting on the pillow. He didn’t like to be touched and his mother had not moved since she got there. Her face was stuck in stone and her puffy cheeks were now gray. I walked away and went to my hole to do some paper work. Later when I walked back down the hall, I saw him in a catchers stance near the floor. His mom was still stone but her eyes were blood shot as the tears seemed to rake her eyeballs and never seemed to stream her face. Maybe if she blinked her tears would get a break and pour out of her eyes but they were still, stoned, in a state of utter fear, shock, and unknowing pain. This was her son. She was his mother. This was his mother. And he was her son. And neither of them could say a thing, or move, or touch each other. Not that they didn’t want to, but they were in such a state of mental pain that that was all they could do. Just stand there and stare straight ahead with a deep face of nothingness.
“You’re too red to work here.” Abigail was warming up to me. She had called me a conceded bitch the day before. Thus far she had had twelve elector shock therapy treatments. I found out she was open to doing the electic so felt a little better about the whole thing. Rico was thrilled to be moving out of the hospital to La Casa.
“Whooo, hooo.” He scurried down the hall way his arms jumping up and down in the air in pure delight. Have you seen the shit hole you are about to live in? I suppose it’s better having a moment of fun before you entered hell and even better to enjoy the idea of moving on then being restrained against your will to a place you didn’t know. He ran by Oni. I found out about Oni earlier that day in rounds. Oni was catatonic.
"Catatonia is a syndrome of psychic and motoric-disturbances. In the current Diagnostic and Statistical Manual of Mental Disorders published by the American Psychiatric Association (DSM-IV) it is not recognized as a separate disorder, but is associated with psychiatric conditions such as schizophrenia (catatonic type), bipolar disorder, post-traumatic stress disorder, depression and other mental disorders, as well as drug abuse and/or overdose."
In other words, we are not really sure what the fuck it is. Since the doctors weren't totally sure where catatonic surfaced from or were it fell on the desert of crazy, Oni was a case study for us to try and learn from. We walked into the hall and he was standing still with one arm straight out in front of him and the other by his side.
“Hi, Oni. Can we talk to you for a moment?” Nothing.
“This is our team of doctors, nurses and social workers and we would like to ask you a few questions.” Nothing.
“Do you know why you are here?” He made an eating motion. He was fiercely skinny and hadn’t had anything but an orange in the last two days. He also had long thick nails but that was the lease of his worries.
“Can I move your arm?” Dr. Mask moved his arm to the side and Oni left it there like a diving board.
“Can I touch your forehead?” Before Mask could glean the surface of his skin, Oni was on the ground on all fours staring straight ahead like a dog staring at a rat he’s about to pounce.
“Ok, well not now. We’ll come back another time.”
Later that day, I walked to my hole and Oni’s mother was standing there, in the hallway, staring in disbelief at Oni’s strange postures. Her face was white and her mouth was agape like she was staring at a terrible thing. She was still. He was still, then he walked over to the wall and starting playing his imaginary piano next to the wall.
“Come on Oni, don’t you want to watch TV with your mother?” The nurses were trying to get him to spend some quality time with his mom in the common room, but he just stood there. Then he walked over to his bed and lied down. A nurse took the pillow out from under his head to try and get him up and his head didn’t move. It stayed there floating in the air sideways like he was still resting on the pillow. He didn’t like to be touched and his mother had not moved since she got there. Her face was stuck in stone and her puffy cheeks were now gray. I walked away and went to my hole to do some paper work. Later when I walked back down the hall, I saw him in a catchers stance near the floor. His mom was still stone but her eyes were blood shot as the tears seemed to rake her eyeballs and never seemed to stream her face. Maybe if she blinked her tears would get a break and pour out of her eyes but they were still, stoned, in a state of utter fear, shock, and unknowing pain. This was her son. She was his mother. This was his mother. And he was her son. And neither of them could say a thing, or move, or touch each other. Not that they didn’t want to, but they were in such a state of mental pain that that was all they could do. Just stand there and stare straight ahead with a deep face of nothingness.
Thursday, July 24, 2008
The IMD (Institution for the Mental Disease)
July 14, 2008
THE IMD’s – IT WAS A SMELLY FIELD TRIP
It was like a race track for the mentally deranged. Around and around and around they would go, walking in a loop around the facility waiting for a cigarette break. It was a smelly field trip. I sat in on one of the treatment rounds which occurred every three months for the inmates. Kitty. She had a nice long strand of pearls and serious issues about seeing the dentist.
“If it doesn’t feel good, it ain’t good.” Her go to reason for not wanting to have her teeth checked out. Then there was Sue. She was a quiet Asian woman with a pink floral top. She had a restraining order for stalking a guy she was determined to marry so she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Next was Archie. Archie was a black man with twisted dreads that shot out of his head like antennas. The psychologist went through the list of questions and people responded on a scale in their own idea, or experience with the individual: 1) how is he physically, 2; intellectual function, 3, 2; response to stress, 3; thought process, 4; social interest, 4, 3, 3. The numbers seemed to be tossed out into the air based on people’s moods at the time. Those numbers determined whether or not the jailed could move onto another racetrack that may have some outdoor space.
“Do you know the names of your meds?”
“I don’t know.” Archie was providing honest answers to the panel of queries.
“You’re taking …….” She ripped off about eight or nine different meds.
“Do you like the food here?” The cooking department was eager to hear if his culinary skills were up to par.
“No.”
“You are 6’0” so you should weigh about…”
“I was 6’9” when I came from prison.” The cook ignored his response and continued.
“When you go to the canteen get something healthy.”
“I only have a dollar.” The table was ready to wrap up the update.
“How are you going to get discharged?”
“Right now I’m finding myself. I’m not getting any younger; I got kids you know. I have a rap label and the meds are messing with my thinking.”
“Ok, thanks, goodbye.”
And he was out and the final contestant took a seat. Megan. She had a black shirt with shiny florescent indiscernible images sprinkled randomly across her chest.
“We see here that you have been taking a lot of Motrin.”
“I have a dislocated shoulder.”
“Then you will need to see a doctor.”
“No doctor. I don’t want any cat scan on my shoulder.”
“You can’t keep taking Motrin without a doctor evaluation.”
“We’ll see. We’ll see.” She was adamant and there was no chance for her to bend. The cook stepped in.
“Do you like the food here?”
“Since I’ve been the vice president I think it’s a lot better. I heard people say they want steak which doesn’t make any sense because we have no knife. People here not have their heads on right enough to discuss their opinions.”
And so it goes. They’ll see her in another three months. Maybe by then she’ll be president of whatever club discusses the lack of steak.
July 16, 2008
I’d rather be in a dog kennel than at an IMD. And I’d rather be acute than about to enter the pavement after living in a dingy dollhouse establishment with the curtains laying low and a line of chairs to sit on with him or her next to you or do they have assigned seating at 2:45 in the afternoon when I happen to drop by and they are there doing nothing, in terribleness. Nothingness at least is nothing but terribleness is terrible.
I visited the sub acute facilities today and they have a pool, TV, space, a less putrid stench. And the “wall” that people go AWOL over is easier than a kid trying to get over a pool gate to go for a swim when he will most definitely drown. It is all ass backwards. If you are bad off, and “pace too much” you get to be in a wing with lots of open space. Open space versus a hallway to walk down until you round a corner to the next one, then are back at the beginning and it has been twenty three times so far this hour.
THE IMD’s – IT WAS A SMELLY FIELD TRIP
It was like a race track for the mentally deranged. Around and around and around they would go, walking in a loop around the facility waiting for a cigarette break. It was a smelly field trip. I sat in on one of the treatment rounds which occurred every three months for the inmates. Kitty. She had a nice long strand of pearls and serious issues about seeing the dentist.
“If it doesn’t feel good, it ain’t good.” Her go to reason for not wanting to have her teeth checked out. Then there was Sue. She was a quiet Asian woman with a pink floral top. She had a restraining order for stalking a guy she was determined to marry so she wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. Next was Archie. Archie was a black man with twisted dreads that shot out of his head like antennas. The psychologist went through the list of questions and people responded on a scale in their own idea, or experience with the individual: 1) how is he physically, 2; intellectual function, 3, 2; response to stress, 3; thought process, 4; social interest, 4, 3, 3. The numbers seemed to be tossed out into the air based on people’s moods at the time. Those numbers determined whether or not the jailed could move onto another racetrack that may have some outdoor space.
“Do you know the names of your meds?”
“I don’t know.” Archie was providing honest answers to the panel of queries.
“You’re taking …….” She ripped off about eight or nine different meds.
“Do you like the food here?” The cooking department was eager to hear if his culinary skills were up to par.
“No.”
“You are 6’0” so you should weigh about…”
“I was 6’9” when I came from prison.” The cook ignored his response and continued.
“When you go to the canteen get something healthy.”
“I only have a dollar.” The table was ready to wrap up the update.
“How are you going to get discharged?”
“Right now I’m finding myself. I’m not getting any younger; I got kids you know. I have a rap label and the meds are messing with my thinking.”
“Ok, thanks, goodbye.”
And he was out and the final contestant took a seat. Megan. She had a black shirt with shiny florescent indiscernible images sprinkled randomly across her chest.
“We see here that you have been taking a lot of Motrin.”
“I have a dislocated shoulder.”
“Then you will need to see a doctor.”
“No doctor. I don’t want any cat scan on my shoulder.”
“You can’t keep taking Motrin without a doctor evaluation.”
“We’ll see. We’ll see.” She was adamant and there was no chance for her to bend. The cook stepped in.
“Do you like the food here?”
“Since I’ve been the vice president I think it’s a lot better. I heard people say they want steak which doesn’t make any sense because we have no knife. People here not have their heads on right enough to discuss their opinions.”
And so it goes. They’ll see her in another three months. Maybe by then she’ll be president of whatever club discusses the lack of steak.
July 16, 2008
I’d rather be in a dog kennel than at an IMD. And I’d rather be acute than about to enter the pavement after living in a dingy dollhouse establishment with the curtains laying low and a line of chairs to sit on with him or her next to you or do they have assigned seating at 2:45 in the afternoon when I happen to drop by and they are there doing nothing, in terribleness. Nothingness at least is nothing but terribleness is terrible.
I visited the sub acute facilities today and they have a pool, TV, space, a less putrid stench. And the “wall” that people go AWOL over is easier than a kid trying to get over a pool gate to go for a swim when he will most definitely drown. It is all ass backwards. If you are bad off, and “pace too much” you get to be in a wing with lots of open space. Open space versus a hallway to walk down until you round a corner to the next one, then are back at the beginning and it has been twenty three times so far this hour.
Saturday, July 12, 2008
INSIDE THE INSANE - WEEK TWO
WEEK TWO
July 7, 2008
It’s week two and I haven’t felt the need to puke, which is good. I carefully turned by head in the halls to see if anyone was in the secluded cell and, thankfully, no one remained.
“Where is that woman from last week?”
“Abigail? I don’t know. She’s around.” Rebecca said like it’s Tuesday. Rebecca was a five foot nothing immigrant from Nicaragua whose family came to this county with nothing. She had a masters in social work and psychology and seemed to have seen it all.
“Oh.” I really didn’t want to know what Abigail was “around” so was relieved a bit.
“Becca, can I go home now?”
It was the same guy with the same shirt and the same tormented face with the same line.
“I put the paperwork in.” Rebecca said as she opened the door to the offices and closed him off.
“Here is your desk.” She pointed to a nightstand with a foot of space for my notebook.
“Robin sits here.” I was to share the hole with another social worker.
“She’s kinda stupid.”
“Great.”
We did some paperwork and then Rebecca went to visit Kimberely to see where she wanted to live in a voluntary facility.
“I can’t be near my mother. I will try and kill her and go at her with a knife if I’m with her.” You got to respect her honesty and so she settled on a facility on the other side of her demon.
July 8, 2008
Sang Pak. She was Asian. She was bipolar with a history of hyper sexuality. She was also a prostitute, twenty three years old, and was raped.
She walked along the side of the hallway and Rebecca approached her to talk to her about going to an IMD.
“Sang, hi, I’m Rebeca.” She stopped suddenly.
“Hi.”
“This is Erica.”
“Hi, how are you?” I smiled.
“I don’t know, good, I don’t know what to say.” She was nervous to answer how are you cause somewhere along the line it wasn’t said right and now was on the bench of uncertainty.
She stamped her right foot every few seconds and was my first Asian bipolar encounter, or Asian anything.
July 10, 2008
“Lamar. What are we going to do about Lamar? Any ideas?”
“We can open the door and maybe he’ll walk out.” The rounds were on the light side today, yet, beneath that remark was the truth that after all the treatment in the world sometimes you just don’t know what to do with a patient.
As a medical case worker it is my job to meet with the staff: doctors, nurses, social workers, and randoms that I had no idea what they did, and gather as much information about a patient possible to present them to the gatekeepers to find the right place for them on the totem pole of incarceration. It seemed like too much responsibility for someone like me, someone with zero medical experience. I was the one who read the chart, wrote a synopsis and then pass it over to the gatekeepers. It seemed like a go between job but so much seemed to appear between the cracks that could mean someone sits on a waiting list for months or gets in in a week. It all seemed so important yet at the hospital level they have one purpose: ascertain the client and get them stable enough so they can move them out, then pass them off to the next branch of the tree. I was the monkey swinging from branch to branch passing on information and who the hell trusts a monkey with information that help house a patient. Let me explain. Politically the hospital wants their patients out so the social workers job is to facilitate this so they tell me what they need to say and want me to hear to make sure this happens so if a patient is acute they may spin a tiny lie and say they aren’t. Yet I know from the rounds that the doctor says something else. So what I choose to write based on crossing input swings through the trees and files fall here and there leaving a MID with 13 beds open and waiting to be filled and no one in them cause the files are on the forest floor.
I sat in the common room while Rebecca spoke with a client about going to an FSP. A disheveled black man rolled himself into the room in a wheel chair. He had a dirty Afro, slouched shoulders and a mean frown across his face.
“Hi.” I was being friendly.
“Hi. I’m Lamar.” I recalled the meeting earlier that day and how Lamar was a dead end case and wondered why.
“How are you?”
“I’m pissed. I had a clean white shirt in my locket to wear outside and they take it. These assholes hate me.”
“I’m sure they don’t hate you. They are trying to help you.” I felt so stupid saying cause if I were him I could give a fuck if anyone was trying to help me when I just wanted my shirt to go outside.
“No. They assholes.”
I let it go.
July 7, 2008
It’s week two and I haven’t felt the need to puke, which is good. I carefully turned by head in the halls to see if anyone was in the secluded cell and, thankfully, no one remained.
“Where is that woman from last week?”
“Abigail? I don’t know. She’s around.” Rebecca said like it’s Tuesday. Rebecca was a five foot nothing immigrant from Nicaragua whose family came to this county with nothing. She had a masters in social work and psychology and seemed to have seen it all.
“Oh.” I really didn’t want to know what Abigail was “around” so was relieved a bit.
“Becca, can I go home now?”
It was the same guy with the same shirt and the same tormented face with the same line.
“I put the paperwork in.” Rebecca said as she opened the door to the offices and closed him off.
“Here is your desk.” She pointed to a nightstand with a foot of space for my notebook.
“Robin sits here.” I was to share the hole with another social worker.
“She’s kinda stupid.”
“Great.”
We did some paperwork and then Rebecca went to visit Kimberely to see where she wanted to live in a voluntary facility.
“I can’t be near my mother. I will try and kill her and go at her with a knife if I’m with her.” You got to respect her honesty and so she settled on a facility on the other side of her demon.
July 8, 2008
Sang Pak. She was Asian. She was bipolar with a history of hyper sexuality. She was also a prostitute, twenty three years old, and was raped.
She walked along the side of the hallway and Rebecca approached her to talk to her about going to an IMD.
“Sang, hi, I’m Rebeca.” She stopped suddenly.
“Hi.”
“This is Erica.”
“Hi, how are you?” I smiled.
“I don’t know, good, I don’t know what to say.” She was nervous to answer how are you cause somewhere along the line it wasn’t said right and now was on the bench of uncertainty.
She stamped her right foot every few seconds and was my first Asian bipolar encounter, or Asian anything.
July 10, 2008
“Lamar. What are we going to do about Lamar? Any ideas?”
“We can open the door and maybe he’ll walk out.” The rounds were on the light side today, yet, beneath that remark was the truth that after all the treatment in the world sometimes you just don’t know what to do with a patient.
As a medical case worker it is my job to meet with the staff: doctors, nurses, social workers, and randoms that I had no idea what they did, and gather as much information about a patient possible to present them to the gatekeepers to find the right place for them on the totem pole of incarceration. It seemed like too much responsibility for someone like me, someone with zero medical experience. I was the one who read the chart, wrote a synopsis and then pass it over to the gatekeepers. It seemed like a go between job but so much seemed to appear between the cracks that could mean someone sits on a waiting list for months or gets in in a week. It all seemed so important yet at the hospital level they have one purpose: ascertain the client and get them stable enough so they can move them out, then pass them off to the next branch of the tree. I was the monkey swinging from branch to branch passing on information and who the hell trusts a monkey with information that help house a patient. Let me explain. Politically the hospital wants their patients out so the social workers job is to facilitate this so they tell me what they need to say and want me to hear to make sure this happens so if a patient is acute they may spin a tiny lie and say they aren’t. Yet I know from the rounds that the doctor says something else. So what I choose to write based on crossing input swings through the trees and files fall here and there leaving a MID with 13 beds open and waiting to be filled and no one in them cause the files are on the forest floor.
I sat in the common room while Rebecca spoke with a client about going to an FSP. A disheveled black man rolled himself into the room in a wheel chair. He had a dirty Afro, slouched shoulders and a mean frown across his face.
“Hi.” I was being friendly.
“Hi. I’m Lamar.” I recalled the meeting earlier that day and how Lamar was a dead end case and wondered why.
“How are you?”
“I’m pissed. I had a clean white shirt in my locket to wear outside and they take it. These assholes hate me.”
“I’m sure they don’t hate you. They are trying to help you.” I felt so stupid saying cause if I were him I could give a fuck if anyone was trying to help me when I just wanted my shirt to go outside.
“No. They assholes.”
I let it go.
Monday, July 7, 2008
INSIDE THE INSANE - GREETINGS FROM AN INSANE ASYLUM - Social Worker 101
July 2, 2008
It was like going through an earthquake all fucking day. I walked into the dungeon with locked doors every few feet and that hospital smell that seeps into your fingers and nests in your fingernails and no matter how much you try you can’t shake the thought that you are going to have to get used to that smell. That greasy sick been in bed way to long with no caress soap stench that made my empty stomach find itself vomit to suppress as much as the look of white fear on my shockwave face.
I have to tell you I didn’t expect to be close to crazy, and I mean crazy unlike any crazy I’ve ever slipped as a normal word that people use without any consideration to the real meaning until it’s walking down a hall with slice marks on the neck or walking in a room and it’s standing in a walking circle mumbling God only knows, for real, what while you kneel down to speak to a new client that tried to kill her mother and needs to hear her options for her next move out of the hospital. It’s something like that.
I think my white face turned to shaking hands when I walked by a woman in a room in solitary confinement standing watching a wall then moments later I heard a bang and a raucous exploded as she tore off her clothes and smeared shit on herself.
The day stared out peaceful. I sat in a meeting with table of doctors, interns, psychiatrists, social workers and myself. We went through all fourteen clients and spoke about their current status. Dr. S, the kind of guy you want to be friends with cause he’s soft and sarcastic, sat at the head when the alarm went off like a fire bell.
“Erica, did you lean on the alarm?” He smiled and I sat up real straight without realizing he was kidding. There was an episode in the hallway that required the alarm for assistance. That bell must have been used two weeks ago when a nurse was pulled into a room by a 300 pound client., why are they called clients? I have no fuckin idea, and thrown on the floor to be raped and barely escaped thanks to that alarm. She’s now at home resting for a few weeks cause she’s dealing with shock. That’s another type of earthquake.
July 3, 2008
Is it crazy or a mix of coming out of the wound and having your witchcraft parents sexually abuse you and so you’re left with consent ional sex with your sister and then a web for a wrist of white lines to remind you that at 20 you did that to yourself.
“I want to go and have a life. I want a job.”
“Well we think it’s better for you not to be in your old environment cause it may not be healthy for you.” Aka you were in a gang and we don’t want you to return to that place.
And being in a gang infested neighborhood never even crossed his mind as a sat back.
“I just need to be away from my family.”
And that is why family makes wounds that we heal and the person continues to suffer cause family is all.
“Ok." We can find a facility in Hawthorne for you.”
“Ok. Sounds good.”
He nods and his plastic rosary sits on a thread across his shirt next to his nightstand with two magazines.
And the nurse walks in a panic looking for her pen that she can’t find.
“Did you see my green pen? I think I dropped it.”
I’m thinking why is she ruffling through his closet and clothes and magazine drawer, it’s an invasion of privacy.
And only now stop and think that maybe a pen was hazardous. But I thought he was safe and ready to build a new life for himself away from his white scars when she was adamant to find her pen. She said it was green and she really needed it. I think she had a pen that she loved and lost it, not that she was afraid he had it and would hurt himself. He was on his way to making a life for himself and I am sure that will be the case. Senor Cross across his neck.
I walked into this hard walled world thinking it was something never even gave a brief moment to think about and now, it’s beyond putting on my socks or climbing a sand dun, however, somehow I know I am here. I am here and have a special spirit or gift or ability or whatever you want to call it, to reach these people inside their eyes of no one knows me; I don’t know myself; but that connection between not knowing and having a person that is not knowing but both have a thread of recognition of humanity, a brief moment of yes. Yes. That is what I have to offer and have for these souls that wander in the halls alone in their disheveled hair and shrunk shoulders among doctors and nurses and others that are just passersby. Inside there is something not them and them more than the others and That is what I will find and seek out to the best of my mind.
It’s day two and the shock and fear factor is not physically showing itself in the draining of blood from my face, or slow back peddling from the bed with Nicole quiet and peaceful hearing about the outreach program while the other guy walks in circles rambling. And I am fascinated that after a couple days I am already building a tolerance to I still don’t have a term for it, and wonder when or why this situation will become normalcy so that only those inside the ward know how to deal and the rest of the world sits at their desk and eats cheese pastries or yells in their blue tooth plastic piece of shit to yell non sense crap into the other end of that poor recipient. What’s the difference? One is living large on a psycho scale mixed with environmental toxins and find themselves in a square hall wandering around, and the guy on the phone never knows chronic anything yet lives a life on chronic nonetheless. Or willingness of not knowing paralysis of the sprit that rises beneath all psychotically disorders and environmental bullshit to be aware, and want to be something, someone other than now.
It takes guts to stay in a locked facility and mean it, voluntarily, than a car filled with false notion of a life void of meaning than love for life that transcends all obstacles.
I’d rather not be in an institute so help me God. But I’d rather not be in a car alone with myself void of reasoning or thoughts for something better, for more than I am now. People ride in their bluetooth vehicles spating bullshit malarkey to assholes on the phone and never stop to think if what they are doing really matters. If it’s what they want to do or become or wake up to. They just do cause it’s all they know or wanted. Fernando knows what he knows and never had the chance to know what he wanted. And now he has a chance to dream about what he wants, he doesn’t know it, which is grand disadvantage, but at least he knows what he wants and is ready to make it happen.
I started to pray to my grandfather’s spirit. He worked, lived, in a hospital delivering babies so much that he holds the record for the most babies delivered in a hospital since WW2. So I called out to him for the ability to smell the tiles and walk by bodies with uniforms and an elevator that overruns itself then stops with a drop so much that anyone on the brink of I can not deal may just barf right about now. And I felt the yearning to feel something was enough to walk forward and swallow fresh without a cold palm or deep bowl eruptions. Calling on a dead one that you never knew to love, but do regardless, does the job. He was something there for me to focus on, and it made me breathe, which was the hardest out of all the hard things to do that first day. Breathing was Mount Sinai.
He tried to cut off his head with a large cash on his neck cause he thought he gave aids to his wife an unborn child cause he had sex with two prostitutes. And THAT was the worst of his worries. Not the gash on his neck or the thoughts to kill himself out of harsh guilt over two prostitutes. Why is it that men can sleep with a hundred prostitutes and never take a deep breath of reflection and another has two acts of sex and tries to decapitate themselves?
Deep different confeludid systems of the brain i guess.
It was like going through an earthquake all fucking day. I walked into the dungeon with locked doors every few feet and that hospital smell that seeps into your fingers and nests in your fingernails and no matter how much you try you can’t shake the thought that you are going to have to get used to that smell. That greasy sick been in bed way to long with no caress soap stench that made my empty stomach find itself vomit to suppress as much as the look of white fear on my shockwave face.
I have to tell you I didn’t expect to be close to crazy, and I mean crazy unlike any crazy I’ve ever slipped as a normal word that people use without any consideration to the real meaning until it’s walking down a hall with slice marks on the neck or walking in a room and it’s standing in a walking circle mumbling God only knows, for real, what while you kneel down to speak to a new client that tried to kill her mother and needs to hear her options for her next move out of the hospital. It’s something like that.
I think my white face turned to shaking hands when I walked by a woman in a room in solitary confinement standing watching a wall then moments later I heard a bang and a raucous exploded as she tore off her clothes and smeared shit on herself.
The day stared out peaceful. I sat in a meeting with table of doctors, interns, psychiatrists, social workers and myself. We went through all fourteen clients and spoke about their current status. Dr. S, the kind of guy you want to be friends with cause he’s soft and sarcastic, sat at the head when the alarm went off like a fire bell.
“Erica, did you lean on the alarm?” He smiled and I sat up real straight without realizing he was kidding. There was an episode in the hallway that required the alarm for assistance. That bell must have been used two weeks ago when a nurse was pulled into a room by a 300 pound client., why are they called clients? I have no fuckin idea, and thrown on the floor to be raped and barely escaped thanks to that alarm. She’s now at home resting for a few weeks cause she’s dealing with shock. That’s another type of earthquake.
July 3, 2008
Is it crazy or a mix of coming out of the wound and having your witchcraft parents sexually abuse you and so you’re left with consent ional sex with your sister and then a web for a wrist of white lines to remind you that at 20 you did that to yourself.
“I want to go and have a life. I want a job.”
“Well we think it’s better for you not to be in your old environment cause it may not be healthy for you.” Aka you were in a gang and we don’t want you to return to that place.
And being in a gang infested neighborhood never even crossed his mind as a sat back.
“I just need to be away from my family.”
And that is why family makes wounds that we heal and the person continues to suffer cause family is all.
“Ok." We can find a facility in Hawthorne for you.”
“Ok. Sounds good.”
He nods and his plastic rosary sits on a thread across his shirt next to his nightstand with two magazines.
And the nurse walks in a panic looking for her pen that she can’t find.
“Did you see my green pen? I think I dropped it.”
I’m thinking why is she ruffling through his closet and clothes and magazine drawer, it’s an invasion of privacy.
And only now stop and think that maybe a pen was hazardous. But I thought he was safe and ready to build a new life for himself away from his white scars when she was adamant to find her pen. She said it was green and she really needed it. I think she had a pen that she loved and lost it, not that she was afraid he had it and would hurt himself. He was on his way to making a life for himself and I am sure that will be the case. Senor Cross across his neck.
I walked into this hard walled world thinking it was something never even gave a brief moment to think about and now, it’s beyond putting on my socks or climbing a sand dun, however, somehow I know I am here. I am here and have a special spirit or gift or ability or whatever you want to call it, to reach these people inside their eyes of no one knows me; I don’t know myself; but that connection between not knowing and having a person that is not knowing but both have a thread of recognition of humanity, a brief moment of yes. Yes. That is what I have to offer and have for these souls that wander in the halls alone in their disheveled hair and shrunk shoulders among doctors and nurses and others that are just passersby. Inside there is something not them and them more than the others and That is what I will find and seek out to the best of my mind.
It’s day two and the shock and fear factor is not physically showing itself in the draining of blood from my face, or slow back peddling from the bed with Nicole quiet and peaceful hearing about the outreach program while the other guy walks in circles rambling. And I am fascinated that after a couple days I am already building a tolerance to I still don’t have a term for it, and wonder when or why this situation will become normalcy so that only those inside the ward know how to deal and the rest of the world sits at their desk and eats cheese pastries or yells in their blue tooth plastic piece of shit to yell non sense crap into the other end of that poor recipient. What’s the difference? One is living large on a psycho scale mixed with environmental toxins and find themselves in a square hall wandering around, and the guy on the phone never knows chronic anything yet lives a life on chronic nonetheless. Or willingness of not knowing paralysis of the sprit that rises beneath all psychotically disorders and environmental bullshit to be aware, and want to be something, someone other than now.
It takes guts to stay in a locked facility and mean it, voluntarily, than a car filled with false notion of a life void of meaning than love for life that transcends all obstacles.
I’d rather not be in an institute so help me God. But I’d rather not be in a car alone with myself void of reasoning or thoughts for something better, for more than I am now. People ride in their bluetooth vehicles spating bullshit malarkey to assholes on the phone and never stop to think if what they are doing really matters. If it’s what they want to do or become or wake up to. They just do cause it’s all they know or wanted. Fernando knows what he knows and never had the chance to know what he wanted. And now he has a chance to dream about what he wants, he doesn’t know it, which is grand disadvantage, but at least he knows what he wants and is ready to make it happen.
I started to pray to my grandfather’s spirit. He worked, lived, in a hospital delivering babies so much that he holds the record for the most babies delivered in a hospital since WW2. So I called out to him for the ability to smell the tiles and walk by bodies with uniforms and an elevator that overruns itself then stops with a drop so much that anyone on the brink of I can not deal may just barf right about now. And I felt the yearning to feel something was enough to walk forward and swallow fresh without a cold palm or deep bowl eruptions. Calling on a dead one that you never knew to love, but do regardless, does the job. He was something there for me to focus on, and it made me breathe, which was the hardest out of all the hard things to do that first day. Breathing was Mount Sinai.
He tried to cut off his head with a large cash on his neck cause he thought he gave aids to his wife an unborn child cause he had sex with two prostitutes. And THAT was the worst of his worries. Not the gash on his neck or the thoughts to kill himself out of harsh guilt over two prostitutes. Why is it that men can sleep with a hundred prostitutes and never take a deep breath of reflection and another has two acts of sex and tries to decapitate themselves?
Deep different confeludid systems of the brain i guess.
Thursday, May 1, 2008
EXCERPT FROM A WAITRESS WITH NO SKILLS
CHAPTER: FIRST DAY
Yes I spilled a whole glass of ice with dirty martini at the bottom of the glass all over her back and floor, crashing to the ground, ice spinning out onto the floor all over the surrounding tables. They left me a large tip.
The restaurant goers were sat in my section and they smiled at my inability to know when to take the menu, or how to take their order with a glass trey in my left hand. But at least they showed mercy.
It wasn't until the fat ladies sat down and watched me place their wine glasses down and deal with putting the tray inside my armpit and attempt to open the wine, did i realize that i was not myself. I was more fucked up than the first day on any job I ever had that was a “regular job” while my mother asked about my “work.” I opened the wine and the cork chopped off from the top and I pretended everything was fine. They didn't know. Everything was fine until there was cork floating around the surface.
Wine tasting during “the meeting” was new to me since I drink wine, I don't taste it. Anyone can be asked to stand up and recite the ingredients in a dish. They called on one of my only companions in Team Nercy and she was flustered. She cheated on the test, like most people I suppose, and didn't know anything.
I didn't pass the test...had to take the first page over. But ripped out a 100% and made the chef, who didn't have a pen on him, take my fat red sharpie and circle that shit for everyone to see. What else can I do at this moment. I've already been sent home for not having buttons down my black gear. Then sent home a second time for getting a C on my menu test because I didn't know that there was flour, chili flakes, cumin, mustard seed and fennel seed in their bread basket which contains 5 breads. I brought it on. I goggled that shit and came back with Internet ingrediants and blasted out paragraphs that defined the simple words with in depth descriptions of the origin, the multifaceted parts of the plants or meanings behind sauces. No one would knew what was ON. Bo-Ya....turned into a talk after my shift. After the negators spoke and ruled me out as a novice, idiotic lame ass piece of shit served on a shaky platter with a tutorial on wine opening on one table, and a starter and dinner served at the same time on another table. Not to mention the machine, my biggest enemy, starring me down in the face with its boxes of words that lead you to more detailed boxes with wines that are spoken one way and for some reason written in the machine another way. What the fuck is any person supposed to do? Go cry in the closet.
Yes I spilled a whole glass of ice with dirty martini at the bottom of the glass all over her back and floor, crashing to the ground, ice spinning out onto the floor all over the surrounding tables. They left me a large tip.
The restaurant goers were sat in my section and they smiled at my inability to know when to take the menu, or how to take their order with a glass trey in my left hand. But at least they showed mercy.
It wasn't until the fat ladies sat down and watched me place their wine glasses down and deal with putting the tray inside my armpit and attempt to open the wine, did i realize that i was not myself. I was more fucked up than the first day on any job I ever had that was a “regular job” while my mother asked about my “work.” I opened the wine and the cork chopped off from the top and I pretended everything was fine. They didn't know. Everything was fine until there was cork floating around the surface.
Wine tasting during “the meeting” was new to me since I drink wine, I don't taste it. Anyone can be asked to stand up and recite the ingredients in a dish. They called on one of my only companions in Team Nercy and she was flustered. She cheated on the test, like most people I suppose, and didn't know anything.
I didn't pass the test...had to take the first page over. But ripped out a 100% and made the chef, who didn't have a pen on him, take my fat red sharpie and circle that shit for everyone to see. What else can I do at this moment. I've already been sent home for not having buttons down my black gear. Then sent home a second time for getting a C on my menu test because I didn't know that there was flour, chili flakes, cumin, mustard seed and fennel seed in their bread basket which contains 5 breads. I brought it on. I goggled that shit and came back with Internet ingrediants and blasted out paragraphs that defined the simple words with in depth descriptions of the origin, the multifaceted parts of the plants or meanings behind sauces. No one would knew what was ON. Bo-Ya....turned into a talk after my shift. After the negators spoke and ruled me out as a novice, idiotic lame ass piece of shit served on a shaky platter with a tutorial on wine opening on one table, and a starter and dinner served at the same time on another table. Not to mention the machine, my biggest enemy, starring me down in the face with its boxes of words that lead you to more detailed boxes with wines that are spoken one way and for some reason written in the machine another way. What the fuck is any person supposed to do? Go cry in the closet.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
A BRAIN LIKE STALE BREAD
JOURNAL ENTRY – STALE BREAD
I wake up after hours, almost a day, of sleeping and roll from my bed to the chair in my living room. I thought dismantling my TV would keep me from falling into a tvpression but now I only watch my one DVD over and over and over to the point that I hope I’ll come to be over it and get my ass up and out of my apartment. But I don’t. I continue to watch it, and am thankful to have something to watch. My brain is stale bread but not hard. It’s just stale, sitting there on the shelf of my head and flat as a pancake. I have no thoughts, no words, no passion, nothing. I thank God I have no phone calls to return because it gives me a panic attack to have to check my messages to hear someone on the other end wanting to know where I am, what I’ve been “up to.” And I can’t say absolutely nothing because they know. The people left holding onto an absent friend know about me and would think things about my state of mind. I don’t want to burden anyone with my sterile world, but maybe that’s a lie. I don’t want the burden of people knowing and having them think about it, or try and talk to me about it, because no one has any idea what my world is here stuck in my hollow apartment where the only thing keeping me cognate of some relationship to life is my cat. I wish I could just cry and let it all out so I can be done with this. But I can’t. It’s worse. I feel nothing but am sure what with all the personal pressure to stay on top of my mental state, go running, be productive (whatever the hell that means at this point) which is void is a deep internal long cry that has no end. I went to Santa Barbara to the premiere of my friend’s film and drove home with light on my cheeks. I wish I knew what was that thing that made me get up and go. I know i'm scared for myself and the myriad of days and days going by with nothing other than some cheese and a screen. Even preparing my plate of cheese and crackers is doing something that makes me feel alive. So it would be nice to capture whatever made me get in my car and drive in a jar and breath into it when I am scared again. How does fear lead to strength I’ll never know. I was anxious when I was trying to get out of the city mostly because I slept 14 hours and was 6 hours behind my attempt of a schedule. I only spent one night out of the city and actually had someone say I was glowing when I went to my usual local market to get some more cheese. Just that little accomplishment brought some life back into my face.
I wake up after hours, almost a day, of sleeping and roll from my bed to the chair in my living room. I thought dismantling my TV would keep me from falling into a tvpression but now I only watch my one DVD over and over and over to the point that I hope I’ll come to be over it and get my ass up and out of my apartment. But I don’t. I continue to watch it, and am thankful to have something to watch. My brain is stale bread but not hard. It’s just stale, sitting there on the shelf of my head and flat as a pancake. I have no thoughts, no words, no passion, nothing. I thank God I have no phone calls to return because it gives me a panic attack to have to check my messages to hear someone on the other end wanting to know where I am, what I’ve been “up to.” And I can’t say absolutely nothing because they know. The people left holding onto an absent friend know about me and would think things about my state of mind. I don’t want to burden anyone with my sterile world, but maybe that’s a lie. I don’t want the burden of people knowing and having them think about it, or try and talk to me about it, because no one has any idea what my world is here stuck in my hollow apartment where the only thing keeping me cognate of some relationship to life is my cat. I wish I could just cry and let it all out so I can be done with this. But I can’t. It’s worse. I feel nothing but am sure what with all the personal pressure to stay on top of my mental state, go running, be productive (whatever the hell that means at this point) which is void is a deep internal long cry that has no end. I went to Santa Barbara to the premiere of my friend’s film and drove home with light on my cheeks. I wish I knew what was that thing that made me get up and go. I know i'm scared for myself and the myriad of days and days going by with nothing other than some cheese and a screen. Even preparing my plate of cheese and crackers is doing something that makes me feel alive. So it would be nice to capture whatever made me get in my car and drive in a jar and breath into it when I am scared again. How does fear lead to strength I’ll never know. I was anxious when I was trying to get out of the city mostly because I slept 14 hours and was 6 hours behind my attempt of a schedule. I only spent one night out of the city and actually had someone say I was glowing when I went to my usual local market to get some more cheese. Just that little accomplishment brought some life back into my face.
Monday, April 21, 2008
MARIJUANA WHAT....
We baked it, smoked it, boiled it on the stove with butter and poured it onto toast for breakfast. Evan. Simply put, he was hot. I could enter his suite filled with five other roommates, and swim through the haze of bud to find him ripping a bong hit like we were at PCU. What started as a few joints here and there, turned into a daily feast for me to calm the anxious panic of my brain. Plus, there was always the potential that Evan would hook up with me. I would enter the boys’ suite and everyone would chant “Give her her medicine.” They thought I had way too much energy and couldn’t handle my excessive enthusiasm. Bong hits rolled to giant blunts which resulted in munchies which ended in pot brownies. I was a pothead. But it was okay because I never bought it. These guys grew it right there in the closets.
Ecstasy, pot, Valium, booze…there were nights I lost the connection between my body and mind and thought to myself, this is it. I have intoxicated myself with enough escapes and now it is time. I closed my eyes and prayed to God I would return from the complete lost of mind and body. But the world was blank, and I was sure God was pissed.
“One one thousand. Two two thousand. Three three thousand.” Ok, I can still count even though I can’t stand up, or even cry, but I can count. I wanted to die without realizing I was choosing to do so.
Ecstasy, pot, Valium, booze…there were nights I lost the connection between my body and mind and thought to myself, this is it. I have intoxicated myself with enough escapes and now it is time. I closed my eyes and prayed to God I would return from the complete lost of mind and body. But the world was blank, and I was sure God was pissed.
“One one thousand. Two two thousand. Three three thousand.” Ok, I can still count even though I can’t stand up, or even cry, but I can count. I wanted to die without realizing I was choosing to do so.
Dog Food For Breakfast
I had dog food this morning in the pantry of my best friends nutri system house. I opened the cabinet and was looking for a dying animal bleeding in the seam so I could rough myself up to it, and was faced with pockets of nutri system foods and as I wandered in the shelves picked up a bag of “turkey jerks” which for any person sitting on a bus, or photocopying something to send would do, just starting munching on the turkey jerky star crafted food, and keep chewing for they were distracted. Why? Cause they didn’t see anything to eat or any food to indulge in, so at that moment, took a left hand approach to it, and only then, do they realize they are chewing on dog treats. SICK.
And then sealed the bag up for the next person, dog, I mean.
And then sealed the bag up for the next person, dog, I mean.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Pain without Plot
At least when you have pain you know it. You know why. You feel it ripe in the pores because you were dumped or told your mothers dying from altmezeirs. But when you don’t have a frame of reference for pain, a reason for it, it sucks. It makes the pain that more difficult because you don’t have a place to point to, or make known. Pain without plot is the worse pain of all.
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
CAN I SEE YOUR BUSH - SEXUAL HARASSMENT FOR BREAKFAST
The Agency Continued...
Chip, a partner, flew into work coked out of his hairy chest. He pulled up his shirt, pounded on his torso and demanded me to feel his rocks.
"Ah, no thanks Chip, I'm good."
I stared straight at my computer screen, pretending to type an email. He hurried off only to return moments later.
"Can i see your bush?"
"Ah....no."
The fun thing is it didn't even phase me. I continued to sit there "working" and felt lucky that I wasn't the mailroom girl that was making copies last week when another partner came from behind and rubbed his dirty dick up her skirt.
Now, THAT i would not be able to swallow. Verbal sayings is one thing, physical grinding on an ass is another.
Chip, a partner, flew into work coked out of his hairy chest. He pulled up his shirt, pounded on his torso and demanded me to feel his rocks.
"Ah, no thanks Chip, I'm good."
I stared straight at my computer screen, pretending to type an email. He hurried off only to return moments later.
"Can i see your bush?"
"Ah....no."
The fun thing is it didn't even phase me. I continued to sit there "working" and felt lucky that I wasn't the mailroom girl that was making copies last week when another partner came from behind and rubbed his dirty dick up her skirt.
Now, THAT i would not be able to swallow. Verbal sayings is one thing, physical grinding on an ass is another.
THE AGENCY - AN ASSISTANT ON A DESK - BEVERLY HILLS
The Agency - In Beverly HIlls, CA.
I applied to all the agencies in town. Took a few interviews and landed myself on an agents desk at a small boutique for television writers and directors. And the HELL begins.
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”…..you wonder what an agent does all day???…….they play phone tag all over town. When you live and die on a phone call you got problems and let me tell you..AGENTS HAVE PROBLEMS. Their problem begins and ends with one word: boredom. An agent needs to work really hard during staffing season (Feb-May) to get their clients jobs and then, once their clients are staffed (hopefully) at that point they sit on their ass the rest of the year getting 10% of their clients hard work every time they stepped for in an office. It’s not a bad life if you don’t mind being bored or licking assholes to get your clients on a show. The partners of the agency I worked for basically rolled into work at 11 am, read the trades, then jetted out of dodge at 1pm. There is a difference between working in a small agency versus a large agency. It is much easier to work toward a millionaire lifestyle in a smaller agency because you spend less time watching your back. At a larger agency like ICM, CAA, William Morris etc…..you spend most of your time picking off other people’s clients, not only from other agencies, but internally as well. But don’t get me wrong. Bad behavior happens in all agencies whether you are the big cheese or not. Agents will suck dicks and lick tits regardless.
I lasted an entire year on that desk. I cried. I swallowed my pride. There was lots of blood, sweat and tears and similar psychological damages done like seen in movies like ‘Swimming with Sharks’. My boss was a first class idiot with several communication problems. Knowing I wanted to be a writer the day he hired me, he stated, “I will not read any of your material for at least one year.” That was a good way to keep me on the desk since after all his previous assistants only lasted a few weeks before quitting. I was ready to hold out for six months. Six months dragged by and I got the courage to ask him to read my material. I handed him my 0600 to take home for the weekend. I found it later the following week in his trashcan with a long dark coffee stain on the back. He never read it. He never even opened the cover but discarded it along with his coffee. The best part is watching a lying swine that you hear lie on the phone all day long try to lie to your face.
“Did you get a chance to read my script?”
“I’ve been really busy. Do you have another copy of it?
“Why?”
“I left it at home.”
I pulled it out of his trash and tossed it on his desk.
“What’s wrong with this copy?”
He cracked a smile like I was supposed to find his lying bullshit face funny. I snatched up the script and toss it back in the trash.
“Forget it.”
He picked it up as if he really cared. I grabbed it and took it away and he still pretended to care.
“Hey, I’ll read it just not now.”
“FORGET IT!”
Why the fuck would I let some asshole idiot read my work. I felt better knowing that idiots like my boss lose out on potential scripts all the time cause they are too fuckin lazy and the followers of the town. Not innovators, FOLLOWERS.
When your boss is an idiot and he knows that you are smarter than he’ll ever be, that’s never good; your job only gets more difficult. And I am not talking about dealing with the BS that comes along with head cases that are insecure about their intelligence and have an ego the size of Manhattan. I am talking about how much more work you potentially make for yourself. A typical email from my boss would read as follows:
Re: Sub
As discsdfsdf……enclsoesadfdfds
Stevenson CURB
Blurb
McKinney SEX
Blsursdfsd………
I look..sdfsdfsdf.
Yes, I can read hieroglyphics along with your room temperature mind. That bowl full of gibberish translates into the following cover letter prepared by me.
Dear Lisa,
As discussed, enclosed please find material from the following writers:
John Stevenson Spec, CURB YOUR ENTHUSIASM
John was a story editor on BERNIE MAC. He is bright, funny and a very hard worker.
Debbie McKinney Spec, SEX AND THE CITY
Debbie was a staff writer on THE FAMILY GUY. Additionally, she recently sold a feature to Miramax called CLUBBER.
I look forward to your thoughts.
Best regards,
ASSHOLE
I learned the hard way how not to step on tiny balls couples with a shriveled dick. If you find outright wrong plain English AKA serious grammatical errors along with severe typos…don’t “suggest” or point out anything. Stay low and drive hard. The job is to make your boss look good. I was tired of making him look good. I was tired of picking up the phone in my usual deep voice and hearing his girlfriend scream “Don’t answer my baby’s phone in that sexy voice!!” No joke. I was tired of retrieving twenty messages in the morning like this: “Erica….ah…..put on the phone sheet that I want to call…..God I can’t remember.” CLICK. Next message: “I want to call……” CLICK Next message: “Now I remember, I want to call Jordan Kingston at the WB and……” CLICK. Next, message: I remember now, Jordan Levin at the WB (I got that already asshole) and who is the name of that girl I went to drinks with a few weeks ago…Jamie, Lisa or something…I don’t know. Try and track her down for me. I lost her number. CLICK Next message: “And, I forgot to tell you please clean up my desk. It’s gotten kinda messy these past few days.” CLICK. And that is considered a good message day. Need I say more?
I applied to all the agencies in town. Took a few interviews and landed myself on an agents desk at a small boutique for television writers and directors. And the HELL begins.
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”
“Jim Landale’s office.”…..you wonder what an agent does all day???…….they play phone tag all over town. When you live and die on a phone call you got problems and let me tell you..AGENTS HAVE PROBLEMS. Their problem begins and ends with one word: boredom. An agent needs to work really hard during staffing season (Feb-May) to get their clients jobs and then, once their clients are staffed (hopefully) at that point they sit on their ass the rest of the year getting 10% of their clients hard work every time they stepped for in an office. It’s not a bad life if you don’t mind being bored or licking assholes to get your clients on a show. The partners of the agency I worked for basically rolled into work at 11 am, read the trades, then jetted out of dodge at 1pm. There is a difference between working in a small agency versus a large agency. It is much easier to work toward a millionaire lifestyle in a smaller agency because you spend less time watching your back. At a larger agency like ICM, CAA, William Morris etc…..you spend most of your time picking off other people’s clients, not only from other agencies, but internally as well. But don’t get me wrong. Bad behavior happens in all agencies whether you are the big cheese or not. Agents will suck dicks and lick tits regardless.
I lasted an entire year on that desk. I cried. I swallowed my pride. There was lots of blood, sweat and tears and similar psychological damages done like seen in movies like ‘Swimming with Sharks’. My boss was a first class idiot with several communication problems. Knowing I wanted to be a writer the day he hired me, he stated, “I will not read any of your material for at least one year.” That was a good way to keep me on the desk since after all his previous assistants only lasted a few weeks before quitting. I was ready to hold out for six months. Six months dragged by and I got the courage to ask him to read my material. I handed him my 0600 to take home for the weekend. I found it later the following week in his trashcan with a long dark coffee stain on the back. He never read it. He never even opened the cover but discarded it along with his coffee. The best part is watching a lying swine that you hear lie on the phone all day long try to lie to your face.
“Did you get a chance to read my script?”
“I’ve been really busy. Do you have another copy of it?
“Why?”
“I left it at home.”
I pulled it out of his trash and tossed it on his desk.
“What’s wrong with this copy?”
He cracked a smile like I was supposed to find his lying bullshit face funny. I snatched up the script and toss it back in the trash.
“Forget it.”
He picked it up as if he really cared. I grabbed it and took it away and he still pretended to care.
“Hey, I’ll read it just not now.”
“FORGET IT!”
Why the fuck would I let some asshole idiot read my work. I felt better knowing that idiots like my boss lose out on potential scripts all the time cause they are too fuckin lazy and the followers of the town. Not innovators, FOLLOWERS.
When your boss is an idiot and he knows that you are smarter than he’ll ever be, that’s never good; your job only gets more difficult. And I am not talking about dealing with the BS that comes along with head cases that are insecure about their intelligence and have an ego the size of Manhattan. I am talking about how much more work you potentially make for yourself. A typical email from my boss would read as follows:
Re: Sub
As discsdfsdf……enclsoesadfdfds
Stevenson CURB
Blurb
McKinney SEX
Blsursdfsd………
I look..sdfsdfsdf.
Yes, I can read hieroglyphics along with your room temperature mind. That bowl full of gibberish translates into the following cover letter prepared by me.
Dear Lisa,
As discussed, enclosed please find material from the following writers:
John Stevenson Spec, CURB YOUR ENTHUSIASM
John was a story editor on BERNIE MAC. He is bright, funny and a very hard worker.
Debbie McKinney Spec, SEX AND THE CITY
Debbie was a staff writer on THE FAMILY GUY. Additionally, she recently sold a feature to Miramax called CLUBBER.
I look forward to your thoughts.
Best regards,
ASSHOLE
I learned the hard way how not to step on tiny balls couples with a shriveled dick. If you find outright wrong plain English AKA serious grammatical errors along with severe typos…don’t “suggest” or point out anything. Stay low and drive hard. The job is to make your boss look good. I was tired of making him look good. I was tired of picking up the phone in my usual deep voice and hearing his girlfriend scream “Don’t answer my baby’s phone in that sexy voice!!” No joke. I was tired of retrieving twenty messages in the morning like this: “Erica….ah…..put on the phone sheet that I want to call…..God I can’t remember.” CLICK. Next message: “I want to call……” CLICK Next message: “Now I remember, I want to call Jordan Kingston at the WB and……” CLICK. Next, message: I remember now, Jordan Levin at the WB (I got that already asshole) and who is the name of that girl I went to drinks with a few weeks ago…Jamie, Lisa or something…I don’t know. Try and track her down for me. I lost her number. CLICK Next message: “And, I forgot to tell you please clean up my desk. It’s gotten kinda messy these past few days.” CLICK. And that is considered a good message day. Need I say more?
I HAVE NO PENS - Diaries of a server in a 5 star with ZERO experience
CHAPTER: THE INTERVIEW
It was quite, a more upscale place. A pretty blond hostess with a sharp bob and yellow eye shadow perfectly lining her eyes greeted me.
"Hi."
"Hi. Can I drop off my resume for any positions that you may have for a server?" Before I could drop my fake resume on the table she was on the phone ringing someone.
"Would you take a seat a moment, I'll be right back." I took a seat at the bar as YELLOW disappeared down a staircase. I felt uncomfortable and didn't understand what I was waiting for. She climbed back onto the wood floors and handed me a stack of white paper.
"Fill this out and our manager will speak with you after." I took the stapled papers and walked to the back of the restaurant. I sat down and took a look at the papers.
CHAPTER: THE TEST TAKE ONE
I flipped through the ten pages of questions ranging from: list five scotches, vodkas, gins, what is tartar, how much are you familiar with micros, if you get seated with three tables at once what do you do. I started to fill out the test and found myself writing down "Not sure," to a majority of the questions. At one point I made a long bracket down the side of an entire page and wrote "not sure" on the side. I didn't really give a shit. I had a job across the street at Dos and really didn't like the music in this joint anyway.
I handed the test to YELLOW and she picked up the phone again.
"Our manager is on her way up to meet you." At the time I wasn't keen enough to smell the obvious desperation of the place. And then, manager appeared.
She was a tall blonde woman who needed no make-up and carried herself like a model. She had an accent that made her seem sophisticated. Her eyes were droopy and a sea of confusion, desperation, and stressed covered in numbness. I thought it was a simple difference in countries, people around the world were different than me, than Americans. She flipped through the test that I obviously bombed and looked straight into my face and said, "When can you start."
CHAPTER: DOS CAMINOS
It was physically ridiculous. I had to run down stairs, up and down, and up and down, carrying that damn guac held in containers that weighed eight pounds. Every server had shit on their uniform and was an actor, actor, actor. There was only one artist and he was cool. I finished training a lunch there and wanted my tips.
"Trainees don't get tips. You make $5.15 an hour." I had never made minimum wage in my life. However, I was ready to party.
CHAPTER: THE DECISION
I was on my final training and in the kitchen with the chef. She was a fat woman who had zero concern about her hair or face. She too had shit all over her uniform but she's a chef so that's allowed. However, she was behind the metal wall that separated the mexicans from the others. It was the border separating Mexico from the California. Those banTrooper hair wearing hard working guys were the backbone of the place. Even the dishwasher was stuffed in the corner with blue dishwashing gloves up to his armpits. I don't know if he could speak for I never heard him talk. When there was a fuck up and food was left for anyone to graze like it was against the rules (like the salad bar in Whole Foods,) he was left sinking in the dirty plates and glasses and shit of all the meaning of the restaurant: food. I managed to be one the line, trying to learn all the ingredients in the five tacos they offered and there was a plate before me for me to try. I took it away, walked over to the dishwasher, and handed him the plate. His eyes starred back at me like I was the first human being he'd ever met. Probably the first human being to befriend him in the shit-hole He took the plate and placed it behind him. It sat there for over an hour while he managed the hose the avalanche of plates up to his chest. Only after a break from the rush did he get a chance to eat his tacos. Three tacos, four hours later, cold and soggy and better every bite.
CHAPTER: THE QUIT
After training the seven shifts that I was put out in the fields as a slave for little pay, I decided I had a decision to make. J or Dos. The decision seemed easy for me. Was I going to bus my own tables, run down wet stairs to an inevitable death at the bottom of the stairs, or posh it out across the street. I was scheduled to start work that next week as a server and left my apron in the office off to the side to not stir any rumors and walked home. I picked J. I was confident in my decision and ready to put all I had into the job.
CHAPTER: CAMP WIDDLETON
Back at the camp, Trooper and I were having a blast. We had hit the town and had more stories than the several months in LA. That night I came across a Dry Humper and the Hugger met up with Trooper. Trooper had recently met a Boston College kid and was on fault line. THE HUGGER working in finance and lived in Brooklyn. After a week of knowing her he was immediately smitten, but who can not see the golden glow ricocheting off her thick hair and beautiful blue eyes. She was not used to guys pining over her. She stuck to the assholes and didn't quite know how to deal with being treated like a Goddess. She was talking with him when the HUMMER arrived.
I ended up walking the HUMMPER home only to be invited up to his place. I hadn't had sex in about a year and was not ready to even make-out with a guy. And of course I did. He tonsil dove into my mouth and I had to put the drawbridge to the castle door up. My teeth were a shield to his sick tongue.
"Um, let me show you how to kiss."
He was taken aback and I layed down the line.
"Don't want to have sex or anything, let's just go to sleep." The HUMMPER was a pretty boy from Texas. He had zero body fat and felt like a brick in bed. He started hi-cupping which was great because it got me out of kissing with his fifth grade lips. I had never had a guy hiccup in my mouth and was worried that I would be "that girl" that a guy wakes up to not knowing how or what or why they are there.
The next morning he dry humped me. I sat there not knowing what to do. I was wearing his boxer shorts and not sure where this was going or even what to do because I had never been a fire hydrant for a dog pumping himself to get off. He stopped and all of a sudden there was motionlessness and more confusion. Did he cum? What do I do? He got up a few minutes later and said he would get me a new pair of boxers. It was at that point I felt his wet cum slide down my leg and I was more horrified than the dry hump. I thought the whole reason for a "dry" hump was to maintain the desert. He fell off the bed trying to reach for a fresh pair but at least he wasn't hi-cupping in my mouth anymore.
After walking by his roommate watching the tube, I busted out of his apartment onto the Saturday sun and got a cab. There are times to call a cab and the rest to be frugal. I walked into CAMP WHITTELTON and Trooper was sitting on the bunk-bed with her fan on, watching TV, and eating her microwave M&M's.
"Oh my God."
"What happened."
"I don't know how to say this."
"What?" She continued to munch on her M&M's polishing off the hand. She got up, marched to the kitchen and pulled out her giant size M&M Dark Chocolate bag and set them on a paper towel to be micro-waved.
"I was dry humped."
She stared at the timer waiting for them to finish frying.
"OMG."
"No, Trooper. I WAS DRY HUMPED."
The microwave beeped and she reached for her stack of communion. She marched back to the bottom bunk and sat down, ready to continue.
"Wow."
"So what happened with the HUGGER?"
"I don't know, we went back to his place and watched a movie."
"And."
"And he kept staring at me."
"What do you mean?"
"He were watching a movie and he stared at me."
"What else?"
"He said his heart was racing and he didn't know what to do." I laughed knowing she was not kidding nor did she know what the fuck.
"And..."
"And he put my hand on my heart."
"Um. Ok."
"Then when I left, he blew me a kiss at the subway. Who does that? It's like out of the 40's."
"Dad used to do that."
She tossed back a few more M&M's and grabbed her frozen bottled water that she's been defrosting the past hour and took a quick chug.
"Yeah. I don't know about this kid."
And it might be the first time she was with someone nice.
THE ROADRUNNER
His ass was so wound up that he didn't have to flex it in his tight blue pants, because those buttocks were flexed without a squeeze from his muscles. That's the kind of perfectionist you can only read by two things: ass and hair. His hair was blond, tight shaved against his head, with a tiny Mohawk like a dinosaur bump on his head (not really a Mohawk by definition, for he still had hair on the rest of his head) that ended with a flip of short bangs that shot down is face across his eyebrow, making a new style for men that wanted bangs, and a Mohawk, and a head full of hair. It's nothing anyone can describe or has ever seen, in their life. It's a new thing that must be cut by either a masterful mind or my Chad himself every morning before work. Once you start clipping those hairs that seem to hit against that hawk, you can't stop or get enough so end up with a meticulous mess that makes no since but...still looks good, and fits his personality.
He was a cross between a peacock and tweety bird. He fluttered around the restaurant with a tight thin tie, slightly pulled down so he appears to breath while he bounces fiercely across the hard wood floors ready to rock and roll the scene and make sure his land is as perfect as that head of hair he sports like it's a crew cut and noting outside the norm. Because that's his restaurant attitude. It's flawless with absolutely no effort. And some people are like that, and don't have to do squats to get stone buttocks to punch through their pants, perfectly fitting the overall theme of easy perfection.
J appears to be easy perfection and I can't figure out how to enter a drink order or split a check or authorize a card or....make a glass of tap water IN THE RIGHT GLASS.
And I love him for it. There is nothing better than when we are in the “meetings on how address the 'specials' for the night appropriately' and he claps his hands like a school teacher in a fifth grade classroom to get everyones attention, and he bends over the table, to go over what he has gone over 474 times in his head, in his sleep, on the subway, when he eats free J coffee because i;I've never seen him touch the free bread, that you realize. This is not a guy who is a manager. He is not a bus boy. He is Chad.
Chad description
CHAPTER: FIRST DAY
Yes i spilled a whole glass of ice with dirty martini at the bottom of the glass all over her back and floor, crashing to the floor, ice spinning out onto the floor all over the surrounding tables. They left me a large tip.
The VG's were sat in my section and they smiled at my inability to know when to take the menu or how to take their order with a glass trey in my left hand. But at least they showed mercy.
It wasn't until the fat ladies sat down and watched me place their wine glasses down and deal with putting the tray inside my armpit and attempt to open the wine did i realize that i was not myself. I was more fucked up than the first day on any job i ever had that was a “regular job” as my mother asked about my “work.” I opened the wine and the cork chopped off from the top and I pretended everything was find. They didn't know. Everything was fine until
Wine tasting during “the meeting” is new to me since I drink wine, I don't taste it. Anyone can be asked to stand up and recite the ingredients in a dish. They called on one of my only companions in Team Nercy and she is flushed. She cheated on the test, like most i suppose and didn't know anything.
I didn't pass the test...had to take the first page over. But ripped out a 100% and made the chef, who didn't have a pen on him, take my fat red sharpie and circle that shit for everyone to see. What else can I do at this moment. I've already been sent home for not having buttons down my black gear. Then sent home a second time for getting a C on my menu test because I didn't know that there was flour, chili flakes, cumin, mustard seed and fennel seed in their bread basket with contains 5 breads. I brought it on. I goggled that shit and came back with Internet intenas and blasted out paragraphs that defined the simple words w in depth descriptions of the origin, the multifaceted parts of the plants or origins of sauces. No one would know what was ON. And so I handed the chef a sharpie to circle my 100% and plastered that shit in front of everyone, and dropped like silk “I'll see you later tonight.”
Bo-Ya....turned into a talk after my shift. After the negators spoke and ruled me out as a novice, idiotic lame ass piece of shit served on a shaky plater with a tutorial on wine opening on one table and a starter and dinner served at the same time on another table. Not to mention the machine, my biggest enemy, starring me down in the face with its boxes of words that lead you to more detailed boxes with wines that are spoken one way and for some reason written in the machine another way. What the fuck is any person supposed to do?.
I just don't appreciate
And poor Gene is a recovering alcoholic and has to sit through the wine tasting while the aroma simmers up in the air and I have to sit through a drop of wine when I want a freaking bottle already. Christ almighty, not sure what's worse, but at least it is a new thing for both of us: her not having any, and me having only a drop. Both a new experience that is different and foreign.
I did my side work. I know what side work is, I had a job when i was 15 on Pico Blvd. at Islands Restaurant and I hated every minute of it. Why do I think this is for me? Is temping that bad?? any job that is not your job is shitty. It's shitty shit crap on a stick with coated asshole. The manager asked me to come up with a word to describe the dessert to sell to the customers, (after the entire table during the “knowledge tester meeting of face packing, grab that plate with no regard to the skinny bitches that act like they own it, when really you are the real woman ready to wolf that shit down” I was the last silent voice and upon the query of description I didn't need to think. “It's coated in chocolate.” Of course any fat kid would know how to describe a cheesecake that is dipped in chocolate. Make that shit coated like you can't even get to the cheesecake without drilling your teeth into the soft deep layer of coated chocolate. Thank God the M liked it and the chef, who is so hot, sort of mean, that I like it, were on board with my diction for the savory plump hockey puck.
And I am told Chad is the nicest of all the managers. GREAT. But at least now that I am demoted and have to train another day, with someone big brothering me over my shoulder all night, and “we;ll see about the weekend” a la you might not be able to handle the brunch or anything else in this J next door world, I can walk in there with the 'bring it' attitude. It's funny how you can be abused and used in the entertainment and build a arsenal of defense mechanisms that make you a rock star and the moment you are in a restaurant and out of that realm, which is nothing like what I've been through, I crumble at the 21 year old asshole that walks around like she is the shit, hunched back and lassie fair attitude, she probably doesn't know what lassie fare means for Christ Christ sake and I'm tapping at the machine hitting void every 3 seconds and am a victim? Strange. It's all strange. Playing pretend server is harder than working through the ranks of entertainment until you are thrown out of a building and have to implement your own life preserver that is entrepreneurial and bold. Not this. This is a backward dance move when you are a dance my nature.
SIDE-WORK INSERT – KAITLAN
She checked all the ketchup's and pulled the ones down from the back of the shelf. They were allllll half full.
“you have to marry all the ketchup's.”
“oh.”
“did no one show you that?”
“well it's obvious that NO ONE has done this for weeks because there are over a dozen ketchup's that have not been fixed so, yes i saw them, and no I didn't do them.”
I was done with training, done with being everyone's slave and done wit this bitch that got me a shift away from being fired, telling me what to do.
Maybe it was that moment when
INSERT
What did you say?
About Jeffrey being cute and they two on one hate war for no reasons. Because I'm tall, or beautiful..i though skinny bitches always liked heavier chicks off the bat. Obviously height makes a difference. And i suppose when i trained with the K-Shit and couldn't hear her talk two feet below, it didn't help to bend down low, face to face, making it a need so I could hear, it didn't help my cause. And now i was her ketchup loving bitch, in charge of every fuckin ketchup in the joint to marry. When it was her last day, and my first shift. So help her God in her next day.
DAY 2 - DEMOTION
I was the first to work and the first to start setting up the tables for dinner. I did all my side work and decided I needed to train with Cat, the only nice and helpful server in the joint. I wondered downstairs to find Chad. I knocked on the forbidden office and stepped on the threshold. Chad was sitting at the computer with his back to me.
"Hey, Chad." I felt like I was 22 years old again working on a desk at the agency afraid to answer the phone for fear that my voice wasn't good enough or I would be reprimanded for going to the bathroom to take a piss. I continued.
"Can I shadow Cat tonight?"
He popped his head up and started at me through his vanity mirror in front of his computer and bounced his head up and down nodding a yes to me a mile a minute.
NOT. I guess I wasn't supposed to ask for a favor or else you get stuck with the bulldozing truck in a black cape. A devilish punishment for a simple request.
pre game warmup table meeting; JEFFREY the newest member soon to be recruited to join the Alliance. Team Nercy. Describe suspenders. NICOLE (describe) chad hands out 5 page test on details bout the restaurant; explain JEFFREY, suspenders. I call him a cutie and the mean girls strike. "What did you say." Was i talking to you at the tip of my tongue turns into ah...i said he's a cutie. Oh so you like black guys? Looking across the table to Gene confused.
Back on the training trail. Dark Vader is my mentor. She is an ugly Elvira, with thick black eye liner that circles her eyes. She looks like she had to black eyes with a horse tail that starts at the top of her head and rolls down her back to her wide load ass. Tame that shit please. I'm supposed to work and have her shadow me, but that doesn't happen. At least not initially. I walk to the fist table to greet the guests and am asked about the hardest, most detailed option on the menu. The veil. I struggled to reach by in my head for the description that i memorized for the test, literally a day ago and had nothing. I turned to DV for help and she stared back at me with a blank face. I tried my best to salvage the situation and started to describe the wrong item. Some other beef, meat, thing on the menu and DV pushes me aside to provide her expertise on the meat. After that it was over. I followed her back to the machine and as I watched her type it in she turned to me and turned my shoulders and said, "Don't look at the computer, it'll just confuse you. Go in the back and fold napkins. She told me to fold napkins in the back. I left the floor to fold her bag of napkins while she worked the tables.
The manager told the Vader to let me try some tables so I was back running after her trying to listen and learn. Then a clam back rumor starts to circulate from the kitchen. I thought the back was 86ed so took an order at a table and told a women we were out. i guess that's why they call it a rumor. There was clam backs and now the Vader run back to the table to usurp my only table left for the night and explain that I was wrong and that in fact they did have a clam back.
Mexican help hiding behind the polo shirts in the kitchen. Down in the dungeon making pasta dumpling, cookies and chicken broth.
Tina turmoil. Are you eating something. Pointing at my mouth after I stuffed a piece of bread in my face, my mouth too dry to swallow or hide the fact that it was bread. It's not gum that you can swallow. . Bread is the only thing we are allowed to much on while working. She stared at my mouth an inch away from my face. I didn't have to open it because my answering her 'yes' showed the white mushy mess gagging my mouth.
Gay grabber at the bar.
Walk by Tina with knives facing out. The biggest no no you learn as a kid.
DV hot milk explosion down my express pants into my favorite loafers. Trying to whip the avalanche without drawing attention to the burgundy, not black, shoes that I sport. No apology, just a command like it's water. "Just grab a napkin with some hot water and rub it down. It'll come off." What about my scalding skim bitch. Of course. I have to ask where the hot water is (in between the coffee dim wat.)
In the closet the fight hurts more than the release. Walking out flashes. Pride; integrity; confusion war. Making friends with the other newbe. Her quote from Cervantes about failure being to picking yourself up when you are at your lowest." I realized that no one was the boss of me and it is time to walk hard. I formed the Alliance and they were my support group. It had to be on soon or else tamping would get a bang on the door.
BRUNCH - DAY 5
Get there first and start my side work. I take the Noxon rag outside to whip down the door handle and find A a couple yards away sucking down a cigarette. He didn't have to say anything. His black rocks sucked into this face said it all.
Stone faces at the table for the meeting. the energy was so low it penetrated the entire group. Name everyone there and their face (A, skinny jeans, matt, me) SKINNY JEANS (describe) is face; I'm considering sleeping on the toilet; I suggest the back room (all dialogue); that's a great idea. Mentions that he wants to do an errand. I'll do it and go sleep somewhere. CAT the only happy one to be there. "Everyone looks very unhappy to be here." Cat "Im happy to be here" And she was. Jeff, " You're the only one." I let out a laugh and Jeff asks me what's wrong. Jeff, "What are you laughing about?" Now i am not even allowed to laugh. We start the QUIZ and Jeff (BALDY) pins SKinny Jeans to the wall and he knows nothing and really doesn't care. Jeff gives up and asks Cat to take over and she bubbles out the descriptions. I stand up and walk two feet away from the table to grab a pen and paper to take notes and Jeff barks at me, "Where are you going." I wanted to say I'm going home. But instead tried not to look sarcastic and said, "I'm getting a pen and paper." FUCK-FACE. Then the SLUG, SLOUCHY, SUPER ANNOYING DEPLETED Nicole saunters just as the meeting is about to adjourn and slouches next to Jeff. "Hey." In her I'm tired and whatever about missing the whole set up that all of us endured for an hour prior to the meeting from hell. And Jeff turns to her and welcomes her, "Hi." WHAT! I was so confused. A told me later that she is always late and manages to be the first one released from the floor. I was appalled and sort of happy I had more ammunition and more of a reason to find her pointless.
Getting ready downstairs by the closet. A puts on his apron, "It's like we're preparing for war. Putting on our amour. Key, pens, notebooks." He shows me his bracelet. It was a black leather bracelet with something written in LAtin.
"Last night was my last night at my other job. It was so sad." He holds out his bracelet and re-sights, "Go forth in life with courage." I don't know why I laughed but I did.
"What? It was sad."
"I know, I'm sorry."
"It's Marc Jacobs." He admired his bandage of courage. We walked up the stairs to find a line had formed outside and was pouring down the sidewalk. All the servers stood in a line, ready for war.
Jeff, "Everyone ready."
No one said anything. There was no words to describe the inevitable madness that would barrel us over like a tidal wave. The doors opened.
CHAPTER: THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON
A cockroach raced across the wall and I pointed to it not able to kill it. PENUT, my runner, squashed it with the check books and crunched it in between them. He laughed as he left the roach there favor some sad server to find when they pulled out the book. It was our little secret. Peanut was a four foot something mexican that had a crush on my that borderline on uncomfortable. We didn't make the best team because I could never see him. I would be in a hurry to race to the machine and put an order in "right away" and would bang into him because i couldn't see him with his arm of plates. He only went up to my stomach so it was a rough start for us.
Bartender Brian asking me about plugging the watermelon lemonade. "It's the only thing I know how to find in the machine.
Tina's coffee drink blocking all the water glasses that we needed every two minutes.
Tina's ketchup run and Skinny Jeans eyes light up. I turn to skinny jeans and tell him this is his chance and he said that's hilarious.
I knew we were short on ketchup from the night before when i was in charge of marrying the ketchup's. Story about how earlier that week the bitch said i had to marry all of them and i said it looks like no one has done that in weeks. And she looked at me like no, you have to do it. I informed people that we were low on ketchup but of course no one was going to listen to me. It made me happy to be an I told you so.
My section is in the very back of the restaurant and I have the least amount of tables which was fine by me.
Watering tables. Walking around with a pitcher so I looks like I am always doing something when my tables are taken care of. The Vader bitching to me about watering her tables because she wants them to lease so she can turn over and over tables and pull in the Benjamin's. That doesn't stop me but makes me put a smile on that spreads across my face because I know there are little things I can do to get back at the enemy.
Tina tells me she is comping my big 5 top because a customer found a spot of blood on a napkin. I took that as a perfect opportunity to tell her about the roach. "Did anyone see it." Her face is in a frenzy. Ah....yeah. "Who saw it." "I'm not sure but.." And I gave her the perfect I don't know face but people know and she walked off.
Needing to wash hands and found a sink in the back that had sope on top. Found out later that beneath the suds was the dirtiest germs of all. The silverware bin from the tables. Jesus Almighty Christ.
Show how Tina has no pens ever and keeps asking for my pens till I finally had to lie to her when I was down to one pen and she remarked, "you should always have pens."
A, "It's only one o'clock."
Coffee pour foul. Couldn't figure out how to make it pout and by now knew that A was the only person I could trust with restaurant stupidity queries.
I had one, ONE, nice table of fat black women I could swear I recognized one of the woman and explored finding out.
"You seen very familiar to me, do I know you from somewhere?"
Her friend sitting beside her with balloon breasts cracked a laugh, "Not unless you've been arrested." I paused for a second then said to myself, what the heck, I was down the road to being fired anyway, and, up to this point, unfortunately had also been afraid of being myself. I decided to bust out the guns.
"As a matter of fact I have." I couldn't tell if they were surprised, confused, thought I was joking or what.
"Where?"
"In Los Angeles, I got a DUI, and spent a night in jail, and then got caught driving with a suspended license."
"Really."
"Yup. I had to ride a bus for a year, walk, bike all over town, and it cost me nineteen thousand dollars." There were no words to follow this confession, and they women simply nod their head in silent understanding.
After I grabbed the check and opened the book to find that they actually wrote me a nice recommendation on the J insert that allowed comments to be made about the food, and the service. Turns out being myself wasn't such a disease for the restaurant after all.
CHAPTER: THE NEW GUY
He was Jay in Silent Bob Strikes again. Sporting a thick leather beaded necklace straight out of the 80s, he had zero facial expressions and looked like he was numb to the core. He shadowed the cool people, of course, and I never heard him say a single word. He appeared to know what being a server entailed so a couple of times I asked him for some help but he pretended not to hear me, or know what the heck I was saying. I thought that was a great tactic to avoid doing any work, (other than water tables) and played with the idea that he was mute.
My comment to the table "Thanks guys." Shit did I just call that lacoste pair "guys?" I prayed they didn't report me tot the lieutenant.
A pointing to the plate of bread spread out for the servers, "There's a fly on on the bread."
Fucking up cobb salad orders and forgetting the French toast. "What's in the fruit salad?" "Ah..I'm not sure, I'll be right back." I get the lowdown from Cat and go back to the table and rattle off the ingredients. "I'll just have the french toast." "Excellent choice, we are known for the french toast." Her snotty response, "I know. I've had it before." OoooK.
Oh and about the machine. No one told me that there is a green screen in the upper right corner that walks you through each step. Peace to that. The machine was finally not so bad and I now all I had to do was grow a nail so I could tap the right button since my fingers were to fat for the table and number pad.
Finally it was five and we could have a break for family meal. The cooks put out a plate of hamburger helper which was sitting on too of an inch of grease. We all wolfed it down along with some French Toast which I have to admit was damn good.
I walked out to find A having his 500.987,970,000 cigarette and we walked to the bar to grab a drink. We crank called Gene on the way to tell her she wasn't on the schedule for next week. We got our beers and three hours later we were at some new club opening that is NYU friend was at. She had gone to Staples to copy the free drink tickets and was flushed with tickets for us to buy drinks for free. I got home at four, crashed on the futon, and was asleep before I could curse Oprah for that episode on bed mites in your pillow.
CHAPTER: THE HUGGER STRICKS AGAIN
Trooper was missing from camp. She had crossed the streams and was spending the night at the HUGGER'S. It was a new venture for her and I was proud to see her attempt to have her first boyfriend.
“So do you like him?” She had no answer.
“We’re having dinner with his parents this week.”
“Um.”
“It’s our third date and we are having dinner with his parents.” I didn’t know what to say and wanted to be positive.
“At least you get a free dinner.”
“Seriously.”
dinner with the parents after a couple weeks.
story here that involves highlights from relationship.
CHAPTER: MTV
I landed a production job from an old buddy I used to work with. I up and left my life as a Producer to start over and now I am a PA. But it's money, and money is my breath right now.
CHAPTER: DAY FOUR
There's a new guy. He is adorable. Big blue eyes, sweeping auburn hair, gay, and moved to NYC a week ago form Chicago. He told me I was his new best friend in New York because he knows no one. It made me very sad and thankful that Trooper is here and has been my divine salvation.
CHAPTER: THE BUS BOYS
They hate me. Even Peanut said something about not moving when he carried a trash can of ice over his head to the bar. Am I supposed to have eyes in the back of my head?
"Are you working tonight?" A bread bus bitch inquired.
"No."
"Thank God."
That was awesome, especially since it was in front of everyone. Gene and I were there ready to set up at 9:30 am. I walked in to find her pulling out a bench with her tiny hands. SPIDER MAN (Dan) walked in and plugged in his headphones to blast The Who throughout the restaurant. Slowly people trickled in. Tina made it just in time to rule the meeting. And just before we were about to start the meeting, SHITHEAD saunters in wearing clothes from the night before.
"Hey guys." And no one said anything. I was livid. T ignored it, as usual, and started the meeting.
"Gene, do you know what the brunch additions to the Saturday menu are?"
"Yes, there is french toast."
"Obviously."
"Ah...the J omelet."
"What's in the J Omelet?"
"Spinach.."
"No."
"Um...sausage."
"What kind of sausage?"
"Pork?"
"Can someone please tell Gene what's in the J Omelet?"
No one moved.
"Julian."
"He raised his face with a monotone response."
"Ah..."
He glanced through the menu and read the description. The front phone rang and T ran to get it. We waited until she got back and so addressed SKINNY JEANS again.
"What's in the Benedict Johnny?"
"Ah..."
The phone rang again. T quickly walked to the host desk and picked up the phone. She hung up and walked back to our table and mid way through the phone rang again.
"Does anyone have a cell phone on them?" I asked. SKINNY JEANS pulled out his forbidden to wear cell phone.
"Call J." SJ laughed and dialed the number. T picked up the other line and SK hung up. After a few hang ups she returned to the table.
"Alright guys, where were we." Thank God I wasn't put on the menu hot seat. I had zero tolerance for this shit. Not today at least.
Again I got the back section with the fewest tables. I got my first table and it was a person eating alone. I got my second table and it was a person eating alone. The cycled continued and I realized that T sat people there because she didn't think I could handle more than one person per table. One of the women eating alone sat there for twenty minutes pouring salt on her flat-bread and stuffing it in her mouth. T continued to ride my tail.
"Why hasn't she ordered yet?"
"I don't know. She wants to chill." And every ten minutes after that T asked why I was not taking her order. The crowd thickened and the watermelon lemonade juice was requested by a table for three guests. I walked up to the bar and forgot how to prepare the drinks.
"Hey, can you tell me how to prepare the watermelon lemonade?" DV stomped her shaker on the counter.
"You have to be kidding me, you should know this by now." Back in defeated mode I put my head down and she refused to tell me. I waited till SPIDERMAN came by and grabbed him.
"What do you need." Always to my rescue I walked me through it. I forgot how to close out cash checks and SPIDERMAN explained that only DV can do it at the bar. I dropped it off.
"You have to put all the bills facing the same way." She ranted. I made no face, just waited for my money.
Time went on and I realized that some of my tables were being pawned off on surrounding servers, but I didn't care. What was I going to do but serve single eaters at my three tables. The day soared on and, not only were my tables meager, I was experiencing the Asian invasion.
"I'll have the mushroom omelet." I put it in the machine and when the food came out she called me over.
"There's no mushroom in my omelet." I threw out her omelet and ran to the machine to see if I was at fault. I typed in my number and the mushroom popped up. Triumphal I walked to the kitchen.
"I ordered a mushroom omelet for table 23 and she said there was no mushroom."
"Let me see it." Hot Chef stood waiting. I stood there. "You threw it away."
"Yeah, but I can get it out of the trash."
"Forget it." The busboys frowned on me and T stormed over.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I took care of it. Everything's ok."
"Don't ever tell me it's ok." She barked in my face. I felt like I was being shitted on my one of my old Executive Producer bosses, or when I was an assistant in the agency and told not to ever correct anyone or "talk back." I guess saying anything outside of "Can you turn around so I can kiss your ass" was considered talking back. Then the Asian table had a declined card.
"Hey T, stable 28's card was declined. Should I tell them or are you supposed to handle it?"
"You do it, but don't say it's 'declined.'" Duh. Then a table grabbed me and asked me a question. Before I could answer MOLE grabbed me by the back of my shirt and pulled me aside.
"I'll take care of it." T appears again.
"Did table 30 not want water?" Thank God I was holding my secret weapon, the water pitcher.
"I'm getting it right now." I raced to the bar station and grabber water glasses. I slammed them into the ice bin and felt someone standing over me. PONYTAIL, the second to the chief bus boy stood over me. He thrusted a ice scooper in my face.
"Use this to get water."
"Yeah, I know. I was in a hurry."
"Only use this." I do speak English you know. Hell was almost over and I tracked down Nicole so she could check my sidework and sign me out.
"Hey Nicole, I am done."
"Drop this off at 40." She handed me a trey of expresso and I did as I was told.
"Here you go." I chatted with table 40 about photography, and my hair. Back at the hutch SHITHEAD stood there.
"It's funny how you always seem to end up talking with my tables." I couldn't tell if she was making an observation or was annoyed.
"I'm done with my side work."
"What did you have?" I pulled out the sheet and as usual, she ran through things with a dental floss.
"You need to grab more sugar off the tables, so you should be here for another 20 minutes and then you can go." This coming from the SHITHEAD who has NEVER been to work on time since day one.
I was the last one to fill out my tip sheet and went downstairs. ENCINO was eating and seemed happy to see me, despite that fact that A overheard her asking if I still worked here the day before.
"How much did you make?" She pried.
"I'm not sure." And I wasn't.
"What section did you have?"
"Tables 29-32."
"They call that the Dumb Girl section."
And I walked home.
INSERTS FOR ASIAN INVASION
She grabbed my arm and pulled me down to her tiny level.
"Can I get a menu?" The last time I helped with a table query I was swallowed by the territorial vulture and pulled away worse than the asian invasion before me.
"One sec." I grabbed a menu in the hope that no one would see me "helping." I handed it to twig arms and she the weight of the menu made her drop it on her mimosa and it streamed across the table. I darted off of the board floor and ran for the hills.
CHAPTER: NAMELESS
Trooper didn't come home last night again. I walked into the Camp and she was standing in her undies with a large water in her hands.
"Hi." Her smile was a pure give away.
"I don't even know his name."
"Of course you don't." It was all very funny to her.
"Do you realize that I couldn't sleep last night because I couldn't decide if I should move upstairs or stay in my bed?"
"I woke up and didn't know where I was or why I took off my contacts and he took me to brunch and I couldn't see."
"What about the HUGGER?"
"I don't know." And I had heard this for about four months and it all boiled down to this: I don't know, yes, no, I don't know, I might, sort of, maybe, not sure, let's see, probably. It had become this vicious cycle of ambiguity that was followed with the Irish guilt that dove your conscience back in the cycle of sure, ok, then I don't know.
"You know Trooper, ambiguity, and rejection then the hope ferris wheel is fine in grammar school but not so much now." I saddened me to watch her face drop. What did I know. I was a no one on the dating scene, a barfed up aftermath of a rope of bad sudo relationships that ended in a hang up from a guy I loved with nothing. Nothing after, at all.
"I really hate my life." She was unemployed and had me squatting at her narrow pad, and was leaping from bed to bed. But I think she was enjoying her twenties. And to think that the night before I knew what would unfold.
"Tons of men, nobody talkin' 2 early I'm thinkin'. 11 am
And I give her twenty minutes and then...
Seriously, too early..guys have no cajonas till 1 am, this I know. 11:01 am
And finally.
People bore me. 11:10 am
The next message was at 7:13 am the next morning: "Where am I."
He was NAMELESS and 22 and RUBIC CUBE (because he was that socially awkward) but we couldn't come up with a word for it. He was an IT.
Pre meeting:
The pre shift meeting was about to start. The cooks put out the food and the TUBBY BITCH grabs a plate and forms a mountain of sausage eggs topped off with a snow peak of Heinz which quickly drippled down the stack from the weight of the blob. Before anyone else got their good, the TB started wolfing down mount everest. Gene and I grab a seat with our meager plate of food so as to make sure there was enough for the rest.
"So what time do we get out of here?"
"Usually between five and six." His eyes bulged out of his head. He stuffed more eggs in his mouth.
"No way."
"Way." I replied.
"Fuck that, I'm training and am not staying that long for no money." He didn't get the slavery ritual for newbes.
"When I was training, I was here till the end, it sucked. Plus you have to do all the side work which gets like Joan Crawford in Mommy Dearest. " Gene burst out laughing. She couldn't control herself
"What?" I was curious.
"It's just funny because it's the truth." The TB couldn't handle it, he stared down at his empty plate, stood up and tubbied his way back to the food.
The meeting started and Jeff sat down with a big bowl of food. The chef walked over with a bowl of fresh fries.
"Try these out." Jeff grabbed a handful of Hot Chef's bowl of fries and set the remainder on the table. I could feel the heat coming from the TB's eyes as his engine fired up as he got ready for the plunge. SJ took a few. giving TB a green light to race his hand into the bowl before anyone else could steal the prize. I watched as his claw spun out like a spiders web and grasped a heap of fries, released, and grabbed a bigger handful of fresh fries, then slowly dangeled them over the bowl to make sure he got the rest, and tossed them on his plate. There were four left.
Brunch was bursting from the seams. T stormed to the back area. The TB was taking a break and wolfing down some bread.
"No eating." She barked. The TB put his fist over mig mouth and tried to hide the swallow. She got right up in his face.
"No eating!" Ten minutes later SJ put together a plate of fresh hot bread with some oil to dip into and The TB watched as SK casually ate bite after bite while chillin' by the coffee bar. I wouldn't be surprised if The TB stuffed a loaf of bread in his apron to have so he could rip off small pieces throughout the rest of brunch.
Meanwhile, I wondered how Gene was managing the machine.
"Can't you hurry up?" DV blew down her neck. Thank God Gene stood her ground. This stand of the force only ignited DV more as she pushed her way though to the machine ajacent to Gene. Gene continued to take her time and stared at the screen while DV watched. Biddy walked up.
"You need some help?"
"Yes. Where is the Mimosa Cosmopolitan?"
"It's under Mimosa." Biddy showed her through the steps.
"Thanks."
"No problem." Gene walked back to work and HH stepped up to the machine.
"Why do they hire people here that don't know how to wait tables?" DV closed her gun and shoved in her holster.
"Have you seen Erica's shit." DV spit back.
"Yeah, she's pretty clueless."
"Clueless! She's a retard." The worst." HH shoved her gun back in her apron.
"She won't last.
"I already said something to management."
"Good." The high five with the lock of their eyes made it clear they were on board to my inevitable distruction.
I walked up to the my next table chipper than a blue bird.
"Hi!" I opened the gun and a plethora of papers spilled out like a fan onto the floor. I scrambled to pick up the notes on hell while the hot lacoste shirt tried to manage his less from hitting the top of the table.
" I got it." They ordered their food and I split to the machine.
"Do you know who that is?" VB was obviously jealous that I had the table.
"He's a famous b-ball player, played for Duke."
"Oh."
"You should talk to T and send him something on the house." I hunted down Jeff and he agreed.
"Send him some banana bread." Great, I'm sure his blond baby with pencil arms was all about the bread. But I was grateful that I could send something for free so I could make it look like I did it to make up for the paper fan spill. Like I thought, the blonde egg whites only wouldn't touch the I dare you dessert and he was left to enjoy it himself. He left me a 40% tip.
"Maybe you should go to another machine."
Pro B-ball player spilling writings all over the feet of his table and he can't move because his legs hit the top of the table.
I hate the asians - Varsity Blues laughs and asked me if I carded those bitches. The kitchen sends out the wrongs food and she snorts "That's not what we ordered." There are not enough renditions of sorry in this world for the fuckin asians. They walk in mobs and hit the brunch in mobs. It sucks.
Jeffrey watching SJ eat (all in Jeffrey chapter)
Tourists sit for over an hour and pull out tourist book at the end to figure out where Manhattan is.
Finger in water
Bus Bitch pointing to me about class in ice.
CHAPTER: THE PERSONAL DINNING ROOM
It's become apparent that the PDR is for the best servers in the place, and I've lost A to the his VIP status. Or, maybe they just want to separate us like a fourth grade teacher does when you are having too much fun. It was Sunday brunch and A was tanked. This is not the first time I've heard about drinking downstairs where the managers are too busy on the floor. It was also the place for Chad, now named ROADRUNNER, does lines of coke, which explains a lot.
Turns out SUPERMAN didn't show up for work so his shifts for next week were "Up for grabs," meaning he was fired. I wanted to puke. HEDGEHOG walked in a minute before opening and missed all the pre-show set up that we all endured for over two hours. I dont' know what made me more sick, her laqidasical bullshit or the sweet, "Hi," from management like the Princess could do no wrong.
Stomach bloated in the morning from buckets of water, coffee and buttery bread and I don't even drink coffee or break bread. But I have to throw it down the pipe to extinguish the cespool left from drinking the night before.
CHAPTER: GLEN
I ran into Glen today.
"Erica." I stopped frozen in my tracks, afraid it was someone from my sorted past.
"Glen you are always on the phone." In his usual stance with his phone smacked across his ear, he told the person on the other line he had to go.
"This is our new restaurant." He welcomed me into the joint.
"Watch your step, there's wet cement." It was half way there under solid construction.
"It's big."
"Brian's going to run it."
"That's great...so Jason's going to take over J?"
"Yea."
"He's really good." I thought about all the times Jason walked me through my mistakes placing orders with patience and then giving me free food to send to tables that I fucked up.
"He has a good attitude." I yearned to open the register on the political bullshit of J but held my hate. We said our goodbyes and a rainbow crossed my face as I walked down the street. He likes me. He knows my name. My arsenal was building. The day for T to fire me was welcomed because Glen liked me.
CHAPTER: THE SCHEDULE
It was a fucked up night followed by a more fucked up day. I went out with Trooper and ended up at an after hours bar at 4 am. Trooper and I got split and I ended up walking home to find a hot brit outside CW smoking a dart. We started chatting and the next thing I knew I was in a cab to his hotel. He spent the night in the bathroom for his brother was asleep in the room. I wasn't sure when I decided I wanted to take a shower but we did, sort of. It was tight quarters. He pulled out some coke and I decided that was not something I should be around so told him I was going to get something from my purse. I darted out the door and ran for the elevator. I felt like it was the Shinning as I ran from corner to corner lost in the maze of the hotel walks of velvet red flowers. I was stopped in the middle of my cheese search.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing." I felt bad and even worse that there was zero excuse for why I was running around the halls like a mouse in a maze. I didn't want to do anything but kiss and wouldn't let him touch me. I was still a fortress and wondered if or when the day would come when I could let the cannon balls make their way over the high walls. It would take a love rocket.
I stepped out into the morning 7 am sun and walked by another walk of shamer trying to walk in her crocked heels and thick cakey make up. I got home only to find that I beat Trooper home and could have just had the kid stay with me on the futon that night. Oh well. My head was pounding, my heart was leaking and, the day was off to a great start!
I walked into work today and found out I was not on the schedule for next week.
"Chad, can we discuss the schedule. I'm not on it."
"You're not?" I could tell he was bluffing and was not going to deal anymore.
"No. I'm not." Before I could continue he fluttered away and I was sick. I ran after him.
"Can we talk about the schedule?"
"Not now." I couldn't hear. My ears were ringing and numb that I was walking deaf. I refused to lose my hearing over this and walked downstairs to find him hiding from me in the office.
"Chad, I really don't feel comfortable working right now and not knowing what to deal."
"Have a seat. Tina and I think you should be watched some more to make sure we want to keep you on. So I'll keep an eye on you this weekend and we'll see."
"So basically, you want me to work this weekend than are going to fire me on Sunday because I requested two weeks off."
"Well.."
"No, so you knew you were cutting me over a week ago when I requested the time off to visit with my mother in town and work in a pilot and lied to my face when I asked you if that was cool and now you are giving me the run around knee jerk shit so you don't seem like you are "firing" me but putting me on some probation where I can be insecure and on egg shells while you watch my every move."
"This is really coming from Tina."
"Yeah but she's not here so that's that." There were no more words to exchange. What was the point of talking with lies.
I walked out the front door and mumbled under my breath Sleep Tight you Morons! Threw my apron in the nearest trash can on the street and walked home in the rain.
CHAPTER: SHIT CREEK
I got home to some more terrible news. The MTV pilot was being pushed for another week which meant another lost income for seven whole days. I tried to get a grip but the tears started balling up in my throat. Perfect. I lose my job at J over this stupid pilot. I left Hollywood to end the bullshit of the show world and it bite me in the ass. Plus, my mom was coming into town for her cancer trip and now I had to work the whole time.
I went for a run and it became apparent that my ending at J was not sitting well. Nothing was sitting well. I decided it was time for the little guy to stand up to bullshit. I got home, sat on the floor of Camp Widdleton and pulled out my sisters laptop. Twenty minutes later I emailed the owner the following:
Dear G,
I am writing to let you know that I really enjoyed working for you at J. I especially appreciated that you met me once, remembered my name, and treated me with respect. However, there are some issues that I would like to address concerning the treatment of employees at J.
Yesterday, I showed up to work to discover that I was not on the schedule for next week. My name was deleted from the spreadsheet without any warning. This is after working my ass off for two weeks, for free, and then had only worked a little over a week at J. Over a week ago, I asked for permission to have two weeks off in October (I am a television producer and got a gig on a pilot) and was told that was fine. The truth is it was not "fine," and there were plans in motion to have me fired which resulted in the distribution of a schedule, sans my name, without letting me know. Essentially, the decision was made days prior, and I was not informed, but made to believe I had a job there. Co-workers were coming up to me, asking me why I was not on the schedule, which was humiliating, and I had no response. It became very apparent to me that I was being treated with zero respect, after I had gone through the process of training and becoming a server. I find this discerning, for if I was told it was not ok to take another temporary job, but instead was lied to, then I could have said no to the pilot and kept my job. However, this did not occur, and instead, a shady procedure unfolded where I was not sure what the deal was, or where I stood. I suppose I should have lied about why I needed time off to help ensure my employment, but I am a straight shooter, and not so keen on fabrication to get by in life.
Needless to say, there is a rotating door at J that is questionable and upsetting. Since I have been there two people have been let go who were solid people, hard workings, amicable with customers and a pleasure to be around. Meanwhile, five other people have been brought onboard to go through training. The hire and fire regularity is absurd. Additionally, the fear tactics of certain management breeds an atmosphere of fear and insecurity among some staff, which often times spurs an unhealthy atmosphere. Moreover, when you enter J, the paranoia runs high, which is interesting because there should be nothing to hide.
Bottom line, I am telling you all this because I like you. I like your character and hands on approach to J and wish things could have worked out for me there. Yes, it was a steep slope of a learning curve for me, but the customers liked me, so at the end of the day I could only move forward in my knowledge, and find solace in the fact that I made the customers have a pleasant experience at J.
I wish you the best success at The Smiths and if anything, I hope you gain some knowledge of how people are treated at J and find a way to make a difference so someone in the future doesn't end up in my shoes.
Best Regards
It was quite, a more upscale place. A pretty blond hostess with a sharp bob and yellow eye shadow perfectly lining her eyes greeted me.
"Hi."
"Hi. Can I drop off my resume for any positions that you may have for a server?" Before I could drop my fake resume on the table she was on the phone ringing someone.
"Would you take a seat a moment, I'll be right back." I took a seat at the bar as YELLOW disappeared down a staircase. I felt uncomfortable and didn't understand what I was waiting for. She climbed back onto the wood floors and handed me a stack of white paper.
"Fill this out and our manager will speak with you after." I took the stapled papers and walked to the back of the restaurant. I sat down and took a look at the papers.
CHAPTER: THE TEST TAKE ONE
I flipped through the ten pages of questions ranging from: list five scotches, vodkas, gins, what is tartar, how much are you familiar with micros, if you get seated with three tables at once what do you do. I started to fill out the test and found myself writing down "Not sure," to a majority of the questions. At one point I made a long bracket down the side of an entire page and wrote "not sure" on the side. I didn't really give a shit. I had a job across the street at Dos and really didn't like the music in this joint anyway.
I handed the test to YELLOW and she picked up the phone again.
"Our manager is on her way up to meet you." At the time I wasn't keen enough to smell the obvious desperation of the place. And then, manager appeared.
She was a tall blonde woman who needed no make-up and carried herself like a model. She had an accent that made her seem sophisticated. Her eyes were droopy and a sea of confusion, desperation, and stressed covered in numbness. I thought it was a simple difference in countries, people around the world were different than me, than Americans. She flipped through the test that I obviously bombed and looked straight into my face and said, "When can you start."
CHAPTER: DOS CAMINOS
It was physically ridiculous. I had to run down stairs, up and down, and up and down, carrying that damn guac held in containers that weighed eight pounds. Every server had shit on their uniform and was an actor, actor, actor. There was only one artist and he was cool. I finished training a lunch there and wanted my tips.
"Trainees don't get tips. You make $5.15 an hour." I had never made minimum wage in my life. However, I was ready to party.
CHAPTER: THE DECISION
I was on my final training and in the kitchen with the chef. She was a fat woman who had zero concern about her hair or face. She too had shit all over her uniform but she's a chef so that's allowed. However, she was behind the metal wall that separated the mexicans from the others. It was the border separating Mexico from the California. Those banTrooper hair wearing hard working guys were the backbone of the place. Even the dishwasher was stuffed in the corner with blue dishwashing gloves up to his armpits. I don't know if he could speak for I never heard him talk. When there was a fuck up and food was left for anyone to graze like it was against the rules (like the salad bar in Whole Foods,) he was left sinking in the dirty plates and glasses and shit of all the meaning of the restaurant: food. I managed to be one the line, trying to learn all the ingredients in the five tacos they offered and there was a plate before me for me to try. I took it away, walked over to the dishwasher, and handed him the plate. His eyes starred back at me like I was the first human being he'd ever met. Probably the first human being to befriend him in the shit-hole He took the plate and placed it behind him. It sat there for over an hour while he managed the hose the avalanche of plates up to his chest. Only after a break from the rush did he get a chance to eat his tacos. Three tacos, four hours later, cold and soggy and better every bite.
CHAPTER: THE QUIT
After training the seven shifts that I was put out in the fields as a slave for little pay, I decided I had a decision to make. J or Dos. The decision seemed easy for me. Was I going to bus my own tables, run down wet stairs to an inevitable death at the bottom of the stairs, or posh it out across the street. I was scheduled to start work that next week as a server and left my apron in the office off to the side to not stir any rumors and walked home. I picked J. I was confident in my decision and ready to put all I had into the job.
CHAPTER: CAMP WIDDLETON
Back at the camp, Trooper and I were having a blast. We had hit the town and had more stories than the several months in LA. That night I came across a Dry Humper and the Hugger met up with Trooper. Trooper had recently met a Boston College kid and was on fault line. THE HUGGER working in finance and lived in Brooklyn. After a week of knowing her he was immediately smitten, but who can not see the golden glow ricocheting off her thick hair and beautiful blue eyes. She was not used to guys pining over her. She stuck to the assholes and didn't quite know how to deal with being treated like a Goddess. She was talking with him when the HUMMER arrived.
I ended up walking the HUMMPER home only to be invited up to his place. I hadn't had sex in about a year and was not ready to even make-out with a guy. And of course I did. He tonsil dove into my mouth and I had to put the drawbridge to the castle door up. My teeth were a shield to his sick tongue.
"Um, let me show you how to kiss."
He was taken aback and I layed down the line.
"Don't want to have sex or anything, let's just go to sleep." The HUMMPER was a pretty boy from Texas. He had zero body fat and felt like a brick in bed. He started hi-cupping which was great because it got me out of kissing with his fifth grade lips. I had never had a guy hiccup in my mouth and was worried that I would be "that girl" that a guy wakes up to not knowing how or what or why they are there.
The next morning he dry humped me. I sat there not knowing what to do. I was wearing his boxer shorts and not sure where this was going or even what to do because I had never been a fire hydrant for a dog pumping himself to get off. He stopped and all of a sudden there was motionlessness and more confusion. Did he cum? What do I do? He got up a few minutes later and said he would get me a new pair of boxers. It was at that point I felt his wet cum slide down my leg and I was more horrified than the dry hump. I thought the whole reason for a "dry" hump was to maintain the desert. He fell off the bed trying to reach for a fresh pair but at least he wasn't hi-cupping in my mouth anymore.
After walking by his roommate watching the tube, I busted out of his apartment onto the Saturday sun and got a cab. There are times to call a cab and the rest to be frugal. I walked into CAMP WHITTELTON and Trooper was sitting on the bunk-bed with her fan on, watching TV, and eating her microwave M&M's.
"Oh my God."
"What happened."
"I don't know how to say this."
"What?" She continued to munch on her M&M's polishing off the hand. She got up, marched to the kitchen and pulled out her giant size M&M Dark Chocolate bag and set them on a paper towel to be micro-waved.
"I was dry humped."
She stared at the timer waiting for them to finish frying.
"OMG."
"No, Trooper. I WAS DRY HUMPED."
The microwave beeped and she reached for her stack of communion. She marched back to the bottom bunk and sat down, ready to continue.
"Wow."
"So what happened with the HUGGER?"
"I don't know, we went back to his place and watched a movie."
"And."
"And he kept staring at me."
"What do you mean?"
"He were watching a movie and he stared at me."
"What else?"
"He said his heart was racing and he didn't know what to do." I laughed knowing she was not kidding nor did she know what the fuck.
"And..."
"And he put my hand on my heart."
"Um. Ok."
"Then when I left, he blew me a kiss at the subway. Who does that? It's like out of the 40's."
"Dad used to do that."
She tossed back a few more M&M's and grabbed her frozen bottled water that she's been defrosting the past hour and took a quick chug.
"Yeah. I don't know about this kid."
And it might be the first time she was with someone nice.
THE ROADRUNNER
His ass was so wound up that he didn't have to flex it in his tight blue pants, because those buttocks were flexed without a squeeze from his muscles. That's the kind of perfectionist you can only read by two things: ass and hair. His hair was blond, tight shaved against his head, with a tiny Mohawk like a dinosaur bump on his head (not really a Mohawk by definition, for he still had hair on the rest of his head) that ended with a flip of short bangs that shot down is face across his eyebrow, making a new style for men that wanted bangs, and a Mohawk, and a head full of hair. It's nothing anyone can describe or has ever seen, in their life. It's a new thing that must be cut by either a masterful mind or my Chad himself every morning before work. Once you start clipping those hairs that seem to hit against that hawk, you can't stop or get enough so end up with a meticulous mess that makes no since but...still looks good, and fits his personality.
He was a cross between a peacock and tweety bird. He fluttered around the restaurant with a tight thin tie, slightly pulled down so he appears to breath while he bounces fiercely across the hard wood floors ready to rock and roll the scene and make sure his land is as perfect as that head of hair he sports like it's a crew cut and noting outside the norm. Because that's his restaurant attitude. It's flawless with absolutely no effort. And some people are like that, and don't have to do squats to get stone buttocks to punch through their pants, perfectly fitting the overall theme of easy perfection.
J appears to be easy perfection and I can't figure out how to enter a drink order or split a check or authorize a card or....make a glass of tap water IN THE RIGHT GLASS.
And I love him for it. There is nothing better than when we are in the “meetings on how address the 'specials' for the night appropriately' and he claps his hands like a school teacher in a fifth grade classroom to get everyones attention, and he bends over the table, to go over what he has gone over 474 times in his head, in his sleep, on the subway, when he eats free J coffee because i;I've never seen him touch the free bread, that you realize. This is not a guy who is a manager. He is not a bus boy. He is Chad.
Chad description
CHAPTER: FIRST DAY
Yes i spilled a whole glass of ice with dirty martini at the bottom of the glass all over her back and floor, crashing to the floor, ice spinning out onto the floor all over the surrounding tables. They left me a large tip.
The VG's were sat in my section and they smiled at my inability to know when to take the menu or how to take their order with a glass trey in my left hand. But at least they showed mercy.
It wasn't until the fat ladies sat down and watched me place their wine glasses down and deal with putting the tray inside my armpit and attempt to open the wine did i realize that i was not myself. I was more fucked up than the first day on any job i ever had that was a “regular job” as my mother asked about my “work.” I opened the wine and the cork chopped off from the top and I pretended everything was find. They didn't know. Everything was fine until
Wine tasting during “the meeting” is new to me since I drink wine, I don't taste it. Anyone can be asked to stand up and recite the ingredients in a dish. They called on one of my only companions in Team Nercy and she is flushed. She cheated on the test, like most i suppose and didn't know anything.
I didn't pass the test...had to take the first page over. But ripped out a 100% and made the chef, who didn't have a pen on him, take my fat red sharpie and circle that shit for everyone to see. What else can I do at this moment. I've already been sent home for not having buttons down my black gear. Then sent home a second time for getting a C on my menu test because I didn't know that there was flour, chili flakes, cumin, mustard seed and fennel seed in their bread basket with contains 5 breads. I brought it on. I goggled that shit and came back with Internet intenas and blasted out paragraphs that defined the simple words w in depth descriptions of the origin, the multifaceted parts of the plants or origins of sauces. No one would know what was ON. And so I handed the chef a sharpie to circle my 100% and plastered that shit in front of everyone, and dropped like silk “I'll see you later tonight.”
Bo-Ya....turned into a talk after my shift. After the negators spoke and ruled me out as a novice, idiotic lame ass piece of shit served on a shaky plater with a tutorial on wine opening on one table and a starter and dinner served at the same time on another table. Not to mention the machine, my biggest enemy, starring me down in the face with its boxes of words that lead you to more detailed boxes with wines that are spoken one way and for some reason written in the machine another way. What the fuck is any person supposed to do?.
I just don't appreciate
And poor Gene is a recovering alcoholic and has to sit through the wine tasting while the aroma simmers up in the air and I have to sit through a drop of wine when I want a freaking bottle already. Christ almighty, not sure what's worse, but at least it is a new thing for both of us: her not having any, and me having only a drop. Both a new experience that is different and foreign.
I did my side work. I know what side work is, I had a job when i was 15 on Pico Blvd. at Islands Restaurant and I hated every minute of it. Why do I think this is for me? Is temping that bad?? any job that is not your job is shitty. It's shitty shit crap on a stick with coated asshole. The manager asked me to come up with a word to describe the dessert to sell to the customers, (after the entire table during the “knowledge tester meeting of face packing, grab that plate with no regard to the skinny bitches that act like they own it, when really you are the real woman ready to wolf that shit down” I was the last silent voice and upon the query of description I didn't need to think. “It's coated in chocolate.” Of course any fat kid would know how to describe a cheesecake that is dipped in chocolate. Make that shit coated like you can't even get to the cheesecake without drilling your teeth into the soft deep layer of coated chocolate. Thank God the M liked it and the chef, who is so hot, sort of mean, that I like it, were on board with my diction for the savory plump hockey puck.
And I am told Chad is the nicest of all the managers. GREAT. But at least now that I am demoted and have to train another day, with someone big brothering me over my shoulder all night, and “we;ll see about the weekend” a la you might not be able to handle the brunch or anything else in this J next door world, I can walk in there with the 'bring it' attitude. It's funny how you can be abused and used in the entertainment and build a arsenal of defense mechanisms that make you a rock star and the moment you are in a restaurant and out of that realm, which is nothing like what I've been through, I crumble at the 21 year old asshole that walks around like she is the shit, hunched back and lassie fair attitude, she probably doesn't know what lassie fare means for Christ Christ sake and I'm tapping at the machine hitting void every 3 seconds and am a victim? Strange. It's all strange. Playing pretend server is harder than working through the ranks of entertainment until you are thrown out of a building and have to implement your own life preserver that is entrepreneurial and bold. Not this. This is a backward dance move when you are a dance my nature.
SIDE-WORK INSERT – KAITLAN
She checked all the ketchup's and pulled the ones down from the back of the shelf. They were allllll half full.
“you have to marry all the ketchup's.”
“oh.”
“did no one show you that?”
“well it's obvious that NO ONE has done this for weeks because there are over a dozen ketchup's that have not been fixed so, yes i saw them, and no I didn't do them.”
I was done with training, done with being everyone's slave and done wit this bitch that got me a shift away from being fired, telling me what to do.
Maybe it was that moment when
INSERT
What did you say?
About Jeffrey being cute and they two on one hate war for no reasons. Because I'm tall, or beautiful..i though skinny bitches always liked heavier chicks off the bat. Obviously height makes a difference. And i suppose when i trained with the K-Shit and couldn't hear her talk two feet below, it didn't help to bend down low, face to face, making it a need so I could hear, it didn't help my cause. And now i was her ketchup loving bitch, in charge of every fuckin ketchup in the joint to marry. When it was her last day, and my first shift. So help her God in her next day.
DAY 2 - DEMOTION
I was the first to work and the first to start setting up the tables for dinner. I did all my side work and decided I needed to train with Cat, the only nice and helpful server in the joint. I wondered downstairs to find Chad. I knocked on the forbidden office and stepped on the threshold. Chad was sitting at the computer with his back to me.
"Hey, Chad." I felt like I was 22 years old again working on a desk at the agency afraid to answer the phone for fear that my voice wasn't good enough or I would be reprimanded for going to the bathroom to take a piss. I continued.
"Can I shadow Cat tonight?"
He popped his head up and started at me through his vanity mirror in front of his computer and bounced his head up and down nodding a yes to me a mile a minute.
NOT. I guess I wasn't supposed to ask for a favor or else you get stuck with the bulldozing truck in a black cape. A devilish punishment for a simple request.
pre game warmup table meeting; JEFFREY the newest member soon to be recruited to join the Alliance. Team Nercy. Describe suspenders. NICOLE (describe) chad hands out 5 page test on details bout the restaurant; explain JEFFREY, suspenders. I call him a cutie and the mean girls strike. "What did you say." Was i talking to you at the tip of my tongue turns into ah...i said he's a cutie. Oh so you like black guys? Looking across the table to Gene confused.
Back on the training trail. Dark Vader is my mentor. She is an ugly Elvira, with thick black eye liner that circles her eyes. She looks like she had to black eyes with a horse tail that starts at the top of her head and rolls down her back to her wide load ass. Tame that shit please. I'm supposed to work and have her shadow me, but that doesn't happen. At least not initially. I walk to the fist table to greet the guests and am asked about the hardest, most detailed option on the menu. The veil. I struggled to reach by in my head for the description that i memorized for the test, literally a day ago and had nothing. I turned to DV for help and she stared back at me with a blank face. I tried my best to salvage the situation and started to describe the wrong item. Some other beef, meat, thing on the menu and DV pushes me aside to provide her expertise on the meat. After that it was over. I followed her back to the machine and as I watched her type it in she turned to me and turned my shoulders and said, "Don't look at the computer, it'll just confuse you. Go in the back and fold napkins. She told me to fold napkins in the back. I left the floor to fold her bag of napkins while she worked the tables.
The manager told the Vader to let me try some tables so I was back running after her trying to listen and learn. Then a clam back rumor starts to circulate from the kitchen. I thought the back was 86ed so took an order at a table and told a women we were out. i guess that's why they call it a rumor. There was clam backs and now the Vader run back to the table to usurp my only table left for the night and explain that I was wrong and that in fact they did have a clam back.
Mexican help hiding behind the polo shirts in the kitchen. Down in the dungeon making pasta dumpling, cookies and chicken broth.
Tina turmoil. Are you eating something. Pointing at my mouth after I stuffed a piece of bread in my face, my mouth too dry to swallow or hide the fact that it was bread. It's not gum that you can swallow. . Bread is the only thing we are allowed to much on while working. She stared at my mouth an inch away from my face. I didn't have to open it because my answering her 'yes' showed the white mushy mess gagging my mouth.
Gay grabber at the bar.
Walk by Tina with knives facing out. The biggest no no you learn as a kid.
DV hot milk explosion down my express pants into my favorite loafers. Trying to whip the avalanche without drawing attention to the burgundy, not black, shoes that I sport. No apology, just a command like it's water. "Just grab a napkin with some hot water and rub it down. It'll come off." What about my scalding skim bitch. Of course. I have to ask where the hot water is (in between the coffee dim wat.)
In the closet the fight hurts more than the release. Walking out flashes. Pride; integrity; confusion war. Making friends with the other newbe. Her quote from Cervantes about failure being to picking yourself up when you are at your lowest." I realized that no one was the boss of me and it is time to walk hard. I formed the Alliance and they were my support group. It had to be on soon or else tamping would get a bang on the door.
BRUNCH - DAY 5
Get there first and start my side work. I take the Noxon rag outside to whip down the door handle and find A a couple yards away sucking down a cigarette. He didn't have to say anything. His black rocks sucked into this face said it all.
Stone faces at the table for the meeting. the energy was so low it penetrated the entire group. Name everyone there and their face (A, skinny jeans, matt, me) SKINNY JEANS (describe) is face; I'm considering sleeping on the toilet; I suggest the back room (all dialogue); that's a great idea. Mentions that he wants to do an errand. I'll do it and go sleep somewhere. CAT the only happy one to be there. "Everyone looks very unhappy to be here." Cat "Im happy to be here" And she was. Jeff, " You're the only one." I let out a laugh and Jeff asks me what's wrong. Jeff, "What are you laughing about?" Now i am not even allowed to laugh. We start the QUIZ and Jeff (BALDY) pins SKinny Jeans to the wall and he knows nothing and really doesn't care. Jeff gives up and asks Cat to take over and she bubbles out the descriptions. I stand up and walk two feet away from the table to grab a pen and paper to take notes and Jeff barks at me, "Where are you going." I wanted to say I'm going home. But instead tried not to look sarcastic and said, "I'm getting a pen and paper." FUCK-FACE. Then the SLUG, SLOUCHY, SUPER ANNOYING DEPLETED Nicole saunters just as the meeting is about to adjourn and slouches next to Jeff. "Hey." In her I'm tired and whatever about missing the whole set up that all of us endured for an hour prior to the meeting from hell. And Jeff turns to her and welcomes her, "Hi." WHAT! I was so confused. A told me later that she is always late and manages to be the first one released from the floor. I was appalled and sort of happy I had more ammunition and more of a reason to find her pointless.
Getting ready downstairs by the closet. A puts on his apron, "It's like we're preparing for war. Putting on our amour. Key, pens, notebooks." He shows me his bracelet. It was a black leather bracelet with something written in LAtin.
"Last night was my last night at my other job. It was so sad." He holds out his bracelet and re-sights, "Go forth in life with courage." I don't know why I laughed but I did.
"What? It was sad."
"I know, I'm sorry."
"It's Marc Jacobs." He admired his bandage of courage. We walked up the stairs to find a line had formed outside and was pouring down the sidewalk. All the servers stood in a line, ready for war.
Jeff, "Everyone ready."
No one said anything. There was no words to describe the inevitable madness that would barrel us over like a tidal wave. The doors opened.
CHAPTER: THE DARK SIDE OF THE MOON
A cockroach raced across the wall and I pointed to it not able to kill it. PENUT, my runner, squashed it with the check books and crunched it in between them. He laughed as he left the roach there favor some sad server to find when they pulled out the book. It was our little secret. Peanut was a four foot something mexican that had a crush on my that borderline on uncomfortable. We didn't make the best team because I could never see him. I would be in a hurry to race to the machine and put an order in "right away" and would bang into him because i couldn't see him with his arm of plates. He only went up to my stomach so it was a rough start for us.
Bartender Brian asking me about plugging the watermelon lemonade. "It's the only thing I know how to find in the machine.
Tina's coffee drink blocking all the water glasses that we needed every two minutes.
Tina's ketchup run and Skinny Jeans eyes light up. I turn to skinny jeans and tell him this is his chance and he said that's hilarious.
I knew we were short on ketchup from the night before when i was in charge of marrying the ketchup's. Story about how earlier that week the bitch said i had to marry all of them and i said it looks like no one has done that in weeks. And she looked at me like no, you have to do it. I informed people that we were low on ketchup but of course no one was going to listen to me. It made me happy to be an I told you so.
My section is in the very back of the restaurant and I have the least amount of tables which was fine by me.
Watering tables. Walking around with a pitcher so I looks like I am always doing something when my tables are taken care of. The Vader bitching to me about watering her tables because she wants them to lease so she can turn over and over tables and pull in the Benjamin's. That doesn't stop me but makes me put a smile on that spreads across my face because I know there are little things I can do to get back at the enemy.
Tina tells me she is comping my big 5 top because a customer found a spot of blood on a napkin. I took that as a perfect opportunity to tell her about the roach. "Did anyone see it." Her face is in a frenzy. Ah....yeah. "Who saw it." "I'm not sure but.." And I gave her the perfect I don't know face but people know and she walked off.
Needing to wash hands and found a sink in the back that had sope on top. Found out later that beneath the suds was the dirtiest germs of all. The silverware bin from the tables. Jesus Almighty Christ.
Show how Tina has no pens ever and keeps asking for my pens till I finally had to lie to her when I was down to one pen and she remarked, "you should always have pens."
A, "It's only one o'clock."
Coffee pour foul. Couldn't figure out how to make it pout and by now knew that A was the only person I could trust with restaurant stupidity queries.
I had one, ONE, nice table of fat black women I could swear I recognized one of the woman and explored finding out.
"You seen very familiar to me, do I know you from somewhere?"
Her friend sitting beside her with balloon breasts cracked a laugh, "Not unless you've been arrested." I paused for a second then said to myself, what the heck, I was down the road to being fired anyway, and, up to this point, unfortunately had also been afraid of being myself. I decided to bust out the guns.
"As a matter of fact I have." I couldn't tell if they were surprised, confused, thought I was joking or what.
"Where?"
"In Los Angeles, I got a DUI, and spent a night in jail, and then got caught driving with a suspended license."
"Really."
"Yup. I had to ride a bus for a year, walk, bike all over town, and it cost me nineteen thousand dollars." There were no words to follow this confession, and they women simply nod their head in silent understanding.
After I grabbed the check and opened the book to find that they actually wrote me a nice recommendation on the J insert that allowed comments to be made about the food, and the service. Turns out being myself wasn't such a disease for the restaurant after all.
CHAPTER: THE NEW GUY
He was Jay in Silent Bob Strikes again. Sporting a thick leather beaded necklace straight out of the 80s, he had zero facial expressions and looked like he was numb to the core. He shadowed the cool people, of course, and I never heard him say a single word. He appeared to know what being a server entailed so a couple of times I asked him for some help but he pretended not to hear me, or know what the heck I was saying. I thought that was a great tactic to avoid doing any work, (other than water tables) and played with the idea that he was mute.
My comment to the table "Thanks guys." Shit did I just call that lacoste pair "guys?" I prayed they didn't report me tot the lieutenant.
A pointing to the plate of bread spread out for the servers, "There's a fly on on the bread."
Fucking up cobb salad orders and forgetting the French toast. "What's in the fruit salad?" "Ah..I'm not sure, I'll be right back." I get the lowdown from Cat and go back to the table and rattle off the ingredients. "I'll just have the french toast." "Excellent choice, we are known for the french toast." Her snotty response, "I know. I've had it before." OoooK.
Oh and about the machine. No one told me that there is a green screen in the upper right corner that walks you through each step. Peace to that. The machine was finally not so bad and I now all I had to do was grow a nail so I could tap the right button since my fingers were to fat for the table and number pad.
Finally it was five and we could have a break for family meal. The cooks put out a plate of hamburger helper which was sitting on too of an inch of grease. We all wolfed it down along with some French Toast which I have to admit was damn good.
I walked out to find A having his 500.987,970,000 cigarette and we walked to the bar to grab a drink. We crank called Gene on the way to tell her she wasn't on the schedule for next week. We got our beers and three hours later we were at some new club opening that is NYU friend was at. She had gone to Staples to copy the free drink tickets and was flushed with tickets for us to buy drinks for free. I got home at four, crashed on the futon, and was asleep before I could curse Oprah for that episode on bed mites in your pillow.
CHAPTER: THE HUGGER STRICKS AGAIN
Trooper was missing from camp. She had crossed the streams and was spending the night at the HUGGER'S. It was a new venture for her and I was proud to see her attempt to have her first boyfriend.
“So do you like him?” She had no answer.
“We’re having dinner with his parents this week.”
“Um.”
“It’s our third date and we are having dinner with his parents.” I didn’t know what to say and wanted to be positive.
“At least you get a free dinner.”
“Seriously.”
dinner with the parents after a couple weeks.
story here that involves highlights from relationship.
CHAPTER: MTV
I landed a production job from an old buddy I used to work with. I up and left my life as a Producer to start over and now I am a PA. But it's money, and money is my breath right now.
CHAPTER: DAY FOUR
There's a new guy. He is adorable. Big blue eyes, sweeping auburn hair, gay, and moved to NYC a week ago form Chicago. He told me I was his new best friend in New York because he knows no one. It made me very sad and thankful that Trooper is here and has been my divine salvation.
CHAPTER: THE BUS BOYS
They hate me. Even Peanut said something about not moving when he carried a trash can of ice over his head to the bar. Am I supposed to have eyes in the back of my head?
"Are you working tonight?" A bread bus bitch inquired.
"No."
"Thank God."
That was awesome, especially since it was in front of everyone. Gene and I were there ready to set up at 9:30 am. I walked in to find her pulling out a bench with her tiny hands. SPIDER MAN (Dan) walked in and plugged in his headphones to blast The Who throughout the restaurant. Slowly people trickled in. Tina made it just in time to rule the meeting. And just before we were about to start the meeting, SHITHEAD saunters in wearing clothes from the night before.
"Hey guys." And no one said anything. I was livid. T ignored it, as usual, and started the meeting.
"Gene, do you know what the brunch additions to the Saturday menu are?"
"Yes, there is french toast."
"Obviously."
"Ah...the J omelet."
"What's in the J Omelet?"
"Spinach.."
"No."
"Um...sausage."
"What kind of sausage?"
"Pork?"
"Can someone please tell Gene what's in the J Omelet?"
No one moved.
"Julian."
"He raised his face with a monotone response."
"Ah..."
He glanced through the menu and read the description. The front phone rang and T ran to get it. We waited until she got back and so addressed SKINNY JEANS again.
"What's in the Benedict Johnny?"
"Ah..."
The phone rang again. T quickly walked to the host desk and picked up the phone. She hung up and walked back to our table and mid way through the phone rang again.
"Does anyone have a cell phone on them?" I asked. SKINNY JEANS pulled out his forbidden to wear cell phone.
"Call J." SJ laughed and dialed the number. T picked up the other line and SK hung up. After a few hang ups she returned to the table.
"Alright guys, where were we." Thank God I wasn't put on the menu hot seat. I had zero tolerance for this shit. Not today at least.
Again I got the back section with the fewest tables. I got my first table and it was a person eating alone. I got my second table and it was a person eating alone. The cycled continued and I realized that T sat people there because she didn't think I could handle more than one person per table. One of the women eating alone sat there for twenty minutes pouring salt on her flat-bread and stuffing it in her mouth. T continued to ride my tail.
"Why hasn't she ordered yet?"
"I don't know. She wants to chill." And every ten minutes after that T asked why I was not taking her order. The crowd thickened and the watermelon lemonade juice was requested by a table for three guests. I walked up to the bar and forgot how to prepare the drinks.
"Hey, can you tell me how to prepare the watermelon lemonade?" DV stomped her shaker on the counter.
"You have to be kidding me, you should know this by now." Back in defeated mode I put my head down and she refused to tell me. I waited till SPIDERMAN came by and grabbed him.
"What do you need." Always to my rescue I walked me through it. I forgot how to close out cash checks and SPIDERMAN explained that only DV can do it at the bar. I dropped it off.
"You have to put all the bills facing the same way." She ranted. I made no face, just waited for my money.
Time went on and I realized that some of my tables were being pawned off on surrounding servers, but I didn't care. What was I going to do but serve single eaters at my three tables. The day soared on and, not only were my tables meager, I was experiencing the Asian invasion.
"I'll have the mushroom omelet." I put it in the machine and when the food came out she called me over.
"There's no mushroom in my omelet." I threw out her omelet and ran to the machine to see if I was at fault. I typed in my number and the mushroom popped up. Triumphal I walked to the kitchen.
"I ordered a mushroom omelet for table 23 and she said there was no mushroom."
"Let me see it." Hot Chef stood waiting. I stood there. "You threw it away."
"Yeah, but I can get it out of the trash."
"Forget it." The busboys frowned on me and T stormed over.
"What's wrong?"
"Nothing, I took care of it. Everything's ok."
"Don't ever tell me it's ok." She barked in my face. I felt like I was being shitted on my one of my old Executive Producer bosses, or when I was an assistant in the agency and told not to ever correct anyone or "talk back." I guess saying anything outside of "Can you turn around so I can kiss your ass" was considered talking back. Then the Asian table had a declined card.
"Hey T, stable 28's card was declined. Should I tell them or are you supposed to handle it?"
"You do it, but don't say it's 'declined.'" Duh. Then a table grabbed me and asked me a question. Before I could answer MOLE grabbed me by the back of my shirt and pulled me aside.
"I'll take care of it." T appears again.
"Did table 30 not want water?" Thank God I was holding my secret weapon, the water pitcher.
"I'm getting it right now." I raced to the bar station and grabber water glasses. I slammed them into the ice bin and felt someone standing over me. PONYTAIL, the second to the chief bus boy stood over me. He thrusted a ice scooper in my face.
"Use this to get water."
"Yeah, I know. I was in a hurry."
"Only use this." I do speak English you know. Hell was almost over and I tracked down Nicole so she could check my sidework and sign me out.
"Hey Nicole, I am done."
"Drop this off at 40." She handed me a trey of expresso and I did as I was told.
"Here you go." I chatted with table 40 about photography, and my hair. Back at the hutch SHITHEAD stood there.
"It's funny how you always seem to end up talking with my tables." I couldn't tell if she was making an observation or was annoyed.
"I'm done with my side work."
"What did you have?" I pulled out the sheet and as usual, she ran through things with a dental floss.
"You need to grab more sugar off the tables, so you should be here for another 20 minutes and then you can go." This coming from the SHITHEAD who has NEVER been to work on time since day one.
I was the last one to fill out my tip sheet and went downstairs. ENCINO was eating and seemed happy to see me, despite that fact that A overheard her asking if I still worked here the day before.
"How much did you make?" She pried.
"I'm not sure." And I wasn't.
"What section did you have?"
"Tables 29-32."
"They call that the Dumb Girl section."
And I walked home.
INSERTS FOR ASIAN INVASION
She grabbed my arm and pulled me down to her tiny level.
"Can I get a menu?" The last time I helped with a table query I was swallowed by the territorial vulture and pulled away worse than the asian invasion before me.
"One sec." I grabbed a menu in the hope that no one would see me "helping." I handed it to twig arms and she the weight of the menu made her drop it on her mimosa and it streamed across the table. I darted off of the board floor and ran for the hills.
CHAPTER: NAMELESS
Trooper didn't come home last night again. I walked into the Camp and she was standing in her undies with a large water in her hands.
"Hi." Her smile was a pure give away.
"I don't even know his name."
"Of course you don't." It was all very funny to her.
"Do you realize that I couldn't sleep last night because I couldn't decide if I should move upstairs or stay in my bed?"
"I woke up and didn't know where I was or why I took off my contacts and he took me to brunch and I couldn't see."
"What about the HUGGER?"
"I don't know." And I had heard this for about four months and it all boiled down to this: I don't know, yes, no, I don't know, I might, sort of, maybe, not sure, let's see, probably. It had become this vicious cycle of ambiguity that was followed with the Irish guilt that dove your conscience back in the cycle of sure, ok, then I don't know.
"You know Trooper, ambiguity, and rejection then the hope ferris wheel is fine in grammar school but not so much now." I saddened me to watch her face drop. What did I know. I was a no one on the dating scene, a barfed up aftermath of a rope of bad sudo relationships that ended in a hang up from a guy I loved with nothing. Nothing after, at all.
"I really hate my life." She was unemployed and had me squatting at her narrow pad, and was leaping from bed to bed. But I think she was enjoying her twenties. And to think that the night before I knew what would unfold.
"Tons of men, nobody talkin' 2 early I'm thinkin'. 11 am
And I give her twenty minutes and then...
Seriously, too early..guys have no cajonas till 1 am, this I know. 11:01 am
And finally.
People bore me. 11:10 am
The next message was at 7:13 am the next morning: "Where am I."
He was NAMELESS and 22 and RUBIC CUBE (because he was that socially awkward) but we couldn't come up with a word for it. He was an IT.
Pre meeting:
The pre shift meeting was about to start. The cooks put out the food and the TUBBY BITCH grabs a plate and forms a mountain of sausage eggs topped off with a snow peak of Heinz which quickly drippled down the stack from the weight of the blob. Before anyone else got their good, the TB started wolfing down mount everest. Gene and I grab a seat with our meager plate of food so as to make sure there was enough for the rest.
"So what time do we get out of here?"
"Usually between five and six." His eyes bulged out of his head. He stuffed more eggs in his mouth.
"No way."
"Way." I replied.
"Fuck that, I'm training and am not staying that long for no money." He didn't get the slavery ritual for newbes.
"When I was training, I was here till the end, it sucked. Plus you have to do all the side work which gets like Joan Crawford in Mommy Dearest. " Gene burst out laughing. She couldn't control herself
"What?" I was curious.
"It's just funny because it's the truth." The TB couldn't handle it, he stared down at his empty plate, stood up and tubbied his way back to the food.
The meeting started and Jeff sat down with a big bowl of food. The chef walked over with a bowl of fresh fries.
"Try these out." Jeff grabbed a handful of Hot Chef's bowl of fries and set the remainder on the table. I could feel the heat coming from the TB's eyes as his engine fired up as he got ready for the plunge. SJ took a few. giving TB a green light to race his hand into the bowl before anyone else could steal the prize. I watched as his claw spun out like a spiders web and grasped a heap of fries, released, and grabbed a bigger handful of fresh fries, then slowly dangeled them over the bowl to make sure he got the rest, and tossed them on his plate. There were four left.
Brunch was bursting from the seams. T stormed to the back area. The TB was taking a break and wolfing down some bread.
"No eating." She barked. The TB put his fist over mig mouth and tried to hide the swallow. She got right up in his face.
"No eating!" Ten minutes later SJ put together a plate of fresh hot bread with some oil to dip into and The TB watched as SK casually ate bite after bite while chillin' by the coffee bar. I wouldn't be surprised if The TB stuffed a loaf of bread in his apron to have so he could rip off small pieces throughout the rest of brunch.
Meanwhile, I wondered how Gene was managing the machine.
"Can't you hurry up?" DV blew down her neck. Thank God Gene stood her ground. This stand of the force only ignited DV more as she pushed her way though to the machine ajacent to Gene. Gene continued to take her time and stared at the screen while DV watched. Biddy walked up.
"You need some help?"
"Yes. Where is the Mimosa Cosmopolitan?"
"It's under Mimosa." Biddy showed her through the steps.
"Thanks."
"No problem." Gene walked back to work and HH stepped up to the machine.
"Why do they hire people here that don't know how to wait tables?" DV closed her gun and shoved in her holster.
"Have you seen Erica's shit." DV spit back.
"Yeah, she's pretty clueless."
"Clueless! She's a retard." The worst." HH shoved her gun back in her apron.
"She won't last.
"I already said something to management."
"Good." The high five with the lock of their eyes made it clear they were on board to my inevitable distruction.
I walked up to the my next table chipper than a blue bird.
"Hi!" I opened the gun and a plethora of papers spilled out like a fan onto the floor. I scrambled to pick up the notes on hell while the hot lacoste shirt tried to manage his less from hitting the top of the table.
" I got it." They ordered their food and I split to the machine.
"Do you know who that is?" VB was obviously jealous that I had the table.
"He's a famous b-ball player, played for Duke."
"Oh."
"You should talk to T and send him something on the house." I hunted down Jeff and he agreed.
"Send him some banana bread." Great, I'm sure his blond baby with pencil arms was all about the bread. But I was grateful that I could send something for free so I could make it look like I did it to make up for the paper fan spill. Like I thought, the blonde egg whites only wouldn't touch the I dare you dessert and he was left to enjoy it himself. He left me a 40% tip.
"Maybe you should go to another machine."
Pro B-ball player spilling writings all over the feet of his table and he can't move because his legs hit the top of the table.
I hate the asians - Varsity Blues laughs and asked me if I carded those bitches. The kitchen sends out the wrongs food and she snorts "That's not what we ordered." There are not enough renditions of sorry in this world for the fuckin asians. They walk in mobs and hit the brunch in mobs. It sucks.
Jeffrey watching SJ eat (all in Jeffrey chapter)
Tourists sit for over an hour and pull out tourist book at the end to figure out where Manhattan is.
Finger in water
Bus Bitch pointing to me about class in ice.
CHAPTER: THE PERSONAL DINNING ROOM
It's become apparent that the PDR is for the best servers in the place, and I've lost A to the his VIP status. Or, maybe they just want to separate us like a fourth grade teacher does when you are having too much fun. It was Sunday brunch and A was tanked. This is not the first time I've heard about drinking downstairs where the managers are too busy on the floor. It was also the place for Chad, now named ROADRUNNER, does lines of coke, which explains a lot.
Turns out SUPERMAN didn't show up for work so his shifts for next week were "Up for grabs," meaning he was fired. I wanted to puke. HEDGEHOG walked in a minute before opening and missed all the pre-show set up that we all endured for over two hours. I dont' know what made me more sick, her laqidasical bullshit or the sweet, "Hi," from management like the Princess could do no wrong.
Stomach bloated in the morning from buckets of water, coffee and buttery bread and I don't even drink coffee or break bread. But I have to throw it down the pipe to extinguish the cespool left from drinking the night before.
CHAPTER: GLEN
I ran into Glen today.
"Erica." I stopped frozen in my tracks, afraid it was someone from my sorted past.
"Glen you are always on the phone." In his usual stance with his phone smacked across his ear, he told the person on the other line he had to go.
"This is our new restaurant." He welcomed me into the joint.
"Watch your step, there's wet cement." It was half way there under solid construction.
"It's big."
"Brian's going to run it."
"That's great...so Jason's going to take over J?"
"Yea."
"He's really good." I thought about all the times Jason walked me through my mistakes placing orders with patience and then giving me free food to send to tables that I fucked up.
"He has a good attitude." I yearned to open the register on the political bullshit of J but held my hate. We said our goodbyes and a rainbow crossed my face as I walked down the street. He likes me. He knows my name. My arsenal was building. The day for T to fire me was welcomed because Glen liked me.
CHAPTER: THE SCHEDULE
It was a fucked up night followed by a more fucked up day. I went out with Trooper and ended up at an after hours bar at 4 am. Trooper and I got split and I ended up walking home to find a hot brit outside CW smoking a dart. We started chatting and the next thing I knew I was in a cab to his hotel. He spent the night in the bathroom for his brother was asleep in the room. I wasn't sure when I decided I wanted to take a shower but we did, sort of. It was tight quarters. He pulled out some coke and I decided that was not something I should be around so told him I was going to get something from my purse. I darted out the door and ran for the elevator. I felt like it was the Shinning as I ran from corner to corner lost in the maze of the hotel walks of velvet red flowers. I was stopped in the middle of my cheese search.
"What are you doing?"
"Nothing." I felt bad and even worse that there was zero excuse for why I was running around the halls like a mouse in a maze. I didn't want to do anything but kiss and wouldn't let him touch me. I was still a fortress and wondered if or when the day would come when I could let the cannon balls make their way over the high walls. It would take a love rocket.
I stepped out into the morning 7 am sun and walked by another walk of shamer trying to walk in her crocked heels and thick cakey make up. I got home only to find that I beat Trooper home and could have just had the kid stay with me on the futon that night. Oh well. My head was pounding, my heart was leaking and, the day was off to a great start!
I walked into work today and found out I was not on the schedule for next week.
"Chad, can we discuss the schedule. I'm not on it."
"You're not?" I could tell he was bluffing and was not going to deal anymore.
"No. I'm not." Before I could continue he fluttered away and I was sick. I ran after him.
"Can we talk about the schedule?"
"Not now." I couldn't hear. My ears were ringing and numb that I was walking deaf. I refused to lose my hearing over this and walked downstairs to find him hiding from me in the office.
"Chad, I really don't feel comfortable working right now and not knowing what to deal."
"Have a seat. Tina and I think you should be watched some more to make sure we want to keep you on. So I'll keep an eye on you this weekend and we'll see."
"So basically, you want me to work this weekend than are going to fire me on Sunday because I requested two weeks off."
"Well.."
"No, so you knew you were cutting me over a week ago when I requested the time off to visit with my mother in town and work in a pilot and lied to my face when I asked you if that was cool and now you are giving me the run around knee jerk shit so you don't seem like you are "firing" me but putting me on some probation where I can be insecure and on egg shells while you watch my every move."
"This is really coming from Tina."
"Yeah but she's not here so that's that." There were no more words to exchange. What was the point of talking with lies.
I walked out the front door and mumbled under my breath Sleep Tight you Morons! Threw my apron in the nearest trash can on the street and walked home in the rain.
CHAPTER: SHIT CREEK
I got home to some more terrible news. The MTV pilot was being pushed for another week which meant another lost income for seven whole days. I tried to get a grip but the tears started balling up in my throat. Perfect. I lose my job at J over this stupid pilot. I left Hollywood to end the bullshit of the show world and it bite me in the ass. Plus, my mom was coming into town for her cancer trip and now I had to work the whole time.
I went for a run and it became apparent that my ending at J was not sitting well. Nothing was sitting well. I decided it was time for the little guy to stand up to bullshit. I got home, sat on the floor of Camp Widdleton and pulled out my sisters laptop. Twenty minutes later I emailed the owner the following:
Dear G,
I am writing to let you know that I really enjoyed working for you at J. I especially appreciated that you met me once, remembered my name, and treated me with respect. However, there are some issues that I would like to address concerning the treatment of employees at J.
Yesterday, I showed up to work to discover that I was not on the schedule for next week. My name was deleted from the spreadsheet without any warning. This is after working my ass off for two weeks, for free, and then had only worked a little over a week at J. Over a week ago, I asked for permission to have two weeks off in October (I am a television producer and got a gig on a pilot) and was told that was fine. The truth is it was not "fine," and there were plans in motion to have me fired which resulted in the distribution of a schedule, sans my name, without letting me know. Essentially, the decision was made days prior, and I was not informed, but made to believe I had a job there. Co-workers were coming up to me, asking me why I was not on the schedule, which was humiliating, and I had no response. It became very apparent to me that I was being treated with zero respect, after I had gone through the process of training and becoming a server. I find this discerning, for if I was told it was not ok to take another temporary job, but instead was lied to, then I could have said no to the pilot and kept my job. However, this did not occur, and instead, a shady procedure unfolded where I was not sure what the deal was, or where I stood. I suppose I should have lied about why I needed time off to help ensure my employment, but I am a straight shooter, and not so keen on fabrication to get by in life.
Needless to say, there is a rotating door at J that is questionable and upsetting. Since I have been there two people have been let go who were solid people, hard workings, amicable with customers and a pleasure to be around. Meanwhile, five other people have been brought onboard to go through training. The hire and fire regularity is absurd. Additionally, the fear tactics of certain management breeds an atmosphere of fear and insecurity among some staff, which often times spurs an unhealthy atmosphere. Moreover, when you enter J, the paranoia runs high, which is interesting because there should be nothing to hide.
Bottom line, I am telling you all this because I like you. I like your character and hands on approach to J and wish things could have worked out for me there. Yes, it was a steep slope of a learning curve for me, but the customers liked me, so at the end of the day I could only move forward in my knowledge, and find solace in the fact that I made the customers have a pleasant experience at J.
I wish you the best success at The Smiths and if anything, I hope you gain some knowledge of how people are treated at J and find a way to make a difference so someone in the future doesn't end up in my shoes.
Best Regards
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