I sold my soul
For a minimum wage.
Put the collar 'round my neck,
and bent my back like a slave.
With every indignity
I get pushed a bit further.
With every inanity
I feel my soul being murdered.
My eternal being
Is ladened with your corruption.
I'm losing my ability
For a violent eruption.
A rebellion, a scene,
A means to break free.
To wrest back from your grip
The mortgage of me.
My job has become
Anticipating your incompetence,
A psychological profiler
documenting your pattern of ignorance.
I entered into this contract
Agreeing to relinquish my right,
To call out your ineptitude
For a compensation so slight.
I speak to your face
A futile common sense,
'Til you accuse me of insubordination
And demand my penance.
So I bite it back,
And try not to seethe,
But I'm miserable, loathsome,
Guilty by association with your sleaze.
With a sigh of longing
I'll dream of the time
And the look on your face
When I'll finally resign.
But the unknown devil
Strikes my heart through with fear.
Is it possible another place
Could be more Hell than here?
So like the songbird
That fears the open door of its cage,
I leave you with my soul,
And keep my minimum wage.
Friday, February 18, 2011
Wednesday, February 16, 2011
My Friend and His Knife
Back when I was 18 and a freshman in college I had my heart broken. Or to say it more accurately, I broke my own heart. I fell deeply in unrequited love with my co-worker, and when we ceased to work together and no longer saw each other, I fell into a Hamlet-level state of melancholy. The kind of utterly pathetic self-indulgence where you find yourself writing poetry. I hate poetry. For that matter, I hated Hamlet.
So, that summer when I began working at the mall back home and met David it was easy to let myself fall for him to get over my lost love. David was the most friendly and easy-going guy I had ever met. He was tall and lanky, and he walked in lurching, lunging steps with his chest out and arms poised at his sides. He had blue eyes and spiky hair, and a goatee that he absentmindedly stroked. David had studied martial arts and liked to rough house and practice his skills on unsuspecting co-workers, or else he'd have lengthy conversations about home-made bombs. He could easily have been an imposing figure but he wasn't.
The first day I met David was my first day on the job. As a shift manager he gave me the orientation and offered to walk me out to my car to help me find the Vehicle Identification Number (VIN) to give to mall security so I wouldn't be ticketed or towed. On the way out he showed me the employee-only tunnels I could use to cut through the mall. At the end of the hall were two heavy metal doors that led out to the parking lot. With a Bruce Lee-style "Kee-yah" sound effect, David booted open the doors, sending them flying and banging into the walls and back into each other. I just swallowed and nodded at him, neither wanting to encourage or discourage this behavior.
We walked out to my car, got the VIN, and when we again reached the metal doors, they stuck. Struggling with the door, David said, "I don't know why these stupid doors always stick."
To which I replied,"Maybe 'cuz some psycho just ninja-kicked them?"
David stopped mid pull and then looked at me considering this connection he had never made, and then said simply, "Shut up," and we both laughed.
How could I not fall in love with him there and then? He was bizarre and dangerous enough to interest my teenage heart, but truly good inside. As Pepe Le Pew would say, "Le sigh."
My favorite story of David happened one uneventful afternoon. It was a lazy summer day, and not many people were visiting our eccentric little store. We worked in the most odd store in the mall, an eclectic collection of imports: from incense to sarongs, windchimes and masks, digiridoos and big brass gongs. In the back room was a wall pinned with exotic bugs that had been discovered in the monthly shipments sent to us by the store owner. Over the store PA system played the panflute-heavy world music that we sold but no one ever bought.
I stood at the cash wrap tagging necklaces. Next to the register was a stack of grainy brownish paper used to wrap the customer's fragile purchases. As I leaned against the counter, a picture of summer job malaise, David walked up to the counter. He pulled from his pocket his box cutter, not the store-allotted one but a serated flip-out knife David had brought in himself. In one fluid motion David pulled out the knife, flicked out the blade, brought it over his head, and with a visceral cry of rage stabbed the knife into the stack of wrapping paper. He then proceeded to growl, letting flecks of spit fly from his gritted teeth and trembling lips, while he dragged the jagged blade through the thin paper.
I watched David's display unaffected while continuing to tag the jewelry. Then out of the corner of my eye I noticed an elderly woman in a pink tracksuit, with tight white curls and large turquoise glasses, clutching her purse to her chest and gaping in outright horror at my co-worker. Before I could move or say anything she turned and rapidly scurried out of the store.
"David!" I pulled his attention from disemboweling his parchment victims, "Dude, a little old lady was right behind you!"
"Oh, man, really?!"
We laughed it off, until several minutes later I was ringing up a middle-aged woman. We were making polite conversation, and I was trying my best to wrap her items in the mangled mess of paper left by David, when she asked me if I had seen her mother.
"She was wearing a pink tracksuit? Gosh, I hope she didn't wander off, she's getting a little old now and having some signs of senility."
Trying to keep my eyes from getting too big, I shook my head and shrugged. As soon as she left I disposed of what was left of the wounded paper.
So, that summer when I began working at the mall back home and met David it was easy to let myself fall for him to get over my lost love. David was the most friendly and easy-going guy I had ever met. He was tall and lanky, and he walked in lurching, lunging steps with his chest out and arms poised at his sides. He had blue eyes and spiky hair, and a goatee that he absentmindedly stroked. David had studied martial arts and liked to rough house and practice his skills on unsuspecting co-workers, or else he'd have lengthy conversations about home-made bombs. He could easily have been an imposing figure but he wasn't.
The first day I met David was my first day on the job. As a shift manager he gave me the orientation and offered to walk me out to my car to help me find the Vehicle Identification Number (VIN) to give to mall security so I wouldn't be ticketed or towed. On the way out he showed me the employee-only tunnels I could use to cut through the mall. At the end of the hall were two heavy metal doors that led out to the parking lot. With a Bruce Lee-style "Kee-yah" sound effect, David booted open the doors, sending them flying and banging into the walls and back into each other. I just swallowed and nodded at him, neither wanting to encourage or discourage this behavior.
We walked out to my car, got the VIN, and when we again reached the metal doors, they stuck. Struggling with the door, David said, "I don't know why these stupid doors always stick."
To which I replied,"Maybe 'cuz some psycho just ninja-kicked them?"
David stopped mid pull and then looked at me considering this connection he had never made, and then said simply, "Shut up," and we both laughed.
How could I not fall in love with him there and then? He was bizarre and dangerous enough to interest my teenage heart, but truly good inside. As Pepe Le Pew would say, "Le sigh."
My favorite story of David happened one uneventful afternoon. It was a lazy summer day, and not many people were visiting our eccentric little store. We worked in the most odd store in the mall, an eclectic collection of imports: from incense to sarongs, windchimes and masks, digiridoos and big brass gongs. In the back room was a wall pinned with exotic bugs that had been discovered in the monthly shipments sent to us by the store owner. Over the store PA system played the panflute-heavy world music that we sold but no one ever bought.
I stood at the cash wrap tagging necklaces. Next to the register was a stack of grainy brownish paper used to wrap the customer's fragile purchases. As I leaned against the counter, a picture of summer job malaise, David walked up to the counter. He pulled from his pocket his box cutter, not the store-allotted one but a serated flip-out knife David had brought in himself. In one fluid motion David pulled out the knife, flicked out the blade, brought it over his head, and with a visceral cry of rage stabbed the knife into the stack of wrapping paper. He then proceeded to growl, letting flecks of spit fly from his gritted teeth and trembling lips, while he dragged the jagged blade through the thin paper.
I watched David's display unaffected while continuing to tag the jewelry. Then out of the corner of my eye I noticed an elderly woman in a pink tracksuit, with tight white curls and large turquoise glasses, clutching her purse to her chest and gaping in outright horror at my co-worker. Before I could move or say anything she turned and rapidly scurried out of the store.
"David!" I pulled his attention from disemboweling his parchment victims, "Dude, a little old lady was right behind you!"
"Oh, man, really?!"
We laughed it off, until several minutes later I was ringing up a middle-aged woman. We were making polite conversation, and I was trying my best to wrap her items in the mangled mess of paper left by David, when she asked me if I had seen her mother.
"She was wearing a pink tracksuit? Gosh, I hope she didn't wander off, she's getting a little old now and having some signs of senility."
Trying to keep my eyes from getting too big, I shook my head and shrugged. As soon as she left I disposed of what was left of the wounded paper.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)