So you'll be an Austrian nobleman.
Ugh. Why do I wake up before my alarm clock? Today. Morning. I sit up and rub my eyes clean of sleep. Shower. Dress. Work. Work, work, work.
But work is interesting today. I go to the office before I go to the store at which I work. I inquire about purchasing a couple uniform shirts that are in a smaller size but, "it looks like all we have are large," they say. "We'll call you when we get them in." Yeah, thanks. I pull my dirty, over-sized uniform shirt over my Rancid t-shirt and drive to work.
Apparently the night before, Ashleigh had fallen off a balcony and would not be into work today. So, I have the exclusive opportunity of working directly with my boss. My boss talks a lot about his ex-wife. In fact, as I stand there cutting onions and slicing cheese, I try to imagine my boss as the pope. Just for kicks. Unfortunately, the recently inducted pope looks a lot like the emperor from Star Wars. So, throughout the day I snicker for no apparent reason. It breaks the monotony of the exceedingly bad luck.
First delivery. Out into the sticks. I drive through the cities and hit every light that could possibly be hit. Also a few that should not have hindered me. Heading out on the highway, a tractor pulls in front of me and I am exasperatedly forced to drive behind it until I turn into the white-trash country hick neighborhood where this particular customer lives. On the radio: "In a seedy Karaoke bar, on the banks of the mighty Bosphorous, a Japanese man in a business suit sings 'Smoke Gets In Your Eyes,' and the muscular, cyborg German dudes dance with sexy French-Canadians while the overweight Americans wear their patriotic jumpsuits."
Since the radio is so loud, I do not hear the explosive engine sounds ripping out of the large farm thing flying around the corner towards me. It looks like some sort of tweaking insect, rattling and shaking its bones as it tears off down the road towards a field. The god of locusts. I drive out of the ditch and deliver the pizza.
Back at work, I try to eat something. Pasta, covered in cheese, with a couple mushrooms, pepperonis and pieces of hamburger thrown in for color. I eat half of it and about a half hour later I am in the bathroom, holding the toilet in an warm, loving embrace. It is incredibly cool to the touch, which is nice. I choke from the smell of the store's men's room. They have not been able to get any air freshener in lately. Well, except for the air freshener in the ladies' room. What comes up is not what I ate: what comes up is blood and tar. This is the third day in a row that I have thrown up blood.
I feel better. Until my car stops working. Then I just feel angry.
It comes and goes in spurts, the problem with my car. Someone tried to explain it to me, exactly what it was. I really did not understand, because I just... Mm, I study English. The relationship between Coleridge and Wordsworth; T.S. Eliot's "Hollow Men" and "The Wasteland"; the subtle changes between modernism and postmodernism. I can change tires, my oil, brakes, the air filter. I cannot, however, fathom the electrical things going on in my engine. I imagine it as some sort of strange, dark paradise. Things pulsing in the shadows, sparking and dancing in a kind of worship to some obscure machine god.
In a factory, there is this incredible sound coming from one of the machines. It sounds pneumatic and loud, with a bassy sort of back-beat as whatever was pressing the part returns to its former place. I wish for a tape recorder.
I try to think of lyrics. None come. Instead, I work harder and clean more. The day ends quickly and my car begins to return to its normal functions. The machine god appeased, I drive back to my house, shower, and come to the local community college's library so as to input this missive.
The library is almost completely silent. The odd man in a flannel shirt and gloves sits down diagonally across from me. He does not remember me, I assume. I have seen him in here for the last three years. I think he is schizophrenic.
I continue to type. Move to the previous day.
-------
Fucking Benadryl. Yesterday. Afternoon. Allergies once again awaken me and I take that strangely potent antihistamine so I can get back to sleep. I wake up at two thirty PM. Enough sleep, considering what time I arrived home the night before. Shower, dress, work.
I weigh myself. I have lost fifteen pounds in the last two weeks. My body aches. Just recently, I have been doing a series of excercises whenever I get home. Usually when I wake up, but not today. Body hurts too much.
Work. Nothing spectacular happens. At one point, I am standing in a beautiful suburban lawn, staring off at the lovely swath of blue painted just above the land in the distance. The woman comes out of her house to greet me and receive her food. She is wearing a long-sleeved turtleneck shirt and her face seems very drawn and tense. She has been crying. And I see the creeping discoloration of a bruise rising from the side of her turtleneck. I say nothing.
My bassist (or perhaps I'm his singer, whatever), Sean, talks about an asteroid heading towards Earth. I mention that it would kind of suck if the world just ended.
"It'll be nice, actually. We won't even know. It'll be just like," he snaps his fingers, "instant. And then there will be peace and we'll all be floating around in space, you know, like trash."
Aw, they'll probably have a press release or something. But that would be the stupidest thing that the world governments could do.
"Yeah, because then everyone will go fucking crazy, killing, raping, stealing. Fuck, I would. Not the raping, but if I want something and I'm going to die in like three days, then shit, I'm going to take it. If someone gets in my way, well, they shouldn't have." Sean laughs.
Right. I look around; it seems like we're the only people in the restaurant.
"Don't get me wrong, it's not like I want to be all mean and shit. Or, maybe I'd be kind of like Constantine, you know?"
No, I don't think I know. Explain.
"Well, like, sacrifice myself and protect people from the chaos and anarchy and shit. Maybe if there is a heaven, that'd earn me a place there." Sean chews a nail.
Probably not, though.
And he grins, walks off and does something with the oven. I try to think of lyrics. None come. This is harder than I thought it would be. I think about that woman, the one with the bruise and think about what Sean said about the end of the world. I wonder if something like the complete destruction of the human race would bring peace to people. Of course it would, for some people. And for other people, it would make them cry and hold their hands up to the sky and scream out their anguish. Attachment.
Not that I am not attached. Eh.
------
The grass is dewy and cold between my toes. I sneeze uncontrollably. My eyes are burning red and I am dropping tears like I am crying. Walking out to my car to retrieve my benadryl. Saturday. Morning. Back in the house, I take one pill. One. Almost six hours later, I wake up and scramble to get ready for work. Then, I read the back of the benadryl label and notice that God takes benadryl so he can sleep. Right. Work.
Boredom infects me. Agh. One delivery is interesting. A little girl, maybe five or six, runs up to the door and begins to ask me machine-gun fire questions. Mostly just about delivering pizza. It's not very interesting, really. You see things you wish you did not, meet people you would rather not. I tell her it is a great job. Her mother takes the food and the girl cries out, "Bye! I love your hair, it looks like the sea!"
And I smile all the way back to the store.
My hair is green, blue and black. Some of the blue has faded into green, and of course the black always remains. When my roots grow out, there will be black behind the blue, green and (this is just a guess) blond.
The night is long, hot and arduous. I fight and claw for a series of deliveries wherein people will not tip me. No one likes to tip anymore.
I work until almost two-thirty AM. Nothing really interesting happens.
But work is interesting today. I go to the office before I go to the store at which I work. I inquire about purchasing a couple uniform shirts that are in a smaller size but, "it looks like all we have are large," they say. "We'll call you when we get them in." Yeah, thanks. I pull my dirty, over-sized uniform shirt over my Rancid t-shirt and drive to work.
Apparently the night before, Ashleigh had fallen off a balcony and would not be into work today. So, I have the exclusive opportunity of working directly with my boss. My boss talks a lot about his ex-wife. In fact, as I stand there cutting onions and slicing cheese, I try to imagine my boss as the pope. Just for kicks. Unfortunately, the recently inducted pope looks a lot like the emperor from Star Wars. So, throughout the day I snicker for no apparent reason. It breaks the monotony of the exceedingly bad luck.
First delivery. Out into the sticks. I drive through the cities and hit every light that could possibly be hit. Also a few that should not have hindered me. Heading out on the highway, a tractor pulls in front of me and I am exasperatedly forced to drive behind it until I turn into the white-trash country hick neighborhood where this particular customer lives. On the radio: "In a seedy Karaoke bar, on the banks of the mighty Bosphorous, a Japanese man in a business suit sings 'Smoke Gets In Your Eyes,' and the muscular, cyborg German dudes dance with sexy French-Canadians while the overweight Americans wear their patriotic jumpsuits."
Since the radio is so loud, I do not hear the explosive engine sounds ripping out of the large farm thing flying around the corner towards me. It looks like some sort of tweaking insect, rattling and shaking its bones as it tears off down the road towards a field. The god of locusts. I drive out of the ditch and deliver the pizza.
Back at work, I try to eat something. Pasta, covered in cheese, with a couple mushrooms, pepperonis and pieces of hamburger thrown in for color. I eat half of it and about a half hour later I am in the bathroom, holding the toilet in an warm, loving embrace. It is incredibly cool to the touch, which is nice. I choke from the smell of the store's men's room. They have not been able to get any air freshener in lately. Well, except for the air freshener in the ladies' room. What comes up is not what I ate: what comes up is blood and tar. This is the third day in a row that I have thrown up blood.
I feel better. Until my car stops working. Then I just feel angry.
It comes and goes in spurts, the problem with my car. Someone tried to explain it to me, exactly what it was. I really did not understand, because I just... Mm, I study English. The relationship between Coleridge and Wordsworth; T.S. Eliot's "Hollow Men" and "The Wasteland"; the subtle changes between modernism and postmodernism. I can change tires, my oil, brakes, the air filter. I cannot, however, fathom the electrical things going on in my engine. I imagine it as some sort of strange, dark paradise. Things pulsing in the shadows, sparking and dancing in a kind of worship to some obscure machine god.
In a factory, there is this incredible sound coming from one of the machines. It sounds pneumatic and loud, with a bassy sort of back-beat as whatever was pressing the part returns to its former place. I wish for a tape recorder.
I try to think of lyrics. None come. Instead, I work harder and clean more. The day ends quickly and my car begins to return to its normal functions. The machine god appeased, I drive back to my house, shower, and come to the local community college's library so as to input this missive.
The library is almost completely silent. The odd man in a flannel shirt and gloves sits down diagonally across from me. He does not remember me, I assume. I have seen him in here for the last three years. I think he is schizophrenic.
I continue to type. Move to the previous day.
-------
Fucking Benadryl. Yesterday. Afternoon. Allergies once again awaken me and I take that strangely potent antihistamine so I can get back to sleep. I wake up at two thirty PM. Enough sleep, considering what time I arrived home the night before. Shower, dress, work.
I weigh myself. I have lost fifteen pounds in the last two weeks. My body aches. Just recently, I have been doing a series of excercises whenever I get home. Usually when I wake up, but not today. Body hurts too much.
Work. Nothing spectacular happens. At one point, I am standing in a beautiful suburban lawn, staring off at the lovely swath of blue painted just above the land in the distance. The woman comes out of her house to greet me and receive her food. She is wearing a long-sleeved turtleneck shirt and her face seems very drawn and tense. She has been crying. And I see the creeping discoloration of a bruise rising from the side of her turtleneck. I say nothing.
My bassist (or perhaps I'm his singer, whatever), Sean, talks about an asteroid heading towards Earth. I mention that it would kind of suck if the world just ended.
"It'll be nice, actually. We won't even know. It'll be just like," he snaps his fingers, "instant. And then there will be peace and we'll all be floating around in space, you know, like trash."
Aw, they'll probably have a press release or something. But that would be the stupidest thing that the world governments could do.
"Yeah, because then everyone will go fucking crazy, killing, raping, stealing. Fuck, I would. Not the raping, but if I want something and I'm going to die in like three days, then shit, I'm going to take it. If someone gets in my way, well, they shouldn't have." Sean laughs.
Right. I look around; it seems like we're the only people in the restaurant.
"Don't get me wrong, it's not like I want to be all mean and shit. Or, maybe I'd be kind of like Constantine, you know?"
No, I don't think I know. Explain.
"Well, like, sacrifice myself and protect people from the chaos and anarchy and shit. Maybe if there is a heaven, that'd earn me a place there." Sean chews a nail.
Probably not, though.
And he grins, walks off and does something with the oven. I try to think of lyrics. None come. This is harder than I thought it would be. I think about that woman, the one with the bruise and think about what Sean said about the end of the world. I wonder if something like the complete destruction of the human race would bring peace to people. Of course it would, for some people. And for other people, it would make them cry and hold their hands up to the sky and scream out their anguish. Attachment.
Not that I am not attached. Eh.
------
The grass is dewy and cold between my toes. I sneeze uncontrollably. My eyes are burning red and I am dropping tears like I am crying. Walking out to my car to retrieve my benadryl. Saturday. Morning. Back in the house, I take one pill. One. Almost six hours later, I wake up and scramble to get ready for work. Then, I read the back of the benadryl label and notice that God takes benadryl so he can sleep. Right. Work.
Boredom infects me. Agh. One delivery is interesting. A little girl, maybe five or six, runs up to the door and begins to ask me machine-gun fire questions. Mostly just about delivering pizza. It's not very interesting, really. You see things you wish you did not, meet people you would rather not. I tell her it is a great job. Her mother takes the food and the girl cries out, "Bye! I love your hair, it looks like the sea!"
And I smile all the way back to the store.
My hair is green, blue and black. Some of the blue has faded into green, and of course the black always remains. When my roots grow out, there will be black behind the blue, green and (this is just a guess) blond.
The night is long, hot and arduous. I fight and claw for a series of deliveries wherein people will not tip me. No one likes to tip anymore.
I work until almost two-thirty AM. Nothing really interesting happens.