This blog is dead. Because there are things I want to write that I don't feel comfortable writing about knowing who some of my readers are. There are just somethings I would like to say that I don't feel like exposing to the people that know me.
I want to be free to write whatever the hell I want.
If I don't actually know you IRL, and you want a link to the new blog, I'll gladly provide it. For more entertainment, read the blogs on the blogroll on the right of this page, they are all worthy of your time.
-C.
Friday, May 23, 2008
Monday, May 5, 2008
Pride Goeth Before the Fall
It's four in the morning and I can't sleep. Again.
Even a city as big as Chicago is quiet around this time of night. Every now and then you can hear the sound of a car driving by, or the El rumbling in the distance. But for the most part - the city sleeps.
I am scheduled to wake up in four hours to get ready for work. Another day in a job that won't reward me for the things I do. I think that since they know I can't leave, they feel free to take advantage of me.
In November I was told I was going to get a promotion. Then I heard nothing. It is now May and I am still working for them and not making near enough. I was told in April they were working on it again, but it is taking time.
I don't think they realize that time is the one thing I do not have. I am swimming in debt and bills that I can't afford to pay. I have student loans, rent, and two maxed out credit cards, plus a third that is slowly getting there. I don't spend my money on frivolous things. This month I bought a sweater and a pair of shoes. It was the first time I bought any clothing since October. The sweater was for the hell of it, but the shoes I needed.
Every now and then I'll spend a few dollars on a movie, or a few more on going out and drinking with my friends. But I've never felt the need to spend forty some dollars on a DVD set, or three hundred on an X-Box. If you look in my room, you'd be surprised by how little I own. I own clothes. I own a computer that is almost eight years old and is dying on me. I own a TV and I own a DVD player. And I own a few books.
I do not own jewlery. I do not own a video game system. I do not own an iPod. I do not own a bed. I was recently given a desk and a shelf of drawers for Christmas by my roommates - something I considered extravagant.
I'm not a materialistic person. I don't need things. Sure, there are things I would love to have. But I don't need them. And I know I can't afford them.
I've been reading a new blog, Fabulously Broke in the City. While I skim over the sections of the blog that detail women's fashion, I found her writings on finances intriguing, as was her steady climb out of debt. She talks often about how her friends complain that they never have enough money and then go out and buy some thousand dollar designer purses.
I could only wish I had that much money. When I look at my finances every month, I am honestly unsure how I manage to get through the days. Under thirty hours a week at work. Eight dollars an hour. I am lucky if I bring home 250 dollars a week. Out of the less than 1000 I get a month, 450 goes to rent. Another 450 goes to credit card bills.
That leaves me with less than a hundred dollars to spend on food. Some months (this month for instance) - I only have twenty-five dollars actually budgeted for food - so I am forced to rack up more credit card debt in order to survive.
I'll be reading the blogs of people as they work their way out of debt, or those complaining about lack of money and I'll think to myself. Christ, if I could make 10 dollars an hour...
Fabulously Broke in the City brings home well over a thousand a week. I always think to myself, good God - I don't even know what I would DO with that much money. Over 4k a month? I've never even had 4k in the bank.
The problem is, of course, the fact that companies aren't hiring me. The good ones, at least. I could get a job at McDonalds for another 8 bucks an hour to supplement my current one. I was yelled at by my roommates recently for turning down a temp job because I felt it was beneath me.
"You need the money!" they said.
"I know," I replied. "But I can't do that to myself."
I have an IQ of 154. I have the creative spark of a Greek muse. I know computers. I type fast. I am charismatic. I am good looking. I have never been fired. I always work hard. I have great references from all of my bosses I've worked for previously...
And it seems the only jobs that will accept me are the ones that want me to sit at a table for eight hours and open letters and remove the contents so the people that make a thousand dollars a week don't have to paper-cut their delicate fingers.
Why?
Because I am deaf.
I'm not really deaf though, I am hard of hearing.
There is a difference that people don't seem to understand. Deaf people CAN'T HEAR YOU. Hard of hearing people like me can function perfectly well in a hearing society, deaf people struggle far harder to do so.
My only flaw is, I can't hear on the phone.
My only problem is, that the jobs that require the use of phones are the ones that bring home the thousand dollars a week.
I've been pigeonholed by genetics, bad luck, and stereotypes to spend the rest of my life doing the shit jobs no one else wants to do. There's a reason you always see the old deaf guy sweeping up the movie theaters. Or the deaf woman working as a janitor. Or the deaf kid flipping burgers.
I refuse to lower myself to that standard and that stereotype. I have an IQ of 154, I'm not going to slum around for 10 bucks an hour opening letters for rich people that I am smarter than.
Pride goeth before the fall, the saying goes. You better swallow your pride before you choke on it, people tell me. Pride is a sin, my priest once said.
Sure.
But what you perceive as pride, I perceive as honor. There is a quote from a play called Cyrano de Bergarac that I absolutely love. "I may not climb high, but I will climb alone."
I fancy myself a Cyrano in more ways than one (his nose = my ears). And like the hero of that play, I won't kow-tow to what others want me to be.
When I die, and it is time for me to be judged by whatever supreme being is out there, I want to be able to look directly into the eyes of God when he asks me, "How did you live your life?"
I want to be able to say, "With honor."
So I continue to apply to jobs. I spend an hour each morning and an hour in the middle of day and an hour at night on the internet applying for jobs. I walk the streets at least once a week and hand out resumes. And I receive nothing in response.
I looked over my roommate's resume recently. And I saw all the great things she had done. All of her accomplishments she achieved at her jobs. I looked at the resume and saw a whole list of things I was never even given the chance to attempt.
That job she currently works for and hates? I would kill for that job - but it requires phones. My other roommate had another job as a glorified receptionist in an office that he loathed as well. Ten dollars an hour. Forty hours a week.
I want that job. But it requires phones.
Any job that gives you anything above eight dollars an hour - those are the jobs I am never given the chance to do. Or those are the jobs that are beneath me.
If I wanted, I could get a job as a trash collector. A sanitation engineer. A plumber. A sewage worker. All of these pay well over fifteen dollars an hour.
But I know I am smarter than those sort of things. I want a job that is worthy of me. I want a job that pushes me to try things I have never done. I want a job that challenges me. A job with obstacles to overcome.
I don't want a job opening letters for rich people. I don't want a job flipping burgers or sweeping up movie theaters.
I want a job I can be proud of.
And maybe you'll say, "You are struggling to survive, right now. You need to accept whatever job you get."
No. No, I don't. Or rather; no, I won't.
I have spent all my life battling the sort of prejudices my disability has saddled me with, and I am not going to stop now. When I was in middle school, I was put in the 'lower-division' courses because they felt I wouldn't be able to hear the teacher properly and understand/comprehend on the level of the other students.
When I was in high school, they told me I didn't have to take a foreign language. I knew I'd probably flunk it, but I demanded to take it anyways.
When I was in college, they offered me all this support. They said I could take tests in a private room all by myself. They gave me someone to type up whatever the teacher was lecturing on a computer screen. They offered me more powerful hearing aids, fancy gizmos that served as microphones directly from the teacher to my hearing aids.
They told me I needed help to exist on the same level as the other students.
I bristled, I fought, and while I was defeated on some of those issues - others I triumphed. I refused to take tests by myself. I refused to have teachers give me different tests.
When I took Theatre History, the entire class would spend weeks agonizing over the tests. They would spend weeks coming up with answers to the essay questions the professor proposed on the study guides. There was a girl in my class who was blind. She loved being blind. She talked about being blind all the time. She reveled in the fact that she was blind.
"Look at me," she seemed to say every day, "I am blind! I deserve your attention and your pity."
Everyone else in the class had to answer two essays questions on the Theatre History exam. Some would fill up two or three blue books with their responses. The study guides had four possible essay questions. We never knew exactly which ones were going to be on the test, so we studied them all.
This girl, she had only to answer one. She told me she knew which one it was beforehand.
This girl, she would then lord over the fact she got a better grade than anyone else in the class. This girl had an unfair advantage just because she was blind and used it to get whatever she could.
Me? I was offered the same thing as her when I registered for the college. The disability department said they could help me out in similar ways with my teachers and my tests.
No thanks, I said.
You should take it, they told me, make it as easy for you as you can.
Screw you, I said. I will not be treated differently than anyone else.
But I am. People do treat me differently because of my hearing, and I hate it. I hate it with every fiber of my being. I will never, ever, ever grow to accept the fact that I have a hearing problem. I will always demand to be normal. I will always hope that one day I will wake up and be magically cured. I will never lower myself to the level of that girl in my Theatre History class, using her disability to get whatever advantage she can.
This girl, by the way, was also black.
On top of that, I am pretty sure she was a crack baby. She would talk for hours (and no one would listen) about her home life. Her mother was a lesbian, she said. Her family had drug problems, she said.
She was a walking minority, she said. Pity me. Please.
Screw you, I would think when she would go off on her rants.
At least you can fucking hear.
Which is worse? Being deaf or being blind?
When you are deaf, you are cut off from the world in a way you are not when you are blind. Communication is the foundation of our society. Remove that aspect of your life, and you are alienated. Take away your phones, your radios, your gossipping friends. Take away your ability to just sit and meet new people and network. Take away your own ability to speak as fluently as you like.
When you are blind, you live in a world where the lights are permanently turned off.
This girl, she wasn't fully blind. She could still see shapes and colors.
Me? I can still hear things.
We weren't at all that different, disability wise, if you really think about it. We both had our disabilities, but they weren't severe as other people we knew.
This girl, she is currently in California, riding the coattails of her minorities as she claims to have partied with famous stars. She is working on becoming a film director, last I heard. This blind girl, who says she needs help in everything because she can't see, this blind girl is trying to make it in a medium that requires visual acuity. This blind girl is getting help and pity and support wherever she goes because she is blind, black, and a crack baby.
And me?
I could be having the same success as her, if I wanted. There are organizations all over the country that would help me the way they help her.
But I won't do that. Or rather, I can't.
I will not be that girl.
And so I sit here, at five in the morning, stressed out about money - making far too little at a job that won't give me the promotion I deserve. Constantly applying for jobs that won't even look at me.
When I die and I go before God to be judged, He will ask me: "Were you happy with the way your life turned out?"
"No," I will respond. "I was not happy with the way it turned out."
"But," I'll add, "I am happy with how I lived it."
Even a city as big as Chicago is quiet around this time of night. Every now and then you can hear the sound of a car driving by, or the El rumbling in the distance. But for the most part - the city sleeps.
I am scheduled to wake up in four hours to get ready for work. Another day in a job that won't reward me for the things I do. I think that since they know I can't leave, they feel free to take advantage of me.
In November I was told I was going to get a promotion. Then I heard nothing. It is now May and I am still working for them and not making near enough. I was told in April they were working on it again, but it is taking time.
I don't think they realize that time is the one thing I do not have. I am swimming in debt and bills that I can't afford to pay. I have student loans, rent, and two maxed out credit cards, plus a third that is slowly getting there. I don't spend my money on frivolous things. This month I bought a sweater and a pair of shoes. It was the first time I bought any clothing since October. The sweater was for the hell of it, but the shoes I needed.
Every now and then I'll spend a few dollars on a movie, or a few more on going out and drinking with my friends. But I've never felt the need to spend forty some dollars on a DVD set, or three hundred on an X-Box. If you look in my room, you'd be surprised by how little I own. I own clothes. I own a computer that is almost eight years old and is dying on me. I own a TV and I own a DVD player. And I own a few books.
I do not own jewlery. I do not own a video game system. I do not own an iPod. I do not own a bed. I was recently given a desk and a shelf of drawers for Christmas by my roommates - something I considered extravagant.
I'm not a materialistic person. I don't need things. Sure, there are things I would love to have. But I don't need them. And I know I can't afford them.
I've been reading a new blog, Fabulously Broke in the City. While I skim over the sections of the blog that detail women's fashion, I found her writings on finances intriguing, as was her steady climb out of debt. She talks often about how her friends complain that they never have enough money and then go out and buy some thousand dollar designer purses.
I could only wish I had that much money. When I look at my finances every month, I am honestly unsure how I manage to get through the days. Under thirty hours a week at work. Eight dollars an hour. I am lucky if I bring home 250 dollars a week. Out of the less than 1000 I get a month, 450 goes to rent. Another 450 goes to credit card bills.
That leaves me with less than a hundred dollars to spend on food. Some months (this month for instance) - I only have twenty-five dollars actually budgeted for food - so I am forced to rack up more credit card debt in order to survive.
I'll be reading the blogs of people as they work their way out of debt, or those complaining about lack of money and I'll think to myself. Christ, if I could make 10 dollars an hour...
Fabulously Broke in the City brings home well over a thousand a week. I always think to myself, good God - I don't even know what I would DO with that much money. Over 4k a month? I've never even had 4k in the bank.
The problem is, of course, the fact that companies aren't hiring me. The good ones, at least. I could get a job at McDonalds for another 8 bucks an hour to supplement my current one. I was yelled at by my roommates recently for turning down a temp job because I felt it was beneath me.
"You need the money!" they said.
"I know," I replied. "But I can't do that to myself."
I have an IQ of 154. I have the creative spark of a Greek muse. I know computers. I type fast. I am charismatic. I am good looking. I have never been fired. I always work hard. I have great references from all of my bosses I've worked for previously...
And it seems the only jobs that will accept me are the ones that want me to sit at a table for eight hours and open letters and remove the contents so the people that make a thousand dollars a week don't have to paper-cut their delicate fingers.
Why?
Because I am deaf.
I'm not really deaf though, I am hard of hearing.
There is a difference that people don't seem to understand. Deaf people CAN'T HEAR YOU. Hard of hearing people like me can function perfectly well in a hearing society, deaf people struggle far harder to do so.
My only flaw is, I can't hear on the phone.
My only problem is, that the jobs that require the use of phones are the ones that bring home the thousand dollars a week.
I've been pigeonholed by genetics, bad luck, and stereotypes to spend the rest of my life doing the shit jobs no one else wants to do. There's a reason you always see the old deaf guy sweeping up the movie theaters. Or the deaf woman working as a janitor. Or the deaf kid flipping burgers.
I refuse to lower myself to that standard and that stereotype. I have an IQ of 154, I'm not going to slum around for 10 bucks an hour opening letters for rich people that I am smarter than.
Pride goeth before the fall, the saying goes. You better swallow your pride before you choke on it, people tell me. Pride is a sin, my priest once said.
Sure.
But what you perceive as pride, I perceive as honor. There is a quote from a play called Cyrano de Bergarac that I absolutely love. "I may not climb high, but I will climb alone."
I fancy myself a Cyrano in more ways than one (his nose = my ears). And like the hero of that play, I won't kow-tow to what others want me to be.
When I die, and it is time for me to be judged by whatever supreme being is out there, I want to be able to look directly into the eyes of God when he asks me, "How did you live your life?"
I want to be able to say, "With honor."
So I continue to apply to jobs. I spend an hour each morning and an hour in the middle of day and an hour at night on the internet applying for jobs. I walk the streets at least once a week and hand out resumes. And I receive nothing in response.
I looked over my roommate's resume recently. And I saw all the great things she had done. All of her accomplishments she achieved at her jobs. I looked at the resume and saw a whole list of things I was never even given the chance to attempt.
That job she currently works for and hates? I would kill for that job - but it requires phones. My other roommate had another job as a glorified receptionist in an office that he loathed as well. Ten dollars an hour. Forty hours a week.
I want that job. But it requires phones.
Any job that gives you anything above eight dollars an hour - those are the jobs I am never given the chance to do. Or those are the jobs that are beneath me.
If I wanted, I could get a job as a trash collector. A sanitation engineer. A plumber. A sewage worker. All of these pay well over fifteen dollars an hour.
But I know I am smarter than those sort of things. I want a job that is worthy of me. I want a job that pushes me to try things I have never done. I want a job that challenges me. A job with obstacles to overcome.
I don't want a job opening letters for rich people. I don't want a job flipping burgers or sweeping up movie theaters.
I want a job I can be proud of.
And maybe you'll say, "You are struggling to survive, right now. You need to accept whatever job you get."
No. No, I don't. Or rather; no, I won't.
I have spent all my life battling the sort of prejudices my disability has saddled me with, and I am not going to stop now. When I was in middle school, I was put in the 'lower-division' courses because they felt I wouldn't be able to hear the teacher properly and understand/comprehend on the level of the other students.
When I was in high school, they told me I didn't have to take a foreign language. I knew I'd probably flunk it, but I demanded to take it anyways.
When I was in college, they offered me all this support. They said I could take tests in a private room all by myself. They gave me someone to type up whatever the teacher was lecturing on a computer screen. They offered me more powerful hearing aids, fancy gizmos that served as microphones directly from the teacher to my hearing aids.
They told me I needed help to exist on the same level as the other students.
I bristled, I fought, and while I was defeated on some of those issues - others I triumphed. I refused to take tests by myself. I refused to have teachers give me different tests.
When I took Theatre History, the entire class would spend weeks agonizing over the tests. They would spend weeks coming up with answers to the essay questions the professor proposed on the study guides. There was a girl in my class who was blind. She loved being blind. She talked about being blind all the time. She reveled in the fact that she was blind.
"Look at me," she seemed to say every day, "I am blind! I deserve your attention and your pity."
Everyone else in the class had to answer two essays questions on the Theatre History exam. Some would fill up two or three blue books with their responses. The study guides had four possible essay questions. We never knew exactly which ones were going to be on the test, so we studied them all.
This girl, she had only to answer one. She told me she knew which one it was beforehand.
This girl, she would then lord over the fact she got a better grade than anyone else in the class. This girl had an unfair advantage just because she was blind and used it to get whatever she could.
Me? I was offered the same thing as her when I registered for the college. The disability department said they could help me out in similar ways with my teachers and my tests.
No thanks, I said.
You should take it, they told me, make it as easy for you as you can.
Screw you, I said. I will not be treated differently than anyone else.
But I am. People do treat me differently because of my hearing, and I hate it. I hate it with every fiber of my being. I will never, ever, ever grow to accept the fact that I have a hearing problem. I will always demand to be normal. I will always hope that one day I will wake up and be magically cured. I will never lower myself to the level of that girl in my Theatre History class, using her disability to get whatever advantage she can.
This girl, by the way, was also black.
On top of that, I am pretty sure she was a crack baby. She would talk for hours (and no one would listen) about her home life. Her mother was a lesbian, she said. Her family had drug problems, she said.
She was a walking minority, she said. Pity me. Please.
Screw you, I would think when she would go off on her rants.
At least you can fucking hear.
Which is worse? Being deaf or being blind?
When you are deaf, you are cut off from the world in a way you are not when you are blind. Communication is the foundation of our society. Remove that aspect of your life, and you are alienated. Take away your phones, your radios, your gossipping friends. Take away your ability to just sit and meet new people and network. Take away your own ability to speak as fluently as you like.
When you are blind, you live in a world where the lights are permanently turned off.
This girl, she wasn't fully blind. She could still see shapes and colors.
Me? I can still hear things.
We weren't at all that different, disability wise, if you really think about it. We both had our disabilities, but they weren't severe as other people we knew.
This girl, she is currently in California, riding the coattails of her minorities as she claims to have partied with famous stars. She is working on becoming a film director, last I heard. This blind girl, who says she needs help in everything because she can't see, this blind girl is trying to make it in a medium that requires visual acuity. This blind girl is getting help and pity and support wherever she goes because she is blind, black, and a crack baby.
And me?
I could be having the same success as her, if I wanted. There are organizations all over the country that would help me the way they help her.
But I won't do that. Or rather, I can't.
I will not be that girl.
And so I sit here, at five in the morning, stressed out about money - making far too little at a job that won't give me the promotion I deserve. Constantly applying for jobs that won't even look at me.
When I die and I go before God to be judged, He will ask me: "Were you happy with the way your life turned out?"
"No," I will respond. "I was not happy with the way it turned out."
"But," I'll add, "I am happy with how I lived it."
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
There's a Face I Know Too Well...
Sometimes I awaken in the middle of the night from a dream that I can't remember anything about. I remember the feeling of it though, whether it was a happy dream or a sad dream or a dream designed to tap into my inner fears.
I'll wake up sometimes in a cold sweat, my shirt drenched with ice. I'll wake up with a shiver running down my spine. I'll wake up with a feeling of euphoria. I'll wake up with an immense sense of dread. I'll wake up feeling insignificantly small in the scope of things.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and roll onto my right side. Even in the dark, I can see my reflection in the mirror by whatever ambient light seeps through the window from the city.
Sometimes I'll get up and walk to the mirror and take a good, long, close look at myself.
Most times I do not like what I see.
I see the beginning of crow's feet at the corner of my eyes, I see my eyelids beginning to sag. I see my skin becoming rougher, my fingers more calloused. I see the root of age burying into my veins. I see my eyes, so judgmental towards others - even moreso towards myself.
"Who are you?" I hear myself asking. "Who are you and what have you done with my youth?"
As the nights roll on by, I sleep and I dream. I dream of my past, and my present, and what could be. When I dream of the past, I dream of things I wish I could change. When I dream of the present, I dream of things that I wish would happen.
But when I dream of the future...
I see myself standing in front of the mirror in ten years, my fingers tracing over the outline of my face in the dark. I see those crow's feet set deep into my weathered skin. I see my lips, cracked from age and not nearly as full as they used to be. I see my breath shallow and ragged. I see my hair, once thick - now thin. I see my eyes, tired and lifeless.
When I dream of the future I see myself as I hope to never become.
Sometimes when I wake up and look in the mirror I see those parts of me - the crow's feet, the eyes, the skin - I see myself slowly becoming that which I fear most.
I fear becoming one of those faceless forty-somethings that you only see in the carpool lane. I fear becoming boring, stale, and tired. I fear, more than anything else, becoming forgotten.
When I look into the mirror at night, the longer I look, the more my features drain away into the darkness. The first to go is the outline of my face and slowly everything blurs away until I am left with only my own eyes to gaze upon.
My reflection gazes back at me, eyes soulless and empty.
"What have you done with my youth?" I ask him.
"What have you done with mine?" he replies.
"Your youth has been wasted," I answer, "With mistakes and missteps."
"As has yours," he retorts - his eyes starting to fade away with the rest of him.
People say you learn from your mistakes, but what people never tell you that you never get a chance to correct the mistakes you made.
Those wrong paths you took, you never get a chance to backtrack and do them again.
Those four weeks you wasted on someone who wasn't right for you, you'll never get them back.
Those six hours you spent doing nothing but watching shitty reality TV, those are gone.
So you look back at those moments in your life that you ruined, and while you look back you waste even more time.
My time on this earth is finite. Like everything, it will eventually come to an end.
This is what I see when I look at myself in the mirror. I see myself getting old and becoming useless, and I never want that to happen. I never want to be put in a nursing home. I never want to be that old guy that someone has to take care of. The day I find myself needing the assistance of others to get around is the day I will close the chapter on my life.
And this is on a good day.
I'll wake up sometimes in a cold sweat, my shirt drenched with ice. I'll wake up with a shiver running down my spine. I'll wake up with a feeling of euphoria. I'll wake up with an immense sense of dread. I'll wake up feeling insignificantly small in the scope of things.
Sometimes I wake up in the middle of the night and roll onto my right side. Even in the dark, I can see my reflection in the mirror by whatever ambient light seeps through the window from the city.
Sometimes I'll get up and walk to the mirror and take a good, long, close look at myself.
Most times I do not like what I see.
I see the beginning of crow's feet at the corner of my eyes, I see my eyelids beginning to sag. I see my skin becoming rougher, my fingers more calloused. I see the root of age burying into my veins. I see my eyes, so judgmental towards others - even moreso towards myself.
"Who are you?" I hear myself asking. "Who are you and what have you done with my youth?"
As the nights roll on by, I sleep and I dream. I dream of my past, and my present, and what could be. When I dream of the past, I dream of things I wish I could change. When I dream of the present, I dream of things that I wish would happen.
But when I dream of the future...
I see myself standing in front of the mirror in ten years, my fingers tracing over the outline of my face in the dark. I see those crow's feet set deep into my weathered skin. I see my lips, cracked from age and not nearly as full as they used to be. I see my breath shallow and ragged. I see my hair, once thick - now thin. I see my eyes, tired and lifeless.
When I dream of the future I see myself as I hope to never become.
Sometimes when I wake up and look in the mirror I see those parts of me - the crow's feet, the eyes, the skin - I see myself slowly becoming that which I fear most.
I fear becoming one of those faceless forty-somethings that you only see in the carpool lane. I fear becoming boring, stale, and tired. I fear, more than anything else, becoming forgotten.
When I look into the mirror at night, the longer I look, the more my features drain away into the darkness. The first to go is the outline of my face and slowly everything blurs away until I am left with only my own eyes to gaze upon.
My reflection gazes back at me, eyes soulless and empty.
"What have you done with my youth?" I ask him.
"What have you done with mine?" he replies.
"Your youth has been wasted," I answer, "With mistakes and missteps."
"As has yours," he retorts - his eyes starting to fade away with the rest of him.
People say you learn from your mistakes, but what people never tell you that you never get a chance to correct the mistakes you made.
Those wrong paths you took, you never get a chance to backtrack and do them again.
Those four weeks you wasted on someone who wasn't right for you, you'll never get them back.
Those six hours you spent doing nothing but watching shitty reality TV, those are gone.
So you look back at those moments in your life that you ruined, and while you look back you waste even more time.
My time on this earth is finite. Like everything, it will eventually come to an end.
This is what I see when I look at myself in the mirror. I see myself getting old and becoming useless, and I never want that to happen. I never want to be put in a nursing home. I never want to be that old guy that someone has to take care of. The day I find myself needing the assistance of others to get around is the day I will close the chapter on my life.
And this is on a good day.
Sunday, April 27, 2008
The Run
"Let's go for a run," she said, her eyes glinting in the moonlight.
She was my perfect girl.
She had beautiful brown hair that flowed in waves. Deep brown eyes that always seemed to be laughing. She had flawless skin and was just the right height for me to crane my neck down to kiss.
We had dated for a year, she and I, both of us revelling in the first -REAL- relationship either of us had.
"Let's go for a run," she said.
And so we ran. Our strides aligned; mine longer and able to cover more distance, hers shorter but quicker. For every step I took, she took two. For every relaxed exhale I berathed, she inhaled twice. She always worked harder than me, finding reserves of strength during her races that I never could. I was the natural talent, able to easily place in the top five or ten.
But she always won.
But tonight we weren't running to win or lose, we were just running to run. And so we ran.
We ran across the streets, the soles of our shoes thudding softly against the asphalt. We learned from my uncle long ago that running on the sidewalks was a big no-no. The concrete of sidewalks was harder and tougher on your bones. We always ran on the streets where the blacktop was softer and easier on your legs.
Clay was the best surface to run on, we were told. Then dirt, then grass, then asphalt, then wood, and last was concrete.
We turned off the street towards the park, she slipping slightly as she stepped onto the gravel road. Me steadying her as I reached to grab her arm.
We were different, she and I. We had our different running styles. She liked to go all out from the gun, beating her opponents into submission through sheer strength of will. I prefered to hold myself back, out thinking those that set a blisteringly fast pace on the first lap - only to tire out on each successive one as I got faster.
I was from California, she was from Israel. She studied hard, I slacked off. She spent her free time volunteers, I played video games. I ate whatever the hell I felt like, she maintained a strict diet. She was rich, I was sort of wallowing around in the middle class. I liked rock music, she was a classical pianist. She was Jewish, I was a lapsed Catholic.
There was no logical reason why we should have found ourselves attracted to each other. But we were sixteen and young and impulsive and stupid. The thing that brought us together - this girl from Pennsylvania and this boy from Ohio - was our love of running. On the weekends she would come, shoes on and ready to escape whatever was bothering her during the week.
And so we'd run. Shoulder to shoulder and stride for stride. Our lips would exhale bursts of crystalline air in the hours before dawn. Beneath out feet, the frozen dew on the grass would crack and crunch from our footfalls. We'd run across the streets and into the park. And from there we'd vanish into the woods. Our trail was the old dirt path with the massive oaks fawning on either side, creating an archway that blocked out all light.
But we didn't need light to run these paths, as we had run them so many times before. Eighteen paces into the woods there was a tree root that jutted out on the right side of the trail. Twenty paces from there - a rock sharp enough to cut through our shoes. Further on there was a massive groundhog hole to avoid, and beyond that - the thorn brush. Keep on going and you hit a little inlet from the creek you'd have to jump over. Past that - the low hanging cedar bough.
We'd duck and dodge in harmony, never speaking a word, through the darkness of the woods in the wee hours of the morning. We'd run until we reached the edge of the woods, where the path abruptly ended in a massive ditch - and beyond there was nothing but the winding creek.
We'd turn around then, retracing our steps back home.
Her parents never approved of me. I was never good enough for her.
I was the kid who never lived up to his potential. Never worked hard in school. I was the kid she'd vanish at random times of the night to see. I was the kid who got her hooked on running when they would rather have had her wholly dedicated to school. I was the kid who wasn't Jewish. Eventually they gave her the ultimatum. Stop seeing me or they wouldn't pay for her college.
She obliged, but only for a little while. We were sixteen then, young and dumb and stupid. There was no way we'd actually listen to our elders.
On the weekends she would sneak out to see me - and I would sneak out to meet her. Our parents never knew.
The last time I saw her, we ran our usual path - and as we entered the woods it began to rain. It wasn't the cold rain that chills you to your bones, no matter how many layers of clothes you were wearing. It wasn't the downpour that fell so fast that it stung your skin.
It was a warm summer rain, the kind that falls when the sky is still clear. It was a soothing rain that cleansed your skin and freed your mind.
We both loved running in the rain like this. It felt almost as if the heavens were reaching down to enfold us in its embrace. Rain like this always made us run faster, push ourselves harder.
And so we did, we run faster through the woods that warm May night than we had before.
When we reached the creek, I turned around to head back - but she stopped me, her hand on my arm. "Wait," she said in between quick but easy breaths. "I want to tell you something."
So I stopped, never able to hear her voice - my eyes on her as she spoke, reading her lips to catch every word. "I --" she hesitated, uncertain, as I saw the anxiety in her face.
"I think I love you," she finally said, the first person to ever say that to me and mean it.
My heart swelled and beat a new rhythm - and there we kissed in the middle of the May rain.
For sure, there is nothing on this earth that can possibly come close to feeling the way you feel when you share a kiss in the rain.
She was the first girl I loved, even if it was just your typical high school "I got a thing for you" sort of love. But you never forget your first love, no matter how long you live.
When we broke the kiss, she smiled and I smiled, and together we turned away from the creek and ran on through the rain.
Two weeks later she was dead.
Her parents never liked me. I was the kid she always snuck out in the night to see, even though we thought they didn't know. I was the kid who got her hooked on running.
She would train in the evenings after school. After her high school practice, she would go home and run some more. We followed the advice of my uncle's book, and the wisdom of runners in the past. We never ran on the sidewalk - the concrete was bad for our legs. We always ran on the asphalt road when we could.
The night she died, she was out running, doing what she loved the most. It was a beautiful May night - and the skies was clear. The sun was setting somewhere in the horizon in front of her, and she never saw the truck barrel into her from behind.
The man was drunk, it would later come out. And now he is in prison for vehicular homicide.
The girl laid in the hospital for a week, tubes attached to her to help her breathe. She wasn't supposed to last the night. She wasn't supposed to reach the morning of the first day. But she did. She was the girl that would go all out from the gun and beat her opponents into submission.
She made it through a week and a half before she could fight no more.
I never got to see her in the hospital and I never got to go to her funeral.
Her parents never liked me. I was the slacker kid their daughter liked. I was the kid who got her hooked on running when all they wanted her to do was study hard. I was the kid that taught her never to run on the sidewalk, always on the asphalt when she could. I was the kid that got their daughter killed.
I eventually came to realize that her parents were wrong, that it wasn't my fault. But getting to that point took time. From the day she died it took two years to stop blaming myself. From that point it took another two to start dating again. And every girl I've always met since then is compared to her.
This week one of my friends yelled at me because I was too picky with girls. "Why do you always put people down?" my friend said. "Nobody is perfect!"
Wrong, I almost said, I knew a girl once that was.
But I stopped myself. Because my friend was right, nobody is perfect.
That girl I loved so long ago, her skin wasn't flawless - she was a teenager, it couldn't have been. She was a little tall for my tastes, to be honest. She never volunteered out of the goodness of her heart, but because it was required for one of her classes. She was never the best runner in her division, she wasn't even the best runner in her school. And she hated classical music.
Time blinded me, it seems.
I had created this perfect picture of what I imagined my first love to be. I didn't look at her imperfections after a while, I created this imaginary person who never existed. Because people aren't perfect, no matter how much you want them to be.
My friend told me, "People are beautiful not because they are perfect. But because they aren't."
She said, "You need to stop looking for that perfect girl, and look instead for the girls that are beautiful because of their imperfections."
It's something that has been told to me before. But it's something that never really sunk in until now.
What have I been doing all my life?
There have been plenty of girls that I've known that would have dated me. But I'd always find some minuscule flaw. That girl's nose is a little too big, that girl's fingers look a little old, that girl is too tall, that girl is too short.
"Yes," my friend said to me, "Physical attractiveness IS important to any relationship. But you're never going to get a supermodel."
That girl is too thin. That girl is too fat.
"And maybe she won't like the same things as you, but that's okay."
That girl doesn't like my music. That girl is a vegetarian.
"You need to stop looking at people's flaws and picking them apart. You need to start looking at what makes them beautiful."
And so I will. I don't imagine it will be easy. My instinct is to pick people apart as soon as I meet them.
That girl wears ugly glasses. That girl's shoulders are too wide.
But I'm going to try. I'm going to stop holding everyone I meet up to this fake ideal of perfection that I've created. I'm going to stop judging people the moment I lay eyes on them.
I'm going to try the best I can, for real.
...so we'll see how it goes.
She was my perfect girl.
She had beautiful brown hair that flowed in waves. Deep brown eyes that always seemed to be laughing. She had flawless skin and was just the right height for me to crane my neck down to kiss.
We had dated for a year, she and I, both of us revelling in the first -REAL- relationship either of us had.
"Let's go for a run," she said.
And so we ran. Our strides aligned; mine longer and able to cover more distance, hers shorter but quicker. For every step I took, she took two. For every relaxed exhale I berathed, she inhaled twice. She always worked harder than me, finding reserves of strength during her races that I never could. I was the natural talent, able to easily place in the top five or ten.
But she always won.
But tonight we weren't running to win or lose, we were just running to run. And so we ran.
We ran across the streets, the soles of our shoes thudding softly against the asphalt. We learned from my uncle long ago that running on the sidewalks was a big no-no. The concrete of sidewalks was harder and tougher on your bones. We always ran on the streets where the blacktop was softer and easier on your legs.
Clay was the best surface to run on, we were told. Then dirt, then grass, then asphalt, then wood, and last was concrete.
We turned off the street towards the park, she slipping slightly as she stepped onto the gravel road. Me steadying her as I reached to grab her arm.
We were different, she and I. We had our different running styles. She liked to go all out from the gun, beating her opponents into submission through sheer strength of will. I prefered to hold myself back, out thinking those that set a blisteringly fast pace on the first lap - only to tire out on each successive one as I got faster.
I was from California, she was from Israel. She studied hard, I slacked off. She spent her free time volunteers, I played video games. I ate whatever the hell I felt like, she maintained a strict diet. She was rich, I was sort of wallowing around in the middle class. I liked rock music, she was a classical pianist. She was Jewish, I was a lapsed Catholic.
There was no logical reason why we should have found ourselves attracted to each other. But we were sixteen and young and impulsive and stupid. The thing that brought us together - this girl from Pennsylvania and this boy from Ohio - was our love of running. On the weekends she would come, shoes on and ready to escape whatever was bothering her during the week.
And so we'd run. Shoulder to shoulder and stride for stride. Our lips would exhale bursts of crystalline air in the hours before dawn. Beneath out feet, the frozen dew on the grass would crack and crunch from our footfalls. We'd run across the streets and into the park. And from there we'd vanish into the woods. Our trail was the old dirt path with the massive oaks fawning on either side, creating an archway that blocked out all light.
But we didn't need light to run these paths, as we had run them so many times before. Eighteen paces into the woods there was a tree root that jutted out on the right side of the trail. Twenty paces from there - a rock sharp enough to cut through our shoes. Further on there was a massive groundhog hole to avoid, and beyond that - the thorn brush. Keep on going and you hit a little inlet from the creek you'd have to jump over. Past that - the low hanging cedar bough.
We'd duck and dodge in harmony, never speaking a word, through the darkness of the woods in the wee hours of the morning. We'd run until we reached the edge of the woods, where the path abruptly ended in a massive ditch - and beyond there was nothing but the winding creek.
We'd turn around then, retracing our steps back home.
Her parents never approved of me. I was never good enough for her.
I was the kid who never lived up to his potential. Never worked hard in school. I was the kid she'd vanish at random times of the night to see. I was the kid who got her hooked on running when they would rather have had her wholly dedicated to school. I was the kid who wasn't Jewish. Eventually they gave her the ultimatum. Stop seeing me or they wouldn't pay for her college.
She obliged, but only for a little while. We were sixteen then, young and dumb and stupid. There was no way we'd actually listen to our elders.
On the weekends she would sneak out to see me - and I would sneak out to meet her. Our parents never knew.
The last time I saw her, we ran our usual path - and as we entered the woods it began to rain. It wasn't the cold rain that chills you to your bones, no matter how many layers of clothes you were wearing. It wasn't the downpour that fell so fast that it stung your skin.
It was a warm summer rain, the kind that falls when the sky is still clear. It was a soothing rain that cleansed your skin and freed your mind.
We both loved running in the rain like this. It felt almost as if the heavens were reaching down to enfold us in its embrace. Rain like this always made us run faster, push ourselves harder.
And so we did, we run faster through the woods that warm May night than we had before.
When we reached the creek, I turned around to head back - but she stopped me, her hand on my arm. "Wait," she said in between quick but easy breaths. "I want to tell you something."
So I stopped, never able to hear her voice - my eyes on her as she spoke, reading her lips to catch every word. "I --" she hesitated, uncertain, as I saw the anxiety in her face.
"I think I love you," she finally said, the first person to ever say that to me and mean it.
My heart swelled and beat a new rhythm - and there we kissed in the middle of the May rain.
For sure, there is nothing on this earth that can possibly come close to feeling the way you feel when you share a kiss in the rain.
She was the first girl I loved, even if it was just your typical high school "I got a thing for you" sort of love. But you never forget your first love, no matter how long you live.
When we broke the kiss, she smiled and I smiled, and together we turned away from the creek and ran on through the rain.
Two weeks later she was dead.
Her parents never liked me. I was the kid she always snuck out in the night to see, even though we thought they didn't know. I was the kid who got her hooked on running.
She would train in the evenings after school. After her high school practice, she would go home and run some more. We followed the advice of my uncle's book, and the wisdom of runners in the past. We never ran on the sidewalk - the concrete was bad for our legs. We always ran on the asphalt road when we could.
The night she died, she was out running, doing what she loved the most. It was a beautiful May night - and the skies was clear. The sun was setting somewhere in the horizon in front of her, and she never saw the truck barrel into her from behind.
The man was drunk, it would later come out. And now he is in prison for vehicular homicide.
The girl laid in the hospital for a week, tubes attached to her to help her breathe. She wasn't supposed to last the night. She wasn't supposed to reach the morning of the first day. But she did. She was the girl that would go all out from the gun and beat her opponents into submission.
She made it through a week and a half before she could fight no more.
I never got to see her in the hospital and I never got to go to her funeral.
Her parents never liked me. I was the slacker kid their daughter liked. I was the kid who got her hooked on running when all they wanted her to do was study hard. I was the kid that taught her never to run on the sidewalk, always on the asphalt when she could. I was the kid that got their daughter killed.
I eventually came to realize that her parents were wrong, that it wasn't my fault. But getting to that point took time. From the day she died it took two years to stop blaming myself. From that point it took another two to start dating again. And every girl I've always met since then is compared to her.
This week one of my friends yelled at me because I was too picky with girls. "Why do you always put people down?" my friend said. "Nobody is perfect!"
Wrong, I almost said, I knew a girl once that was.
But I stopped myself. Because my friend was right, nobody is perfect.
That girl I loved so long ago, her skin wasn't flawless - she was a teenager, it couldn't have been. She was a little tall for my tastes, to be honest. She never volunteered out of the goodness of her heart, but because it was required for one of her classes. She was never the best runner in her division, she wasn't even the best runner in her school. And she hated classical music.
Time blinded me, it seems.
I had created this perfect picture of what I imagined my first love to be. I didn't look at her imperfections after a while, I created this imaginary person who never existed. Because people aren't perfect, no matter how much you want them to be.
My friend told me, "People are beautiful not because they are perfect. But because they aren't."
She said, "You need to stop looking for that perfect girl, and look instead for the girls that are beautiful because of their imperfections."
It's something that has been told to me before. But it's something that never really sunk in until now.
What have I been doing all my life?
There have been plenty of girls that I've known that would have dated me. But I'd always find some minuscule flaw. That girl's nose is a little too big, that girl's fingers look a little old, that girl is too tall, that girl is too short.
"Yes," my friend said to me, "Physical attractiveness IS important to any relationship. But you're never going to get a supermodel."
That girl is too thin. That girl is too fat.
"And maybe she won't like the same things as you, but that's okay."
That girl doesn't like my music. That girl is a vegetarian.
"You need to stop looking at people's flaws and picking them apart. You need to start looking at what makes them beautiful."
And so I will. I don't imagine it will be easy. My instinct is to pick people apart as soon as I meet them.
That girl wears ugly glasses. That girl's shoulders are too wide.
But I'm going to try. I'm going to stop holding everyone I meet up to this fake ideal of perfection that I've created. I'm going to stop judging people the moment I lay eyes on them.
I'm going to try the best I can, for real.
...so we'll see how it goes.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
When I Was Young
When I was young I had a best friend named Nicholas. Nicholas was more of my best friend because we were next door neighbors (or backyard neighbors as it were) than for anything we had in common. When I was young I was a book reader, Nicholas was not. When Nicholas was young, he was a gifted athlete, I was not. I think Nicholas was always jealous that I was smarter than him.
One time Nicholas made a bet with me. It sprang from his belief that he knew everything about baseball, and my belief that I knew everything about everything. Nicholas said for some reason or another, that you had to be dead to be in the baseball Hall of Fame. I corrected him and explained that Mickey Mantle was not (at the time) dead.
So we made a bet. His prized Jose Canseco baseball card for my prized Julio Franco.
I won in convincing fashion after Nicholas dragged me to his father for the answer - and his father backed me up.
That was the beginning of the end of our friendship.
Some time later, I remember riding my bike to Nicholas' house and seeing him in the garage with his mother. He hurriedly waved his mother over and said something to her. She came out to greet me and said that Nicholas couldn't play because he had to clean the garage.
I was young, but not stupid.
Since then I've never felt particularly inclined to randomly go over to people's houses and see if they are in. I always call and ask beforehand.
When I was young, I realized I could kill someone easily.
Nicholas and I got into a fight some years later. I do not remember what it was about, but I am sure he deserved it. I don't remember who pushed who first, but I do remember Nicholas' mom coming out and yelling at me as he tried to pry my fingers off from around his neck.
I remember distinctly the feeling of elation and power I had as Nicholas struggled to escape my grasp. He would punch, and he was a strong person. But when I get mad enough to fight, I get mad enough not to go down. It wasn't until his mother came out to see what the commotion was that I realized what I was doing and stopped immediately.
Some years later, a similar incident happened in middle school. Near the end of my junior high career I was in gym class and we were playing soccer. I accidentally tripped a young boy by the name of Greg. He didn't take too kindly to it and yelled at me. The gym teacher gave me a penalty flag, and rightly so - as even though it was an accident - it was still an illegal move.
After gym class was over, I was walking through the halls of the school and Greg shoved me roughly. I didn't even think, I spun around and grabbed his throat in my hands and squeezed as I slammed him up against the wall. Greg swung, he connected with my ribs solidly. He swung again and again trying to dislodge me. Eventually his swings stopped as he tried to yank my fingers loose.
The gym teacher rounded the corner, and I let Greg go and walked away as he collapsed to the ground.
No one ever picked a fight with me then - someone told me later that I never even blinked as Greg struggled. They said I was lost in my own little world where there was nothing but me and Greg's life in my hands.
In high school, I knew a kid named Mike. Mike was several years older than me. Mike wasn't cool, though he tried to appear like he was. One day before cross country practice, Mike jokingly tried to stuff me in a trash can.
By now I had learned to control my rage somewhat, and didn't choke him. Instead I swung - I connected with his eye and he yelled, "Get him off! If he does that one more time I'll --" I swung again and Mike never completed his sentence. My teammates pulled me off of him and he grabbed his stuff and fled.
Mike came to school the next day with a black eye and he never bothered me again.
I always fear that one day someone will push me over the edge and there won't be anyone there to stop me. That this time I'll go too far. That I'll do something I'll regret. I've been able to control my rage since high school, and haven't had any incidents of the sort in college - though there were many that had the possibility of becoming one.
When I walk to the El train on my way to work, sometimes, especially when I've had a rough day - I'll hope that someone will attempt to rob my place of employment. I hope that he will have a knife or a hammer or a gun and threaten my friends. I hope this because sometimes I feel all this untapped rage within me begging for release.
I'll imagine him stabbing me, or connecting with the hammer, or shooting me in the stomach. But I still keep coming, because I do know I have an abnormally high tolerance for pain. I imagine the look of panic in his eyes as I take away his life for daring to threaten me and mine.
I'll have these thoughts in my head, rage ready to explode if I am accosted by some mugger or unlucky homeless man begging for change. I wonder what I must look like to others - the guy with the permanent scowl on his face as he makes his way through the streets of Chicago. People usually don't sit next to me on the bus if they can help it - the old women will walk all the way to the back rather than risk it.
It is an rather alarming feeling to have, that of knowing that if you really wanted, you could end someone's life at your whim. We all have the ability to weigh whether or not someone is worth breathing in the same air as you. We can all purchase a gun, pick up a knife, or use our bare hands. But we don't.
Every day I glance at the newspaper headlines as I walk by the stands and see one person or another on trial for a violent crime. I wonder sometimes what pushed these people to the brink. Was it faulty wiring in their genes? Is it the product of society?
When I was young I had a relatively good life. Sure my parents divorced, but I never wanted for anything as a child. I am smarter than your average violent criminal, so it can't be idiocy of the brain. But then I remember how close I could have come to killing Greg or Nicholas if someone wasn't there to snap me out of it. And I realize that it could happen to any of us if we're pushed too far for even the smallest reasons. That little girl sitting next to her mother on the bus could be the next Aileen Wournos. The young man in the business suit reminds me of Patrick Bateman. The old man with the cane could be the Zodiac killer.
We all have the potential for evil in us - some of us more than others. But something always stops us from acting out our animalistic impulses. Maybe it is God, holding us back. Or even society doing good for once. I don't think I'll ever know for certain.
All I do know is that I never got my Jose Canseco card.
One time Nicholas made a bet with me. It sprang from his belief that he knew everything about baseball, and my belief that I knew everything about everything. Nicholas said for some reason or another, that you had to be dead to be in the baseball Hall of Fame. I corrected him and explained that Mickey Mantle was not (at the time) dead.
So we made a bet. His prized Jose Canseco baseball card for my prized Julio Franco.
I won in convincing fashion after Nicholas dragged me to his father for the answer - and his father backed me up.
That was the beginning of the end of our friendship.
Some time later, I remember riding my bike to Nicholas' house and seeing him in the garage with his mother. He hurriedly waved his mother over and said something to her. She came out to greet me and said that Nicholas couldn't play because he had to clean the garage.
I was young, but not stupid.
Since then I've never felt particularly inclined to randomly go over to people's houses and see if they are in. I always call and ask beforehand.
When I was young, I realized I could kill someone easily.
Nicholas and I got into a fight some years later. I do not remember what it was about, but I am sure he deserved it. I don't remember who pushed who first, but I do remember Nicholas' mom coming out and yelling at me as he tried to pry my fingers off from around his neck.
I remember distinctly the feeling of elation and power I had as Nicholas struggled to escape my grasp. He would punch, and he was a strong person. But when I get mad enough to fight, I get mad enough not to go down. It wasn't until his mother came out to see what the commotion was that I realized what I was doing and stopped immediately.
Some years later, a similar incident happened in middle school. Near the end of my junior high career I was in gym class and we were playing soccer. I accidentally tripped a young boy by the name of Greg. He didn't take too kindly to it and yelled at me. The gym teacher gave me a penalty flag, and rightly so - as even though it was an accident - it was still an illegal move.
After gym class was over, I was walking through the halls of the school and Greg shoved me roughly. I didn't even think, I spun around and grabbed his throat in my hands and squeezed as I slammed him up against the wall. Greg swung, he connected with my ribs solidly. He swung again and again trying to dislodge me. Eventually his swings stopped as he tried to yank my fingers loose.
The gym teacher rounded the corner, and I let Greg go and walked away as he collapsed to the ground.
No one ever picked a fight with me then - someone told me later that I never even blinked as Greg struggled. They said I was lost in my own little world where there was nothing but me and Greg's life in my hands.
In high school, I knew a kid named Mike. Mike was several years older than me. Mike wasn't cool, though he tried to appear like he was. One day before cross country practice, Mike jokingly tried to stuff me in a trash can.
By now I had learned to control my rage somewhat, and didn't choke him. Instead I swung - I connected with his eye and he yelled, "Get him off! If he does that one more time I'll --" I swung again and Mike never completed his sentence. My teammates pulled me off of him and he grabbed his stuff and fled.
Mike came to school the next day with a black eye and he never bothered me again.
I always fear that one day someone will push me over the edge and there won't be anyone there to stop me. That this time I'll go too far. That I'll do something I'll regret. I've been able to control my rage since high school, and haven't had any incidents of the sort in college - though there were many that had the possibility of becoming one.
When I walk to the El train on my way to work, sometimes, especially when I've had a rough day - I'll hope that someone will attempt to rob my place of employment. I hope that he will have a knife or a hammer or a gun and threaten my friends. I hope this because sometimes I feel all this untapped rage within me begging for release.
I'll imagine him stabbing me, or connecting with the hammer, or shooting me in the stomach. But I still keep coming, because I do know I have an abnormally high tolerance for pain. I imagine the look of panic in his eyes as I take away his life for daring to threaten me and mine.
I'll have these thoughts in my head, rage ready to explode if I am accosted by some mugger or unlucky homeless man begging for change. I wonder what I must look like to others - the guy with the permanent scowl on his face as he makes his way through the streets of Chicago. People usually don't sit next to me on the bus if they can help it - the old women will walk all the way to the back rather than risk it.
It is an rather alarming feeling to have, that of knowing that if you really wanted, you could end someone's life at your whim. We all have the ability to weigh whether or not someone is worth breathing in the same air as you. We can all purchase a gun, pick up a knife, or use our bare hands. But we don't.
Every day I glance at the newspaper headlines as I walk by the stands and see one person or another on trial for a violent crime. I wonder sometimes what pushed these people to the brink. Was it faulty wiring in their genes? Is it the product of society?
When I was young I had a relatively good life. Sure my parents divorced, but I never wanted for anything as a child. I am smarter than your average violent criminal, so it can't be idiocy of the brain. But then I remember how close I could have come to killing Greg or Nicholas if someone wasn't there to snap me out of it. And I realize that it could happen to any of us if we're pushed too far for even the smallest reasons. That little girl sitting next to her mother on the bus could be the next Aileen Wournos. The young man in the business suit reminds me of Patrick Bateman. The old man with the cane could be the Zodiac killer.
We all have the potential for evil in us - some of us more than others. But something always stops us from acting out our animalistic impulses. Maybe it is God, holding us back. Or even society doing good for once. I don't think I'll ever know for certain.
All I do know is that I never got my Jose Canseco card.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Fuck Temp Agencies
In the end, I decided not to go to this job. In fact, after I informed the temp agency - they sent me an angry e-mail about only having to stick it out for a week, so I made the right decision. Lied to and decieved at every turn by these people.
"Open-ended," they said.
"How long does that mean?" I asked.
"We don't know," they responded.
But they did know. Just like they probably did know it wasn't data entry when they told me it was.
I made the decision around 3am last night. I went to bed at 10pm and couldn't sleep, I tossed and turned all bloody night dreading going to work in the morning (and I have probably given myself an ulcer - as my stomach hurts today). As soon as I fired off that e-mail at 3am, *CONK*, right to bed.
Anyways, I'm heading out into the city around noon to do the walking-thing and find myself something. I figure I'll hit Wrigleyville and Fullerton today - and tomorrow I'll check out the Roscoe Village area or someplace else tomorrow.
One thing I know for sure is that I will -NEVER- align myself with any temp agencies ever again. I've been screwed by four of them now. So fuck them. I'll find the job hard way.
"Open-ended," they said.
"How long does that mean?" I asked.
"We don't know," they responded.
But they did know. Just like they probably did know it wasn't data entry when they told me it was.
I made the decision around 3am last night. I went to bed at 10pm and couldn't sleep, I tossed and turned all bloody night dreading going to work in the morning (and I have probably given myself an ulcer - as my stomach hurts today). As soon as I fired off that e-mail at 3am, *CONK*, right to bed.
Anyways, I'm heading out into the city around noon to do the walking-thing and find myself something. I figure I'll hit Wrigleyville and Fullerton today - and tomorrow I'll check out the Roscoe Village area or someplace else tomorrow.
One thing I know for sure is that I will -NEVER- align myself with any temp agencies ever again. I've been screwed by four of them now. So fuck them. I'll find the job hard way.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Just Can't Win
Well, this has been a rather up-and-down couple of days.
Obviously Tuesday was a pretty bad day. Then it just got weird.
On Wednesday the Temp Agency contacted me and said the job was open again (she didn't specify why, though I have my theory below). Data Entry job. 11 dollars an hour? I'm there.
Of course, this time I was a bit cautiously optimistic (as opposed to the completely enthused mood I was in Monday night). E-mails between me and the temp agency flew back and forth and I went in this morning for the job.
Well, folks, I just can't win. The job is not a data entry job. It is, in effect, a glorified mail sorting job. I don't even touch a computer except to clock in and out. Here is what I do.
Step 1: Open an envelope.
Step 2: Take out the check and the receipt within.
Step 3: Put the check and receipt in seperate piles.
Step 4: Create a stack 25 high.
Step 5: Count the total money in the check pile and the total money in the receipt pile.
Step 6: Put a stamp that says in essence, "VERIFIED!"
Step 7: Put the piles in separate but larger envelopes.
Step 8: Repeat.
I -SHOULD- be happy. I -SHOULD- be grateful. But I'm not. I feel like I did the day I landed the job at Panera Bread when I got out of college. I felt demeaned to be working with people who probably never graduated high school. These people are literal IDIOTS. If you ever ride the El-train and see one of those portly black women with three snaggle teeth and mangy dreadlocks - those are my co-workers. Or you may see the black gay guy stuck in the 70's wearing a blindingly bright blue silk shirt and matching blue silk pants. He's my co-worker too.
Then there were your white-trash mullet-wearing white girl with the coveralls and the hairlip. Yes. My co-worker.
Not a single one seemed to possess an ounce of intelligence. The woman training me kept fucking up all the math she was doing. I don't even know what the fuck stamps Im supposed to use when stamping things because she was so fucking out of it.
And this, my friends, is at a pretty big bank.
Yes, rich-people everywhere. Your money is in the hands of a bunch of half-wits exiled to corner of the top-most floor.
I was feeling somewhat like, "Is this the kind of shit Im destined for? Because I can't do phone-type jobs I have to work with people with the intelligence of a retarded rabbit?"
By the time lunch break rolled around, I was incredibly miserable. Knowing I did NOT fit in there and trying to force myself NOT to run away. I stood at the top of the subway entrance for twenty minutes trying to decide whether or not to just skip out and not return.
I seriously, truly, honestly, considered it. At this point I didn't care about the money. I cared about my dignity (what little of it there was left). I was furious that I was lied to. Told I'd be working data entry and instead forced to work this stupid check-stamping job.
I didn't decide to return from lunch break until literally one minute before it was over. I sighed, my shoulders sagged, and I trudged back into the building to sit around for another three hours while my trainer proceeded to ignore me for the rest of the day. I think, in fact, she only trained me for one hour out of the eight hours I was there. Everything else she did, she told me that I wouldn't be doing.
Now I am faced with the choice. Do I go back just because I am desperate for money? Do I whore myself out as cheap labor when I deserve better?
On a more realistic note, the big issue is this. If I go back, I won't have time to apply for other jobs. In essence, I'll be trapped there for certain. I've found I've gotten better hits from jobs if I actually turn in resumes as opposed to e-mailing them. And by better hits, I mean - ONE PERSON called me today. But one person is still better than NONE.
But if I don't go back, I'm shortchanging myself 11 bucks an hour and I will probably never be placed again by that temp agency.
Jesus Christ.
So the week has gone like this: YAY JOB! NO JOB! JOB AGAIN? YAY JOB! JOB SUCKS! GO BACK TO JOB? HATE JOB WITH THE PASSION OF A THOUSAND FLAMING SUNS TRAPPED INSIDE A SINGLE LARGER FLAMING SUN - THE FLAMES OF WHICH ARE ALSO ON FIRE. NOT GO BACK TO JOB? RISK MONEY AND MOVE BACK TO OHIO WHICH IS WORSE THAN THE DEEPEST CESSPOOL YOU CAN POSSIBLY THINK OF.
Choices. Goddammit. I hate these fucking choices.
My roommates say GO BACK. It's eleven bucks an hour! You need the money!
My friends say DONT GO BACK! It's not worth it if you're contemplating jumping out of the fucking building every second you are there.
And just for the record, this isn't the usual: "Oh God, first day on the job, this sucks." kind of blues. This is the, "Oh God, this job will NEVER GET BETTER WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING HERE?" blues.
Hate. Life.
Seething. Rage.
Unending. Fucking. Misery.
Make. It. Stop.
Also, I burned my tongue this morning and now everything tastes like fuzz. WHY GOD, WHY?!
Obviously Tuesday was a pretty bad day. Then it just got weird.
On Wednesday the Temp Agency contacted me and said the job was open again (she didn't specify why, though I have my theory below). Data Entry job. 11 dollars an hour? I'm there.
Of course, this time I was a bit cautiously optimistic (as opposed to the completely enthused mood I was in Monday night). E-mails between me and the temp agency flew back and forth and I went in this morning for the job.
Well, folks, I just can't win. The job is not a data entry job. It is, in effect, a glorified mail sorting job. I don't even touch a computer except to clock in and out. Here is what I do.
Step 1: Open an envelope.
Step 2: Take out the check and the receipt within.
Step 3: Put the check and receipt in seperate piles.
Step 4: Create a stack 25 high.
Step 5: Count the total money in the check pile and the total money in the receipt pile.
Step 6: Put a stamp that says in essence, "VERIFIED!"
Step 7: Put the piles in separate but larger envelopes.
Step 8: Repeat.
I -SHOULD- be happy. I -SHOULD- be grateful. But I'm not. I feel like I did the day I landed the job at Panera Bread when I got out of college. I felt demeaned to be working with people who probably never graduated high school. These people are literal IDIOTS. If you ever ride the El-train and see one of those portly black women with three snaggle teeth and mangy dreadlocks - those are my co-workers. Or you may see the black gay guy stuck in the 70's wearing a blindingly bright blue silk shirt and matching blue silk pants. He's my co-worker too.
Then there were your white-trash mullet-wearing white girl with the coveralls and the hairlip. Yes. My co-worker.
Not a single one seemed to possess an ounce of intelligence. The woman training me kept fucking up all the math she was doing. I don't even know what the fuck stamps Im supposed to use when stamping things because she was so fucking out of it.
And this, my friends, is at a pretty big bank.
Yes, rich-people everywhere. Your money is in the hands of a bunch of half-wits exiled to corner of the top-most floor.
I was feeling somewhat like, "Is this the kind of shit Im destined for? Because I can't do phone-type jobs I have to work with people with the intelligence of a retarded rabbit?"
By the time lunch break rolled around, I was incredibly miserable. Knowing I did NOT fit in there and trying to force myself NOT to run away. I stood at the top of the subway entrance for twenty minutes trying to decide whether or not to just skip out and not return.
I seriously, truly, honestly, considered it. At this point I didn't care about the money. I cared about my dignity (what little of it there was left). I was furious that I was lied to. Told I'd be working data entry and instead forced to work this stupid check-stamping job.
I didn't decide to return from lunch break until literally one minute before it was over. I sighed, my shoulders sagged, and I trudged back into the building to sit around for another three hours while my trainer proceeded to ignore me for the rest of the day. I think, in fact, she only trained me for one hour out of the eight hours I was there. Everything else she did, she told me that I wouldn't be doing.
Now I am faced with the choice. Do I go back just because I am desperate for money? Do I whore myself out as cheap labor when I deserve better?
On a more realistic note, the big issue is this. If I go back, I won't have time to apply for other jobs. In essence, I'll be trapped there for certain. I've found I've gotten better hits from jobs if I actually turn in resumes as opposed to e-mailing them. And by better hits, I mean - ONE PERSON called me today. But one person is still better than NONE.
But if I don't go back, I'm shortchanging myself 11 bucks an hour and I will probably never be placed again by that temp agency.
Jesus Christ.
So the week has gone like this: YAY JOB! NO JOB! JOB AGAIN? YAY JOB! JOB SUCKS! GO BACK TO JOB? HATE JOB WITH THE PASSION OF A THOUSAND FLAMING SUNS TRAPPED INSIDE A SINGLE LARGER FLAMING SUN - THE FLAMES OF WHICH ARE ALSO ON FIRE. NOT GO BACK TO JOB? RISK MONEY AND MOVE BACK TO OHIO WHICH IS WORSE THAN THE DEEPEST CESSPOOL YOU CAN POSSIBLY THINK OF.
Choices. Goddammit. I hate these fucking choices.
My roommates say GO BACK. It's eleven bucks an hour! You need the money!
My friends say DONT GO BACK! It's not worth it if you're contemplating jumping out of the fucking building every second you are there.
And just for the record, this isn't the usual: "Oh God, first day on the job, this sucks." kind of blues. This is the, "Oh God, this job will NEVER GET BETTER WHAT THE FUCK AM I DOING HERE?" blues.
Hate. Life.
Seething. Rage.
Unending. Fucking. Misery.
Make. It. Stop.
Also, I burned my tongue this morning and now everything tastes like fuzz. WHY GOD, WHY?!
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