Monday, September 21, 2009
A recap of my day is a recap of my life
You've been following me for 5 years and in that time I suspect some of you wonder when things are going to change for me.
If this blog where the movies, or some kind of mainstream entertainment it would have by now, because no one like to watch a person stagnate for this long without a payoff.
All I do is wake up around 2 pm and scarf down a couple of Little Debbie cupcakes, and drink a few cokes, and wobble my growing ass into the shower where I wash the remainder of last nights shit down the shower.
Then I stand out in 114 degree heat and wait for the bus while listening to the latest atheist podcast on my 8gb Phillips mp3 player.
The first bus is always filled to capacity with ASU students too lazy to walk to school, or too poor to afford the on site parking fee.
I usually end up standing on the bus. I have to hold on to one of the hand rails while balancing my book bag. The bag is filled with whatever I am reading, my work shirt, keys, and assorted other crap that some how biodegrades into crumbs.
If I remember to wear my sunglasses I can get away with looking down the shirts of some of the sitting coeds on the bus. Many of them wear tiny tops and their nubile cleavage is exposed for me to see.
Only I am sure my fat belly gets in the way of them getting all excited about my over age access to their cleavage, so we make a little bargain. They keep dressing like sluts, and I keep pretending I am doing something like checking my email on my ENV2, or changing songs on my mp3, and they keep pretending they don't notice me staring at their long legs in short shorts.
The social world is full of these kind of non-verbal contracts.
Once I make it to the Tempe Transportation Center I can catch my connection. I take my second bus to work.
This bus stops at a local high school. If I don't time it right I have to share the bus with about a hundred kids.
I say kids because I am not sure when high school students got so young. I say young, but what I really mean is immature.
The only good thing about immaturity is the brittleness of the bones of young people. I figure all my extra years of fighting experience and utter lack of dignity means I would win in a fight with most of the boys and even a few of the girls.
Teen Girls are tuff now. Much tougher than when I went to high school. Either that or the influx of immigrants and minorities to my neighborhood has completely changed the nature of interactions students have at my old high school.
The Mexican girls decide who sits where on the bus. Not all the girls, just the really tuff looking ones. My old high school has gone gangsta.
Only a few white kids get on the bus, and all the white kids look like sheep. Pale, mindless, nerds that wait for everyone else to find a seat before entering the bus. They search for a place to
hide stand and shift nervously from one foot to the other. Once on the bus they keep adjusting things in their book bags and backpacks.
Every once a while one of them raises their pink faces at me. Like we are brothers from some 1970's black panther propaganda film.
"This is what the world is coming to." Their eyes seem to tell me. We are the minority now.
I am not sure what their parents are telling them. But I guess I see why old white folk are getting angry. It's like all the privileges of being white are gone, and the parents of these meek fucks are pissed that their genetic offspring are getting pushed out of the way.
None of the kids on the bus mess with me.
Maybe they wonder why a 40 year old man is on the bus at 3 in the afternoon. Even if they don't understand things like politics, economics, or white man rage, they all seem smart enough to realize that NOW the last person you mess with on the bus is a 40 year old white man who has to take the bus to his minimum wage job.
That guy has nothing to lose. So in effect I am the negro that all middle white class women see and clutch at their purses and crisply walk away from . They don't want to look me in the eyes, otherwise they have to acknowledge the role they play in the social world that keeps me down.
I should scream at them, "I don't want your fucking purse, WHORE!"
I seat myself at the back of the bus next to a bisexual Mexican gangsta girl. She uses her eyes to approve of the seats the awkward looking boys covered in acne (and the earnestness of youth) get to use in some kind of secret privileged seating arrangement.
The leader of the Mexican girls tries to use the boys as a buffer against me. She knows they won't put up much of a fight if I want to get next to her, but she wants to me to know that this is her turf too. At least partially. She thinks because she has numbers she gets a little respect from me.
She chatters away at the boys and makes inappropriately sexual comments to them. The boys don't know how to handle all the upfront sexuality of the leader, but they manage to put up a decent front.
Then she makes a mistake. She foolishly glances over at me. I know she is hooked. I am the boss.
She took one look into my piercing stare (I am full of vigor- I am listening to hard rock, or something energetic with heavy beats like Kelly Clarkson) she recognizes the hunger in me from her flirtations with her meth addicted uncle and drops her stare to her feet quickly.
She knows it's not a good idea to look back at me again, but she keeps searching me out. She craves our 3 second eye contact.
She straightens her denim skirt and tugs at her bra straps. These are all dead giveaways. I make her nervous because she is attracted to me. All this unconscious non verbal communication is making me sweaty in the balls.
I stare out the window and watch as the people in cars drive past the halting bus. We make stops on this run at nearly every bus stop. At each stop the bus driver adds 2 or three more riders to an already over crowded situation.
This bus ride lasts between 15 and 20 minutes. It all depends on whether or not we pick up any handicaps. If we don't pick up any wheel chair riders I get to work with 4 minutes to spare.
I make my way around the shaded portion of the strip mall that houses my grocery store. I follow along the shaded sidewalk path to avoid the sun even though cutting across the parking lot would save me a good 3 minutes or so and not make me late according to the time clock I use to punch in at work.
I keep my earphones on even as I make my way to the time clock. If I don't wear my headphones I am stopped by co-workers. They tell me I am late, or they want to tell me "hello." They want to share the latest gossip with me.
I find my way to my locker in the air conditionless breakroom. I change undershirts and put on my work shirt and apron. Then I head to the bathroom and pee into the broken toilet that never flushes. The bowl is 3/4 full of someone else's yellow urine.
I make my way to my work station 6 minutes behind schedule. I ignore the looks from my manager or supervisor.
"I know I am late." I try and head off their complaints.
"You're always late." The heavy set Phillipino in the company CUSTOMER SERVICE vest replies.
It's all I can say.