Drop by sometime. Rob us blind. We have some seriously great shit. You have no idea how much I love looking at my new address. For my entire life I've felt landless when travelling. Where are you from? Connecticut. (immediately they think of Who's The Boss? and a thousand other representations of suburban NYC, all of which starred children with better shoes than I. So I tried to say Hartford for a while. But I'm not really even in Suburban Hartford. Which is to say that my parents never worked there. I did. When I worked there I said I was from Hartford. But now what? Where are you from? A small town in the middle of no where special where some people had farms, but some people had parents who worked in Hartford. A lot of them had a lot of money. But not all of them. When I worked at my last restaurant I told my tables I was from New England. That worked, mostly because people don't particularly care where I'm from. But now. Where you live? Chicago. I just like saying it.
2) Best bank moment of my life. I need to get together a shit load of money for this house, but the bank teller lady asked me out last week and I've been avoiding her ever since. I'm not a bad person, but she has a kid who is about five years younger than me (true story). I went in anyway to deposit the $100 I got for DJ'ing a party for Hillel (someone more qualified can make jokes here concerning the references to money and jews in the same sentence). She wrote my balence down and I asked if my loan payment went through. It had, which made the numbers seem off. Then she told me my tax refund came in, which was sad but great: I got the full refund but my total balence seemed off by a couple hundred dollars, but I cheated on my taxes anyway so that was fine. Then I said. "I don't know why it's still at $400." "No, Brendan, that's not a four it's a seven." I was so happy, I agreed to come to her house on monday.
3) So to recap:
a-all the bad shit happened to Brendan last week. For now, it's over.
b-I have--and without a job mind you--successfully: paid off my iPod/ made the firstandlastmonths rent for my new, sweet-ass apartment in Chicago Mutherfucking, IL/ acheived a salience of location/identity
c-All just because I: overcharge people for something I love doing and would do for free--DJ'ing/should be thrown in jail with Ken Lay/even saw the lights of the goodyear blimp/and it said 'Ice Cube's a Pimp.'
d-In the above rubrik (points b and c) I would be happy just to select one option from each and be really, really happy about it all day. But, for today, I get to have it all. Therefore:
e-Brendan wins.
4) Black British Cultural Studies was excellent today. I came in so late that the professor had already unlocked the door for the other students who came in late, but who came in before me. There's little else you can do to give your professor a subtle Fuck You than to show up late to a class with a steaming hot cup of coffee that you obviously waited in line for somewhere. We discussed, among other things, "the revivication of the term pimp" and I realized that the only way I would ever go to grad school is so that I could go to conferences with prominent intellectuals like Cornell West and Paul Gilroy and discuss pimpdom.
I'm still working on it. BUT, it's going so fucking well. I highly recommend that everyone spend three years trying to produce a single work of fiction. If only so that you, like me, can have the sensation of deep self hatred and love at the same time. Like today, when I wrote this*:
So this is the main character getting his muffler fixed in Seattle. Did my usual bit at the car place. First I mention what I think is wrong, but what I really say is that my brother, a mechanic, thinks it might be X, therefore if you wanna tell me it’s something else, I hypothetically have someone who will know if you’re screwing me over. That aside, I don’t prejudge. I don’t have to.
I think this place must have been a dealership a long time ago. The inside of the garage was more of a showroom than a bay. It had these floor-to-vaulted-ceiling windows and a lot of fashion-lights. Only everything had an extra layer of greasy fingerprints on it.
“Ain’t you Dave’s brother?” A man in a sleeveless foreman’s uniform came through the swinging door after adding five more black spots over the IN sign. “You said your brother was a mechanic, right?”
“Yeah, he is…”
“Joseph Sancho, Service Manager,” his nametag said.
“Yeah, you probably don’t remember me. But I worked with your brother when he was just a tech.”
“No he—” You know what? We’ll roll with it. “Oh yeah, at the other place, up the street at, uh…uh…” I point in two vague directions.
“Yeah, up at Hott Lube,” he points in one of my vague directions. “Just down the road from here. You used to come in and he’d change your oil. You still got that old VW?” I know I’m no little snowflake. I’m not unique. I’m a format of person. A template that so many fit. Not only am I a template, but part of my formatting tells me that I, unlike everyone else, am an individual who thinks for himself and makes his own choices. I could be on the cover of Some Mechanic’s Faggot Brother Magazine every month.
“Not anymore.” He started to check over my paperwork. I don’t know why I do this, but I do. There’s no harm, really. If anything there’s a chance for a discount. I’ll be outta here in a few minutes. And if he finds out, it’s not like I’ll lose a friend over it.
“Connecticut?” Shit. “Why you got Connecticut plates?” In every possible lie, there’s a single string you can pull to unravel it. But you gotta pull it firmly. Yank it out and it’ll break off in your hands. Tug on it once and it’ll just hang there, wrinkling everything else but not really changing anything.
“It’s my dad’s car. He’s in town.”
Joseph straightened his eyebrows and thought about it for a second. “I hope I’m not confusing this or nuthin’. But I thought he was dead.”
“Only dead to us, man. Haven’t seen him since I was nine. But he came back.”
“Dave must be glad to see him.”
“Actually Dave’s dead.” Poor Joseph, all this before nine in the morning. “That’s why Dad came. Sorry I didn’t mention it sooner, it’s just…it’s just…you know…”
“I’m so sorry, man. It must be hard.” Joseph Sancho, left with no available cover-fire, did the American thing and retreated into Hallmark cards. “He was real proud of you, you know. For going to college. We’ll all miss him. That’s so sad. He was a good dude. Fine worker. Oil change expert, man. Diagnostics too.”
“Maybe you wanna speak at his funeral next week? I mean, since you knew him and all. No pressure, though. I just remember how much he liked working with you. Think about it. I’ll be back in—how long did you say it would take?”
“Oh, for the muffler? We’re a little backed up. So I’m thinking three hours?” He saw the vacant look on my face. “But I mean, if you got shit to do, you know, for the funeral, I could bump it up and have it out in…or drop it off or…”
“No, Joseph. Dave would never want to inconvenience you. You know how he is…was...”
“Just drop by around eleven. I should have it by then,” he said. “And look, if you need a place to stay or anything, you know, with your dad here and all. We got a couch over at my place that’s all yours.”
“Thanks, Joe. Thanks a lot, man. Dave was right about you.”
*Frequently I get emails from total strangers who assume that my entire website is fiction. None of these strangers have the ability to pay me for the privelege of printing my work and making me a big star. But it seems impossible to many that my life could be as embarassing, as frequently embarassing, as it would appear to be. It is. But I made this entire story up.
In case you were wondering the best weather in our country right now is in central Ohio, where it is sunny and in the 80s. Texas can't even beat that shit.
Black Panther Balls All jokes about my balls aside. Here's a recipe I haven't made in years. The first time I made them in college was for Bobby Seale, the founder of the Black Panthers, when he came to my school four years ago.
“These are good. What the hell are they?” -Bobby Seale
· 2 cups of Oreo variety cookies
· ½ - 1 cup peanut butter (creamy or crunchy)
· 3½ cups confectioner's sugar
· 1 cup (2 sticks) margarine, melted
Line a cookie sheet with aluminum foil.
In a large mixing bowl, combine the crumbs, peanut butter, sugar, and margarine and mix thoroughly with a wooden spoon. Roll this mixture into 1-inch balls, place on the cookie sheet, and chill in the refrigerator.
Makes 3 to 4 dozen balls
Sometimes I wonder if I post things just so that they'll ping google results for kids trying to plagiarize reports for grade school.
Last night I DJ'd at a party for a historically hippie group on campus. Everyone goes to these parties, some to dress "wacky" others to look at people who dress "wacky-but-naked." It's usually a good time.
I showed up at about 11, figuring that dancing would be happening. My spot started at midnight, so I showed up early so that I wouldn't play any of the same songs as the guy before me. It was a real good set up. Table on a stage. Nice dark room where you can't see what you're dancing with. I've always wanted a stage, mostly because there's not enough room on the floor for my huge ego, but also because I can never tell if the people in the back of the room are dancing. Mostly I just watch the worthless kids who watch the dancefloor with their backs to me, who occassionally rest a beer on the table, which occasionally ends up in my CD case.
There's no good way to say this, but, well, people know that when I play songs, they will want to dance to them. The guy before me had $400 CD turntables. Two of them. He kept playing songs and then digitally scratching between them. No one likes that.
So I planned this out beforehand, even practiced: I've got The Jackson 5 in the CD player, and a playlist on my ipod of "The Cleveland Shuffle" and "Hey Ya!" Now I would never do something so brash as to begin a night with Outkast. But I need to capture something that my not make sense in text format but it sounded like this:
(fade out crap-ass song from guy before)
"Where all my line dancers at? Where all my line dancers at? Everybody face the DJ Booth--
"1--2--3!--
"[PIANO] When I had you to myself/I didn't want you around/Those pretty faces always made you stand out in a crowd/But someone picked you from the bunch..."
The room filled. I'm writing this down not so you all can tell me how good I am--got enough of that last night--but so that when I'm old and lonely and nothing I do makes people dance I can try and remember what it was like. I had billed my set as 'Eighties Night' to differentiate myself from the Grateful Dead Band, and I think I included "Black or White", "Ice Ice Baby", and "Groove is in the Heart" in that category.
But then I just gave up and played party-rap for the last half hour and when I wanted to play a song to make everyone leave, I faded from DJ Break's "The Business" to "Such Great Heights." I had forgotten how for the younger kids at my school, owning this album provides them with cool. So everyone stuck around, grinding and bomping to Ben Gibbard. Weird. But great.
There's a girl who came up to me afterwards, she looks precisely like an ex-ladyfriend of mine, which is creepy because she just looks like the old girl, but when she was happier. She had requested The Pixies several times, and I of course ignored her. "I don't know how you did it, you know? I mean, you've gone through four years at this school and you haven't gotten sucked in to all their crap. I mean, look at these people. You owned them tonight. You totally had the whole room and you didn't succumb to all their bullshit." And all I could think was, Damn, freshman, you are so fucking young.
1) Today I made my final payment on my iPod. I've had it since November and it's nice that it's finally my own. When puting the stamp on the final envelope, I licked the back of it and immediately felt ninty years old. It was one of those sticker-kind, and instead of creating an adhesive, I merely soaked the backing of it. There is really no time when I actually use a stamp. I conduct business with my credit card. I subscribe to things online and confirm them with no postage necessary (if mailed in the United States). I live in the fucking future.
2) Also demoralizing: I was just doing a bit of book keeping and I wrote down:
4/13 Cash Tips, Last 2 Days @ Restaurant 5-9 PM $102.00
4/15 Last Two Paychecks from Restaurant $324.15
4/23 First Two Nights at new Coffee Shop 8-1AM $ 58.00
3) If you're in the Gambier, OH area tomorrow. Come see me DJ at the Peeps party from midnight 'til 2. I'm playing during a Grateful Dead cover band, which is also an act at the party, but will be in the room next to the dance floor. Amanda has become quite the fan of theirs and won't be dancing to my records, and, well, I can't think of a more coherent metaphor to express the changes of this year.
4) Alot's been going on and I really only understand this when I put on my headphones and search the playlists. It's amazing how much music I now consider off limits. And I am really glad that I have more music on this thing than I thought I would ever need. Today, for example, I am listening to all the Jurassic 5 that I've never bothered to go through. Whenever I do something, especially for a long time, I go back through my recently played list and save it on my iPod. "To School 2004", "To Spring Break 2004", "To Florida and Back", "Hillel Party Set List." Then for the next few weeks I listen to these playlists for distraction. It is the same thing as making a mix-tape and listening to it all summer. I can anticipate the approaching lines of the next song and I can remember anticipating them for the first time and who I was with and what we were doing and where. And now, although they all seem like they happened sometime last week, I can't even read the playlists without getting a feeling in my stomach.
1) The person next to me in this computer lab has left about a week's worth of snacks at the desk. This is the 24 hr. lab. People leave shit for days, making no progress on their papers, sleeping on the couches, and leaving their books spread out as though they are on the verge of atomic formulas. Among the snacks is a box of Gobstoppers. Inside there are few left, so I only took a few so that she would maybe think she ate them all. But there are only the yellow ones left. I can't tell if she (I know it's a she because I can read her email) was saving them for later. It's possible that she absolutely loves the yellow kind and wanted to save them for a celebration when she finished her paper. I just remembered that in ninth grade I had a crush on this girl who really loved the potato chips that we folded over. At lunch everyday I would eat the others, saving the folded ones to give to her after school, hoping that someday she would love me as much as she loved her salted snacks.
But that never worked and I hope that Gobstopper girl learns that early on.
2) I got a new job, it's just two nights a week (so far) at the new coffee shop on campus. It's a cool place. Organic everything, even floor cleaner. Really good sushi on wednesdays, burritoes on thursdays, and the only thing that resembles bagels in Ohio. But I worked at the place before it for two-and-a-half years here. It was so cool then because I got to know the whole campus and when you work somewhere you're automatically cooler that you would be if you just sat somewhere. But now it's just sad. I would have to work 15 hours there just to make what I did on a bad night at my last restaurant.
3) Every magazine on campus is publishing one of my stories this spring. That's not a bad way to go out, I guess. They are entitled "Dish", "Busboy", "Notes From The Spider Hole", and "Reverse Ponygirl." Settings (respectively): a household kitchen, Hooters Family Restaurant, Saddam's last chosen home, and a playground where a 17-year-old goes to read sex books.
Here's the question for today: Will I be happier in life now, when I think hopefully on my future, where I think someday I won't be a waiter who writes, but..dare I say it?...no. Or, deities willing, if I ever make any sort of living from it, will I be desprately unhappy about it until I give it all up? I guess it's kind of two questions.
From Yesterday's New York Times in an article about a jewel-thief. I'm not sure if it more accurately characterizes Ben or, okay, maybe me.
"Any reader looking for a real-life version of John Robie, known as the Cat, Cary Grant's urbane character in "To Catch a Thief," won't exactly find it in Mr. Mason's book. He grew up in a middle-class family in Cleveland, attending high school in affluent Shaker Heights and, early on, developed a class-consciousness and antiauthoritarian streak that probably helped form a kind of split personality."
This is something I just turned in as a discussion question for homework:
"In the early battle in Act I, Lil Tip insinuates that Jimmy "don't belong [he's] a tourist," Jimmy later responds to this accusation in Act III when battling Clarence, who "Lives at home with both parents / and Clarence' parents have a real good marriage" in addition to which, Jimmy taunts, "But I know something about you / You went to Cranbrook, thats a private school." To what extent are economic stratifications conflated into a racial discourse? Is it some how more white/less black to assimilate into either American ideal?"
Until I lost my job I had this really great plan. Wanna hear it?
May 22 Move to a beautiful apartment in Chicago with three others. Live cheap for four months. Make a lot of money and lie to people in all the ways I love to. Finally get going on my next novel project, one third of which will take place in Monterey, CA. Try and get DJ jobs so that for the rest of my life I can look for other DJ jobs and say, Yeah, I'm a DJ from Chicago. Work in a concept restaurant, like the one near my future home in Chicago that was highlighted in Esquire where the food is a fushion of Indian and Latin American. Samosas and fried plaintains.
Oct 8 Come home for the month of my brother's wedding. Be an all around family guy. Sleep on the piles of money I've saved up.
Nov 1 As it gets cold and dark and ugly in New England, I will pack up the new VW Cabrio I've bought and drive it out to California to do research for my next project. I will still live in a shitty apartment, however, I will not be living in the $500/month Poets House which is subsidized by the Monterey City Council, because they do not accept novelists.
The world owes me $747 dollars for DJ'ing, Taxes, and the best job I've ever had, which was driving and Indian Students Group to Columbus to eat South Indian Vegetarian food. Yesterday I got paid $7 for each of the four hours that I drove a big van and ate delicious food.
I had three fairly awful things happen to me this week and they all happened on the day I found out that I lost my job. It seemed odd, at first, that all these things should pile up, but then I figured I was in for it. Gods, smiting, etc. Then a forth thing came up on my way to my last night of work. So the next morning I got up and went to the used tire store to replace my back wheel--which is so bald it looks like Michael Jordan has finally found a new career (damn!)*
To get there I had to go through the capital of the poorest county in Ohio, where one can get anything--car parts, bed frames, mattresses--used. Tetnus shots here are like Malaria pills in Panama. You'd die without them and not even know it.
My mom called while he had my tire jacked up and when I turned around, I realized that he was almost done. He was about to put the cover back on and I...oh shit...I realized: "Look, I'm really sorry, I wasn't paying attention, but that tire is perfectly fine. I needed you to change the back right."
Coincidentally, I could not have been more not-from-round-here. I had to hang up my cellphone to tell him this, and put down my New York times. He of course does not give a shit that my fancy restaurant is closing. Since this was only costing me $23 installed, I felt bad and told him he could put the deposed tire on the otherside instead. "No big deal."
"Guess I shoulda asked which one. I mean. I kind of just assumed this one. you know. Since you took the hubcap off and all." Shit.
*sometimes I don't even know what I'm saying either.
Unemployment is already depressing. There's alot of things that I lie to myself about missing while I'm at work all the time. I rarely eat in the dining halls here. I never have time to just sit around. I wish I could listen to music and go to the library. Turns out those things are all incredibly boring.
So it's over. The restaurant is closed. The owners put up their house as collateral ten naive years ago. Yesterday Gordon Foods Service came to repossess all the food we hadn't openned. A bar down the street bought our liquor straight cash. But no one is looking for used employees.
Monday was sad and slow. I told one table that it was like being at your own funeral which--ever since I went to my first funeral freshman year of high school--I always thought would be awesome and still do. You get to sit around and every conversation is about how awesome you are and how tragic this all is. One nuclear family was crying with their eight year old son: "I mean it's so sad. This was our place, wasn't it buddy? (buddy nods into his spaghetti and meatballs) We came here for all his firsts. His first soccer game, his first day of school his first communion and I always thought he could take his first girlfriend here for his first prom and I had plans for...for...(sobbing)...for graduation...." The owners would come in and order us to do things and make sure things got done and, well, and then just start crying on the floor and have to run in back.
The other server on Monday walked in with her apron and tie on, and I was wearing a regular button-down and jeans. "Hey, don't you know we're on non-stop casual fridays now?"
"What?"
The manager rushes in: "Kelly, I'm really sorry, I wanted you to hear it from me. We're closing the restaurant tomorrow so today's your last night." Kelly started bawling uncontrollably, which, well, kind of freaked out her three-year-old daughter who had come in because she thought monday would be a slow night and she could skimp on babysitting.
For the past two days I've been walking around campus, stopping tour groups, telling them about the plight of a small midwestern downtown vs. stripmall America, and inviting them to come down. They did. I've been emailing the faculty ever since I found out and so last night we had a line to the door. Which would have been great if we had any food. After seven-thirty I started making people order by genre: "Ok, so that's a cheeseburger, Walleye, and chicken parm. So I'll be right back with a prime-rib sandwhich, salmon, and meatball parm." In the bar they were down to selling the Natty Light that they keep around for the owners.
"Would you care for some wine tonight?" I'd say. "What color?"
I spent most of the evening running. We had 195 covers. We usually seat about 35. David, the boss came up to me at one point and said, "I could fucking strangle you right now for advertising, but I don't have the time."
Everyone also wanted a piece of the place. People left with menus, dirty wine glasses, bread baskets and coffee mugs. I was selling mugs that referred to some party in 2002 for five dollars.
Taya picked me up at midnight so that we could all get hammered one last time together and by then it was just us employees trying to figure out what the hell we're going to do. No one could even feel anything by then, which is how I live my life if only because everything that should be tragic is hilarious. The manager recalled her exploits of the night. About how we ran out of rolls and had to start serving soup crackers, how the saving grace was finding a bag of Tostitoes in the breakroom and putting them in baskets with old salsa from quesadilla night. We ran out of every desert by eight, so I started to sell birthday cakes and scoops of old-ass sherbert and ringing it up as creme brulee.
We turned the whole restaurant into a smoking section, even for employees, who strolled around with lit cigarettes. I played Stereolab as dinner music. We served white wine in regular water glasses. We didn't card anyone, anyone, which meant putting almost sixty dollars in Sam Adams, Vodka Tonics, White Russians, and Jack'n'Cokes down the throats of some sophomores.
By nine I was walking around with an open Pabst, sitting down at my tables and telling them how, just because I'm a broke college student and I'm out of a job only a month away from graduation, it doesn't mean they should tip me forty to fifty percent. It makes me see how those theme restaurants where their thing is that they treat you like shit really work.
When we closed the dining room, I unplugged the Muzak and hooked up my iPod to the sound system and turned it into eighties night. We all started dancing on the tables.
The boss told her husband to rescind the strangle order on me because she let in Kenyon tables with cash and turned away the asshole customers who had only come to use up old gift certificates.
Drunk: "And they're all like, 'Whaddum I apposed to do with this gift certificate.' and I was walking away seating tables and telling them, 'Hey, First Knox Bank opens at nine in the morning, it's their restaurant now.'"
So today I finished the fifth of seven days in a row working at my present restaurant and discovered, after four of my most lucrative since last summer, that our restaurant will be closing on Tuesday for good. It first openned in 1911. That was back when the town was a city, when people bought feed and traded their harvests in the town square, one block away. But now we have a strip. I don't want to sound lame by blaming Walmart and Ruby Tuesdays and all the other boring-ass, middle-american bullshit that has drained the money out of downtown, but it blows. So I'm out of a job. But now I have a free weekend.
It's been kind of a bad year anyway. When I first started, I used to sweat alot. Every shift. Then my tables started slowing down. Now I'll have a six table section and barely use all of them in a night. So now I need to look for a new job, and I'm basically screwed, since I'm leaving in one month and one week.
I need music. I always need music, but the old safeties won't work. Give me the sad-bastardest, heart-breakingest music you can think of. Last night I closed my DJ set at the cove with Ryan's Adam's Wonderwall, which, forgive me, you can only download if you have iTunes. I've been listening to the rest of the Love Is Hell EP today, but it reminds me of Dave Mathews. And I've always hated Dave Mathews, except for the brief time when I allowed the song "Crash" into my life.
Beth, I know that just last week I had a story for you and your husband and you asked something about how I end up getting into these situations. And I just want you to know that I still have no idea:
Part I: So I get on the plane from Hartford on my way back to Ohio, waiting in line while everyone assures their belongings are secure. I'm inches away from my seat and an older guy, already with his buckle on, slaps the bag in my hands and gives me a "the fuck is that?" look.
I pulled out one of my headphones to answer. "Rum." I said. " Dark rum?" Perplexed as to what the hell this guy needs to know about my belongings.
When seated, I begin chatting with the elderly women next to me. It's my general rule to limit the number of people who hate me when travelling. Especially if we have to smell eachother. When they're done, I pull out my book of restaurants in Chicago (job hunting) and settle into the basics for my next remix on my headphones (The Neptunes "Lapdance" beat, then probably some Snoop, Dre, and Common, but I'm tempted to make a Year-in-rock of all the bullshit that's come out: Milkshake, etc). Then some asshole from the row ahead of me, same guy, slaps me on the knee. "You're going to turn those off for take-off, aren't you?"
I hate this situation, because moments after giving him a right-whatever look, I thought of about a hundred great comebacks. This is infuriating for most. But I hate to waste good material, which is pretty much how I always end up starting shit.
The flight attendent begins her spiel and me and The Neptunes learn more about Bucktown/Wicker Park Chicago. He slaps the kid across the aisle from him and starts to get stern. His scarred brow furrows, and the points of his mustache accentuate his frown. He's the kind of guy who watched COPS for fashion tips. He shuts the kids magazine, "Oh, I see, you know this all already? Eh? You don't need to listen to these important safety announcements. Since you know it all so well, why don't you go up there right now and take over for her."
My first thought was that I would be writing letters to the Menendez bros. in prison if this were my father. I'm doing all I can to piss him off at this point. Legs crossed, reading a book, headphones on. I'm about two minutes away from reclining my seatback and putting my feet up on the traytable while we take off.
Finally: "Those better not be turned on," he points at my headphones. I lean in and ask him if he's our own private fucking US Marshall. "Yeah," he said. "That's right." Never lie to a career liar. That's a rule.
"Let's see that badge, man."
"I can't show you my badge."
"Well, you're a crack agent if you just blew your cover to me, but you can't show your badge to anyone. I don't beleive you." He shrugged. "You got a gun on you?" He gives me that dude-smile and leans forward to show me the small of his back. Nods his head. "Let's see it." Can't, he says, can't pull it out on the plane. "Just show me some holster, then." He leans forward again and shows me, again, the back of his Reebok jacket and his beltless, stonewashed jeans. "Riiight. Whatever."
He gets up for a moment, and I turn to the kid who I think is his son and try to get the real story. "I've never met him before in my life," he said. "I just want to get my seat changed." His walk turns out to be a security check, which gains the notice of the flight attendents who get on the PA: "We'd like to remind all passengers to stay in their seats with their seatbelts fastended until the captain..." he comes back.
I return to my book and write him off, which is the least I can do. Then the drink cart comes down. I see it. It's right there, but he slaps me again. Now I cannot fathom a reason he could have to keep me away from my headphones. "Drink cart," he says.
"Thanks, I can see it myself." Asshole. "You gonna buy me a beer or something?" Sure, he says, sure he is. Flight attendent says they have Bud, Miller-lite, and Heinekin. "I'll have a Heinekin."
"Alot of people don't like me," he says. "Like this guy," he turns to the hippie kid. "I saw him in the airport and he was singing something to himself like a nutcase. So I just asked him, are you chanting the Qu'ran?" My white, liberal eyes popped out of their fucking sockets.
"So if he's reciting the Qu'ran, then he's obviously a security risk, eh?" He doesn't answer my question, but turns around and stares down the aisle.
"What language is the newspaper that guy's reading?"
I turn, "It's German."
"You sure?" He just failed his Field Aptitude Test.
"Not going to Pittsburgh," which is true. I'm getting a connection to Columbus, but damned if I'm going to tell him anything real about me. "I'm headed for Chicago. Moving there." When I work out a good lie like this, I try and become what the other person wishes they could be or likes to think they are. He's an asshole whose party days are over.
"You got an apartment?"
"Nope."
"Staying with friends?"
"No, I don't know anyone there."
"Where're you gonna stay then?"
"Well, I'm packing light. I've just got the one bag. Tonight I'm going to go out to a club. Meet a girl. Go home with her. See how long that lasts."
"Come on. You're fucking with me." True, but you'll never know.
"Nah, man, that's the plan. I mean, what would you do if you were my age and you had two hundred dollars to your name?"
"I dunno, save for a car, or an apartment somewhere."
"I'll just find a girl who's got both." Tonight I'll be playing the part of the World's Biggest Asshol. Which, apparently, is this guy's hero.
"What if you don't meet anyone there?" I realize now that I have gaping holes in this plan, so I fill them.
"Well," I look at my watch. "It's Sunday night. On Saturdays people go out with their friends and they're just looking for a good time. But Sundays. Man, Sundays are the night that can last all week."
"Damn," he says. This is mind-boggling to him. He can't beleive that he let himself get to his present age without trying it. I can't fucking beleive that another liar could be so fucking gullible. It's written all over his ceiling. "Where'd you get balls like that, man?"
"Connecticut."
For the rest of the plane ride he keeps turning around to me and holding a pair of invisible oranges in his lap and mouthing, "Balls of steel, man. Balls of fucking steel."
He turns around and says it one last time. "Dude, if that's your plan, man, more power to you." He offers me his fist, which I punch in the way that dudes are want to do. "But if you're banking on that you better be good at this--" imagine for a moment, your own father making the Verizon Wireless/Cunnilingus signal by licking a peace sign in public. "Or if that fails, there's always--" he mimes the motions of inserting a stalk of celery into his mouth, which protrudes into his cheeks.
When the plan is about to land, I'm in the middle pages of White Teeth, by Zadie Smith (this time for class) and he tossed a five-dollar bill into the pages. I look up. Big smile on that mustache, he once again gropes the invisible oranges. "Good luck, brah."
So today I finished the fifth of seven days in a row working at my present restaurant and discovered, after four of my most lucrative since last summer, that our restaurant will be closing on Tuesday for good. It first openned in 1911. That was back when the town was a city, when people bought feed and traded their harvests in the town square, one block away. But now we have a strip. I don't want to sound lame by blaming Walmart and Ruby Tuesdays and all the other boring-ass, middle-american bullshit that has drained the money out of downtown, but it blows. So I'm out of a job. But now I have a free weekend.