Okay. Son of a bitch.
See? I told you I would begin to neglect this immediately.
However, undaunted, I'm going to try and surmise my entire week in this one wee post. It should be easy because my life is blindingly mundane. Can blindingly be used as an adjective? Damn right. That may have been an adverb. I'm tired
Alright. Let's get this riff raff over with. I hope you're ready for a real whirlwind of information. Because that's what you're getting. One sentence after another.
Saturday:
I'm due for an 8-hour shift at EB. Now, this is an establishment that makes me want to murder small children on a daily basis on, you know, a good day. Actually strangle. I find it funny how I can't wait to be a parent, and yet children make me want to occasionally put them in garbage cans, and leave them there for a while, wriggling around, unsure of how to get out. As if other people don't think the same thing.
Anyway, that's a good day. And this place, after essentially transforming me into the criminal I've always wanted to be for the sake of seducing easily impressionable 16-year-olds, made me cringe at the thought of its plush new carpet, which has bubble gum ground into it already due to the aforementioned children. So, I'm supposed to go into this place for eight hours of my Saturday when I know I'm leaving anyway. I called Marcus and told him that I wouldn't be coming in (an hour before my shift, asshole maneuver, I know), and that I wouldn't be in the following day either. I hope he deduced that I wouldn't be in anymore from that point on because otherwise he would've been really boned for Tuesday and Wednesday night. I can't believe I said "boned" either. Moving on.
Deciding, you know, fuck that, I tell Smallwood that "yes", I would like to finally see the gripping conclusion of this damned independant film which we were shafted out of a few days prior. Huge cliffhanger. Everyone left. Yes, you remember. Good.
The ending was pretty sweet. Turns out the butler did it. Smallwood and I bantered our best outside as we waited for her sometimes flighty mom to come and get us. It had been pissing rain before we went, as I waited for Smallwood to show at Coffee and Company while I tried to get the attention of some bikers that weren't parked outside because the weather was too precipitous. Now, it wasn't raining anymore, so, as we verbally fenced in the bleakness, one film patron (critic?) after another would step out and say, "Well, at least it's not raining." This happened several times. Smallwood and I scoffed everyone who mentioned it, once they were out of earshot. Her mom drove past us as we frantically waved at her. Smallwood dwelled upon all of her correct predictions to the film's ending as I was driven home. She invented many of these assessments of hers. Or so I claim.
That night (Saturday had the most going on of all of this week), I attended a birthday function of my associate Justin. Good guy. Skinny and eats a lot, like myself.
I've noticed that if I discover that people have similar shortcomings or eccentricities to my own, that I find it incredibly endearing and, in some cases, attractive. Smallwood had a toothpaste stain on her shirt, and that was mesmerizing for me because that's something I would go out into public wearing. Guess I really like myself. I'm not surprised.
Anyway, Justin. Big appetite. You should see him with a pizza. So, I go. I'm apprehensive since I know this will be an EB thing, and that one of the included individuals would have been at work much longer than anticipated due to my defiant refusal to come into work earlier that day. I was worried it was Justin, and that he would be forced to be late to his own birthday party because of me. Thankfully, he was there, along with his cats. Cats have grown on me. Keeping four at once, however, has not. He's down to three now, apparently.
There were some proper fucking idiots there. One fellow in particular I choose to keep unnamed in case he decides to pursue politics, which he likely will. Young politicians, barring Scott Pickup and Mike Kennedy, generally irk the shit out of me. I'd like to stuff them into a garbage can and leave them there, wriggling around...
And this guy had his shirt tucked into his jeans. That sort of ridiculous fashion sense at such an age (however old he might be) always makes me nervous. So, this guy, once properly sauced, which was about ten minutes after my arrival, stands on a chair, and shouts that everyone has to pay attention to him.
"Huh? Who is this person?"
He then proceeds to point out a regular customer/Justin friend who was there, who had, allegedly, mentioned his newfound girlfriend's willingness to perform fellatio. Drunk politician shouts this at everyone, including the newfound girlfriend. Who, I'm sorry, was far more attractive than the customer was in the first place, which made things even more rickety. It was easily the most awkward situation I've been in in quite some time. I'm also high. I'm the only one who is, and I know it. No one else knows I'm high. I know this as well.
He didn't use the word 'fellatio'.
Anyway, fast forward.
A now ex-co-worker shows. She's 18. She had to stay at the store because I didn't come in to work. She's brought beer. She lets me have one. She's 18. She starts flirting with me rather quickly. Anyone who knows me knows that I can't tell when girls are flirting with me. But, I can when they're 18. Because (and I had forgotten this) 18-year-olds flirt far differently than older people (me) do. Sitting next to me on the couch, while facing me, lightly caressing my thigh with her finger. I'm not imagining this. She's 18. I'm high.
So, I left Justin's, and did whatever I did.
The politician is trying to add me to Facefuck. His profile picture is ridiculous. His shirt is tucked into his jeans.
Sunday:
I can't remember.
Monday:
Remembering that I'm not employed, and that I'm not choking on jobs in St. John's as I was in Banff, I hit the street. By sitting at my computer, browsing want ads. Probably while browsing porno at the same time, and we all know which it is that I'm paying more attention to. I find a job posting for a Ghost Writer. It says:
GHOST WRITER. Needed immediately. Interesting opportunities. Phone number.
That's it. And the number was international; likely the U.S. somewhere. I should've called it, but never did.
To shorten this, I score an interview with The Celtic Hearth downtown. I go. I wait. An owner shows. He looks like a somewhat modern version of Archie Bunker. He's in the construction biz. Which iis to say, a bunch of dudes build shit for him. I'm trying to figure out how to impress this man. He's asking me chit chat questions while reading the paper:
"How'd you like Banff? Did you ski while you were there?" As far as I can tell, this is my interview. I'm not sure how it's going at this point (I didn't ski while I was there).
We switch tables. He asks if I want something to drink. I ask for coffee. I think it's important to accept, rather than decline, while asked such a question while in such a scenario.
A manager joins the owner, and we hit phase two. Questions get more specific.
Owner asks (he's brought the paper with him. He's still thumbing through it) if I have a criminal record. He asks, and this is hardly legal, by the way, if I have trouble with drugs. No. He asks if I do drugs. How do I impress this man? After all, I weigh as much as his stools do. Gross. Sorry. So, I say 'yes'. Blatant honesty. It works out; he says it's a good answer before Going back to his paper. I swear this is how it went down. He asks questions, and as soon as I start responding, he like...holds the paper completely in front of his face. As if an ex-wife has just walked in, and he doesn't want her to notice him, and, panicking, this is how he hides.
Now I'm a cook. I'm to start the following day.
Tuesday:
I peel potatoes with a big machine that looks as though it's an Inca idol of some sort. It's rumbling. It's sputtering. It's shaking around. It's metal and huge. It peels potatoes. I slice many and carry many buckets. I exhaust quickly because I haven't performed real work in a while. I go on line to cook. I act like I know what I'm doing. I don't know what I'm doing. I'm there an hour and a half longer than I'm scheduled. I try to leave, but not before making a clubhouse. Cut into four squares. Toothpicks. You know the drill. I try to cut this thing and tear the shit out of it. I have to make another before I can leave because the night cook is evidently a cunt. I do the same thing to the next clubhouse. I get to leave.
Re-reading this, I should say that the night guy wasn't being a cunt, he was running a kitchen. He was also being a bit of a prick.
Wednesday:
More of the same. More potatoes.
Thursday:
So, I have a morning shift and I'm washing dishes. Whatever. That's fine. I know then that no one will be bothering me. And I'm not selling warranties to people. Fine. I don't eat that morning. I'm scheduled for eight hours. Kitchens don't really exercise breaks so much as they encourage brief stints of sitting down while smoking. Going to Xtreme Pita at lunchtime is not an option.
So, I'm starving, and I'm legitimately panicking because I don't know how I'm going to eat for the next eight hours. Insomnia kicked in the night before. I'm on two hours sleep, max. I steal a portion of chicken. A bag of cold, cooked chicken, that might equal a gram or two. I take it into a bathroom (there are cameras everywhere), and wolf it down voraciously. I stole a crust of bread later in the day and ate that. As if I were in a prison. That was Thursday.
There were more potatoes as well. I'm not joking. There were.
Friday:
I'm in front of deep friers all day. At one point oil spattered onto my face. I was terrified. I burnt my hand in the last hour of my shift. Ever have a taco salad in which the salad is actually housed within a taco vessel of some sort? That's what I was making. Deep fryer. I spill fryer oil onto the side of my hand and it hurts. A fellow cook insisted on ointmenting and bandaging. You know what really chews about the whole experience? There isn't a blister. No mark of any kind to prove this even happened. Am I getting chicks with a burn story in which there's no burn evidence? You know I'm not.
At least I ate before that shift.
I had a muffin.
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