One of the classic problems of religion is that of humility, since it involves at least one paradox, if not more. It is hard to aspire to just about anything while at the same time laying claim to inability and an awareness of your own relative lack of knowledge, grace, charm, or virtue. We can see how the paradox works in operation: it weeds outs would-be prophets and lengthens the necessary time to come to know someone else's qualities. It is a buffer against snap judgments.
I thought of toughguys in the movies. They never complain, but there's a camera there, so we know.
The noncomplaining toughguy is a mere archetype. It's too hard for mere mortals to be able to disavow pain while at the same time making clear to everyone that it is almost unbearable.
*
Personal pain is interesting in the warehouse, the "w" for short, because of the various ways it works itself out. For instance, if you do happen to injure yourself, if you tell everyone, then you're considered a pussy, but if you don't, and a single person sees you lagging, or limping, or not jumping on some task prohibited by the injury, then they'll complain about you to anyone who'll listen.
W culture is anti-union. Corporate perks are seen as a sign of weakness. Why anyone would take vacation when other people have to work those days is seen as selfish laziness. In a sense, Big Bill is like a nun. He works seven days a week, for long hours. Because of his debt, he practically owns nothing.
He is, of course, not a nun. Despite the simplicity of his needs (sex, meatloaf, and cherry wheat ale, these days) he is usually penniless. He doesn't even seem to want to get out of debt. It's a nuisance, but since it was impossed on him so ruthlessly by a combination of all-too-human ignorance and fate, he takes it as his lot and can't imagine how life would be otherwise. When someone is kind enough to give him a donut, it seems so unusual to him that it tweaks his sentimental soul and tears come to his eyes.
Suffering, in that world, occurs on a different register than in other arenas I'm familiar with. It is routine for people who work hard, for years, to be fired for being overqualified. If you work for the company long enough, your age will be a liability, and the company will transfer you to increasingly distant branches until the commute and the lowliness of the work finally do you in mentally. After that, it's just a matter of paperwork.
*
I've lived in cities now for a long time, and I realized how far back in time I travelled by moving to Townsend because of the many trick or treaters out tonight. I would go so far as to say hundreds. The center of town was filled with shifting shadows. Lots of elves. Stormtroopers, unintentionally hilarious. Weird nameless things: neon glowing people in funny hats.
I tried to explain to Dufflebag why an eleven year old going as Freddy Krueger wasn't appropriate. No, not because he is a character in R-rated films, although that should be taken into consideration. But because an eleven year old is too old to look cute and too young to look scary. So they just look odd. Like a human face on a dog's body. It doesn't make sense. It doesn't register.
Speaking of Dufflebag, we spent forty-five minutes working on his exploded eyeball make-up and it was a hit, although it confused a number of people who wanted to know what he was. Since when did you have to be a recognizable entity? I mean, he's a kid with an eyeball hanging out of its socket. Doesn't that seem Halloween enough? Does he then have to have some context. Some back history?
Jess stayed at home watching the house while I did the rounds. One homeowner told Dufflebag, "Why don't you grab an extra piece of candy for your Dad."
"He's not my Dad." he said.
"Oh," she said, surprised.
"He's . . . um . . . " he realized he didn't have a label for me, either.
"I'm his agent," I told her.
And we walked off into the Townsend night.
Friday, October 31, 2008
Anatomy of a Warehouse Joke, Part One
Worker one: Why is that bandage on your wrist?
Worker two: I slipped in the ice and damaged the ligaments.
Worker one: You did it masturbating.
Worker two: I slipped in the ice and damaged the ligaments.
Worker one: You did it masturbating.
Anatomy of Warehouse Joke, Part Two
Worker one: I am tired. I have contracted a virus and would prefer to be home rather than in his unheated warehouse.
Worker two: You are a homosexual.
Worker two: You are a homosexual.
Thursday, October 30, 2008
Rhymes with Duck
Billy got a rise out of the guys today by doing an imitation of me as Hulk Hogan. Theoretically, this shouldn't make sense, but it did, and everyone immediately recognized what he was doing. Words can't describe.
*
Yesterday was my mother's birthday. Her computer wasn't surge protected, so my brother and I have been trying to figure out how to replace it after it fried in a storm.
My brother took her out for dinner last night and she talked about the computer all night. Her memory seems vague and she needs to be reminded we were getting her a new one. It's as though she forgets the details, but retains the nameless dread.
My mother has been unemployed now for over a year. Whenever I visit, she is on the couch, covered in blankets, and watching Fox news. I've tried to get her out and involved in the community. I put her in touch with a local minister. She knitted him some soap sacks out of crochet but was having none of the religious stuff. I don't think it's because she does or doesn't believe. I think that church makes her feel lonely. She doesn't want to be the old woman in the back.
I've taken her a few times myself, but training and other matters kept me from being consistent. Plus, she seemed suspicious that the minister would try to hit her up for money. Her skepticism about the whole place was grating. The only real pleasure she seemed to get out of it came from being with me and from watching the kids in the pews color and steal pens out of each other's pockets.
*
Dufflebag had been telling us for a week that he had a costume, but today admitted he didn't or had lost it or didn't like it. Hard to figure out what had happened, but it seemed to me that, as a creative kid, he put something together himself but realized the next day that it wouldn't do. A difficult one, that boy! We decided to go to the costume store, but set some ground-rules, knowing he would opt for some ill-fitting 100 dollar demon mask, which we refuse to buy, prompting tears and pessimismistic statements about the very possibility of ever enjoying Halloween again.
We ended up going for a makeup kit that makes it look like his eye popped out. Poor Jess still had to shell out thirty bucks -- money for the blood gel and latex and glue and glue remover. The good thing is that, unlike a premade mask, he's the type of kid who'll take that latex and blood gell and even the glue and glue remover and fiddle with it and maybe even make short videos. His dad bought him a video camera for Christmas once and he makes frequent use of it. Unfortunately, it is battery run and the batteries run out quickly.
Driving home, Jess asked what we wanted for dinner and I said burgers. "But you have burgers all the time!" Jess.
"But we're men, and we love hamburgers!" I said, letting out a whoop, and putting my hand back for Dufflebag to slap.
*
I cooked a rice dish earlier this week that I put into a tupperware container and brought to work. It was big enough to last all week and was made from chicken, jasmine rice, hominy, white and yellow corn, peppers, brocoli, and spices. I must admit: it was delicious.
Billy tried some and liked it so much he wanted to share it with me. I told I couldn't because it was my lunch for the rest of the week. He asked me how much I would sell it to him for.
"Thirty bucks," I told him.
"Dougie, please."
"Twenty."
To my surprise and doubtless his own, he paid me twenty bucks for the rice.
While out driving, I felt bad, and, when I returned to the warehouse, gave him ten, keeping ten for myself.
Ten for two days worth of delicious, nutritious, home-cooked food seemed fair. A bargain! But twenty was taking advantage of Billy's good nature, combined with his insatiable appetite.
I spent part of my ten on lunch at Taco Bells, making me think, only after I greedily bit into a volcano taco, that I had gotten the raw end of the deal.
"Yeah, we love hamburgers. Girls love veggie burgers, but we love hamburgers."
And agreement was reached. Burgers it was, skillet cooked, and what burgers they were.
*
Yesterday was my mother's birthday. Her computer wasn't surge protected, so my brother and I have been trying to figure out how to replace it after it fried in a storm.
My brother took her out for dinner last night and she talked about the computer all night. Her memory seems vague and she needs to be reminded we were getting her a new one. It's as though she forgets the details, but retains the nameless dread.
My mother has been unemployed now for over a year. Whenever I visit, she is on the couch, covered in blankets, and watching Fox news. I've tried to get her out and involved in the community. I put her in touch with a local minister. She knitted him some soap sacks out of crochet but was having none of the religious stuff. I don't think it's because she does or doesn't believe. I think that church makes her feel lonely. She doesn't want to be the old woman in the back.
I've taken her a few times myself, but training and other matters kept me from being consistent. Plus, she seemed suspicious that the minister would try to hit her up for money. Her skepticism about the whole place was grating. The only real pleasure she seemed to get out of it came from being with me and from watching the kids in the pews color and steal pens out of each other's pockets.
*
Dufflebag had been telling us for a week that he had a costume, but today admitted he didn't or had lost it or didn't like it. Hard to figure out what had happened, but it seemed to me that, as a creative kid, he put something together himself but realized the next day that it wouldn't do. A difficult one, that boy! We decided to go to the costume store, but set some ground-rules, knowing he would opt for some ill-fitting 100 dollar demon mask, which we refuse to buy, prompting tears and pessimismistic statements about the very possibility of ever enjoying Halloween again.
We ended up going for a makeup kit that makes it look like his eye popped out. Poor Jess still had to shell out thirty bucks -- money for the blood gel and latex and glue and glue remover. The good thing is that, unlike a premade mask, he's the type of kid who'll take that latex and blood gell and even the glue and glue remover and fiddle with it and maybe even make short videos. His dad bought him a video camera for Christmas once and he makes frequent use of it. Unfortunately, it is battery run and the batteries run out quickly.
Driving home, Jess asked what we wanted for dinner and I said burgers. "But you have burgers all the time!" Jess.
"But we're men, and we love hamburgers!" I said, letting out a whoop, and putting my hand back for Dufflebag to slap.
*
I cooked a rice dish earlier this week that I put into a tupperware container and brought to work. It was big enough to last all week and was made from chicken, jasmine rice, hominy, white and yellow corn, peppers, brocoli, and spices. I must admit: it was delicious.
Billy tried some and liked it so much he wanted to share it with me. I told I couldn't because it was my lunch for the rest of the week. He asked me how much I would sell it to him for.
"Thirty bucks," I told him.
"Dougie, please."
"Twenty."
To my surprise and doubtless his own, he paid me twenty bucks for the rice.
While out driving, I felt bad, and, when I returned to the warehouse, gave him ten, keeping ten for myself.
Ten for two days worth of delicious, nutritious, home-cooked food seemed fair. A bargain! But twenty was taking advantage of Billy's good nature, combined with his insatiable appetite.
I spent part of my ten on lunch at Taco Bells, making me think, only after I greedily bit into a volcano taco, that I had gotten the raw end of the deal.
"Yeah, we love hamburgers. Girls love veggie burgers, but we love hamburgers."
And agreement was reached. Burgers it was, skillet cooked, and what burgers they were.
Wednesday, October 29, 2008
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Checking the Stars in the Skies
This morning I interviewed at an immigration law firm in Worcester and was impressed by the people there and the overall energy. One of the lawyers got his start in language and literature and then turned to law when he considered the options available for English students. He’s also done some martial arts before, and I felt as though we had a lot in common.
He told me that people who go into law with varied life experiences are often highly marketable. He also told me he went into immigration because being a public defender, his other plan, was too much of a grind. He told me he not only works with software engineers trying to come to this country to work, but victims of abuse and oppressive political regimes. “We are the good lawyers,” he said, smiling, noting that there aren’t many people in his profession who get hugs when the case is closed.
It sounded as though he trying to convince me to join the company. I left feeling convinced. I was one of the first interviewees so they explained it will be another week or two before they make a decision, but noted that they were interested in me.
*
Finding the appropriate clothes for a job interview proved a challenge. I haven’t bought new clothes in years. I was able to hobble together respectable duds from my old professorial garb, although it slightly mismatched and the fit was not ideal.
Most of my clothes are suitable for the warehouse (I realized I was wearing a tee-shirt this week that was given to me, as a gift, in 1995. The shirt is older than Dufflebag!) As some sort of Stalinist-surfer-gym bunny-Bohemian-failed writer type, I don’t even own my jeans, since they are supplied by the warehouse. One of the few perks!
My suit jacket is tight on the shoulders; the pants, if anything, too baggy. I bought my belt in high school and it’s worn at the edges. I bought my blue Oxford two years ago when I was teaching, and it is my nicest, and newest, article of clothing. The tie is slightly too short, as most ties are on me, since it’s hard to find one that fits.
It’s nice to sit here in Barnes and Noble, drinking coffee, and feeling professional, which basically means not being covered in dust. There is a virtue in the dust, of course.
I remember when I first started driving – people sensed my ineptitude behind the wheel and would start snickering and offering advice on how to perform the simplest maneuvers when I got to the job sites. For months now, this hasn’t happened. Then, yesterday, I got the snicker: “sure you don’t want to spin the truck around and back in the other way?” the contractor asked.
But the truck and I have achieved some elevated sense of awareness. “I think I got this one,” I said, and drove it, slowly and deliberately, backwards, up a steep incline coming to rest inches from my goal.
I knew what would be a tricky way to back in would turn into an effortless way to back out. I may not have learned much in the warehouse, but I do know how to drive a truck.
*
As excited as I was about the job interview, I’m going to keep applying for positions. I pulled into the Leominster Barnes and Noble to search the listings, but you can only connect to the internet with a credit card, which I can’t do. I thought it was like a regular Starbucks, where you just need an active Starbucks card, which I have. So I’m writing this in word and drinking coffee. This afternoon I’ll head home to continue the search, narrowing the field to law, education, and interesting odd jobs I can do on the weekends to make some extra bread: acting, freelance writing, and whatever else stumbles on my plate. I also have to get off my ass and assemble the computer and treadmill in our study. Since moving in, the study has become the room where we place anything we haven’t figured out a location for yet. So it’s a kind of chaotic wasteland of dead plants, yoga books, paperwork, and stray chairs. The kittens love it and, and will likely be upset when the order comes.
I’m having a small house-warming/All Soul’s Day party at the new house this Saturday, and it seems as though some old friends might make it out. We also have a tournament that day that our guys have been training hard for.
And speaking of training, I tried rolling last night for a single round at the end of class. My knee bothered me just from that limited training, and I could feel an odd burning sensation when I lay down to sleep, even though the leg wasn’t moving. I’m afraid I have some sort of partial tear – which wouldn’t be uncommon. It seems as though we’re going through a phase where many of our guys are injured. I’m not too worried, just attentive. And I’m trying to be smart by avoiding training and resting it whenever possible.
We are also dealing with the dreaded MRSA. At least two of our training partners have come down with drug-resistant staph. We keep the mats clean, but it’s impossible to protect yourself completely. I have only contracted staph once, and it was a miserable experience. Why couldn’t I have gotten into archery instead! Something that doesn’t wear away at the body and take up massive amounts of personal time.
Oh well. The path is set. Proceed!
He told me that people who go into law with varied life experiences are often highly marketable. He also told me he went into immigration because being a public defender, his other plan, was too much of a grind. He told me he not only works with software engineers trying to come to this country to work, but victims of abuse and oppressive political regimes. “We are the good lawyers,” he said, smiling, noting that there aren’t many people in his profession who get hugs when the case is closed.
It sounded as though he trying to convince me to join the company. I left feeling convinced. I was one of the first interviewees so they explained it will be another week or two before they make a decision, but noted that they were interested in me.
*
Finding the appropriate clothes for a job interview proved a challenge. I haven’t bought new clothes in years. I was able to hobble together respectable duds from my old professorial garb, although it slightly mismatched and the fit was not ideal.
Most of my clothes are suitable for the warehouse (I realized I was wearing a tee-shirt this week that was given to me, as a gift, in 1995. The shirt is older than Dufflebag!) As some sort of Stalinist-surfer-gym bunny-Bohemian-failed writer type, I don’t even own my jeans, since they are supplied by the warehouse. One of the few perks!
My suit jacket is tight on the shoulders; the pants, if anything, too baggy. I bought my belt in high school and it’s worn at the edges. I bought my blue Oxford two years ago when I was teaching, and it is my nicest, and newest, article of clothing. The tie is slightly too short, as most ties are on me, since it’s hard to find one that fits.
It’s nice to sit here in Barnes and Noble, drinking coffee, and feeling professional, which basically means not being covered in dust. There is a virtue in the dust, of course.
I remember when I first started driving – people sensed my ineptitude behind the wheel and would start snickering and offering advice on how to perform the simplest maneuvers when I got to the job sites. For months now, this hasn’t happened. Then, yesterday, I got the snicker: “sure you don’t want to spin the truck around and back in the other way?” the contractor asked.
But the truck and I have achieved some elevated sense of awareness. “I think I got this one,” I said, and drove it, slowly and deliberately, backwards, up a steep incline coming to rest inches from my goal.
I knew what would be a tricky way to back in would turn into an effortless way to back out. I may not have learned much in the warehouse, but I do know how to drive a truck.
*
As excited as I was about the job interview, I’m going to keep applying for positions. I pulled into the Leominster Barnes and Noble to search the listings, but you can only connect to the internet with a credit card, which I can’t do. I thought it was like a regular Starbucks, where you just need an active Starbucks card, which I have. So I’m writing this in word and drinking coffee. This afternoon I’ll head home to continue the search, narrowing the field to law, education, and interesting odd jobs I can do on the weekends to make some extra bread: acting, freelance writing, and whatever else stumbles on my plate. I also have to get off my ass and assemble the computer and treadmill in our study. Since moving in, the study has become the room where we place anything we haven’t figured out a location for yet. So it’s a kind of chaotic wasteland of dead plants, yoga books, paperwork, and stray chairs. The kittens love it and, and will likely be upset when the order comes.
I’m having a small house-warming/All Soul’s Day party at the new house this Saturday, and it seems as though some old friends might make it out. We also have a tournament that day that our guys have been training hard for.
And speaking of training, I tried rolling last night for a single round at the end of class. My knee bothered me just from that limited training, and I could feel an odd burning sensation when I lay down to sleep, even though the leg wasn’t moving. I’m afraid I have some sort of partial tear – which wouldn’t be uncommon. It seems as though we’re going through a phase where many of our guys are injured. I’m not too worried, just attentive. And I’m trying to be smart by avoiding training and resting it whenever possible.
We are also dealing with the dreaded MRSA. At least two of our training partners have come down with drug-resistant staph. We keep the mats clean, but it’s impossible to protect yourself completely. I have only contracted staph once, and it was a miserable experience. Why couldn’t I have gotten into archery instead! Something that doesn’t wear away at the body and take up massive amounts of personal time.
Oh well. The path is set. Proceed!
Monday, October 27, 2008
The Sad Parade
Slappy the Chihuahua woke me up two nights ago, crying at the door. And, as in some existential Beckett directed Buster Keaton nightmare film, as soon as I opened it she ran in with the cats and they all scattered. This was at five in the morning. I would herd one cat out, then the dog, and then they would be run back in as I managed to get the third beast out the door.
I finally got them all out and yelled at them.
Miraculously, Jess didn't wake up.
The next morning I told her what happened and Jess, who, like myself, can make herself laugh at her own jokes, started imaging outloud how the three went back downstairs in single file. "The sad parade!" she said before bursting into teary laughter.
*
I found out today that an old training partner of mine had a heart attack while working out. Fortunately, he recovered, but it reminded me of David, and of mortality, and of how precarious the whole enterprise can be at times: training, living, the lot.
Right now I've been dealing with a knee injury for almost a year that doesn't seem to heal. At the very least, it's made me give up hope of competing. At most, at times, I wonder how much more time I have in me. Such thoughts only come in my darker moments. But it's something I have to face.
*
Big Bill admited to getting choked up, thinking of me leaving the warehouse. We make life bearable for each other. In what might otherwise be a bleak world, we joke around and provide perspective and motivation to see the day out.
He told me that he was thinking of this as he drove home and, unexpectedly, Sinatra came on the radio to sing "My Way."
"And Dougie," the 280 lb. bruiser admitted, "I started crying like a baby."
I finally got them all out and yelled at them.
Miraculously, Jess didn't wake up.
The next morning I told her what happened and Jess, who, like myself, can make herself laugh at her own jokes, started imaging outloud how the three went back downstairs in single file. "The sad parade!" she said before bursting into teary laughter.
*
I found out today that an old training partner of mine had a heart attack while working out. Fortunately, he recovered, but it reminded me of David, and of mortality, and of how precarious the whole enterprise can be at times: training, living, the lot.
Right now I've been dealing with a knee injury for almost a year that doesn't seem to heal. At the very least, it's made me give up hope of competing. At most, at times, I wonder how much more time I have in me. Such thoughts only come in my darker moments. But it's something I have to face.
*
Big Bill admited to getting choked up, thinking of me leaving the warehouse. We make life bearable for each other. In what might otherwise be a bleak world, we joke around and provide perspective and motivation to see the day out.
He told me that he was thinking of this as he drove home and, unexpectedly, Sinatra came on the radio to sing "My Way."
"And Dougie," the 280 lb. bruiser admitted, "I started crying like a baby."
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