EX VOTO “Life’s Work/Life is Work” Volume No. III, Issue 1

—Got it?

Raisonné d’etre
—by Sugarpuss O'Shea, Editrix

Life’s work? LIFE’s WORK?!? Why can’t you settle down and just work? Why is it such a big deal to know you’re doing what you were trained to do, or better yet, always wanted to do? What are you muttering about, your life’s work? You’re lucky to have a damn job, let alone a divine calling—somebody has to clean public toilets at the State Parks, you know? Sometimes, life is work… Shut-up and look busy!

Yet and still, you are left wandering, or wondering —squandering or nose-grinding. You want to know why you’ve gone to school or got high and slept through class; matriculated from a University or left to travel the world; found work or got married, got laid-off, found another job, slept with your boss, quit, went on unemployment, did temping, moved back in with: the parents, the ex-’s, the cult—then found another job with even less personal satisfaction. When you were young the answers came easy, didn’t they? If asked the rote question by some well-meaning, shiny new-coin dandling relative —O boy! Did you have some answers! You were going to be drawing comics, or have a bunch of babies, or race Hot Wheels, or be Stevie Nicks and eat tempeh, or go live in the woods with the grizzlies —and besides, you’d also be a millionaire, so, like, duh…

It was once so simple to say what it was you saw for yourself. But, in retrospect, from your first W-2, to your current 401k, did you ever find yourself alone in the company lunchroom sniffing your new business card? Or filing away expense receipts with a secret smile, musing: This is My Brilliant Career!

But why indeed not? Wasn’t that part of the whole plan? Is everyone confused, or is it just you? Ultimately, like a Sartre character who can’t NOT tell his story, because to tell is to live: we all have to sum it up. The good and the bad. The memorable and the insufferable. The supposed avocations and the unemployed vacations.

Why? WHY?!? Because your life’s work is a map. It describes the craggy topography, the barren badlands, and the ever-changing horizon line of that ultimate of destinations: Your Future. So, herein, are some voices at differing latitudes and longitudes. Take note, or as the French would say, “Résumer, cheré…”

—————
(Editrix’s note: I began this ’zine in approx 2000, with revisions and contributions coming in until 2002. Then I hit a wall.... A very long and tall and dense wall. I am compelled now, however, to publish the variety of responses I was lucky enough to extract from friends and associates, because FOR FUCK SAKES it’s 8 years later and _almost_ w/out exception, peoples situations are the same or worse... I am not attempting to bum anyone out, but it has been a strange decade. The very idea of Life=Work / Life≠Dream Job is too spot on for me. Nevertheless, no matter how much I want to opt out, hide under a rock, bang my head on the wall, etc. I can't bury these truths and I owe their authors/creators their revelation.

Read ‘em and weep...
—S.O’S January MMX)

EX VOTO “Life’s Work/Life is Work” HMc

Good Help Is
Hard To Find
Epistolary lament from a knocked-up
Goddess entering her second trimester
by Heidi McBride-Pedrazzetti


B. —

Strange development over the weekend —My hands are numb all the time. They don’t work so good either. Keyboarding is a challenge. Not real bad pain just uncomfortable. I’m going to the doc on Thursday to discuss the “options” —Like can I get full disability? I hate to be even suggest that I am looking for a free ride, but what is a girl to do? It’s either that or figure out a way to exploit the illegal alien labor market arriving in droves from south of the border.

Have I mentioned we rent our basement out to such a trabajadoro (I’m not sure of the spelling but you get the idea)? If the septic tank can take it I’m gonna stuff that basement with young Mexican men and watch the cash flow in. It may ruin my political career (harboring illegals and all) but if I can get some women who will provide certain services I could “make out” in that endeavor too. …I’ve always loved the title “Madame” —The garage will be a little dance hall. There is a huge market up here. Way more men than women when spring hits. And monogamy isn’t really a big priority in that macho culture. All the women apparently wait to see what new disease their honey will bring home come winter. But, of course, if I was running the “house” everybody would have regular check-ups and we would use condoms etc. I’d get a nurse on staff.

Excuse my ravings. I hope I don’t sound like some right wing lunatic —or left wing nut case. It’s just that two class system that gets so glaring, when the weather gets nice, and we need cheap labor, that makes me crazy. Not much consideration is given to where they will live (or shit for that matter). Who is influencing my subconscious? It’s not Ziggy* that’s for sure.

I’ll stay in touch,

— H.

*Obscure Reference Revealed!
Seinfeld–Season 9: “The Cartoon” Elaine sees a comic in the New Yorker magazine and ponders its meeting. Everyone she meets pretends to get the joke of the comic but she just can’t. Finally she confronts one man who tells her he doesn’t get it either. Elaine is determined to get her own cartoon in the New Yorker. She gets a cartoon published but later her boss J Peterman notices that it is an old Ziggy cartoon, because he’d “recognize that irreverent Ziggy wit anywhere!” It appears that an old cartoon had entered Elaine’s subconscious (her boyfriend Putty has a set of Ziggy bedsheets) and she recreated it without even knowing it...

EX VOTO “Life’s Work/Life is Work” LB

The Bat Has Left
the Building
(an Exit Letter…)
by Lisa Berry


March 24, 2000

I’ve given quite a bit of thought over the years as to what I would say at my exit interview. There’s so much within the company that has fallen to decay that I expected I would write volumes about the lack of communication, the need for accountability, and the disturbing shift in company ethics. But now that the moment is here I’ve realized that there really isn’t any point in trying to explain any of these things. I no longer have any need to be heard, and the company hasn’t shown any real interest in action. So, instead, I’d like to end with a story.

This is the true story of the bat that got trapped in the building. It beats out the Elvis Incident as my favorite _____* story and it holds much truth about the nature of the company.

One Sunday evening a bat flew in through an open window in production. A couple people saw it come in and watched it fly around the building, but they didn’t think it was important enough to tell anybody. Besides, they didn’t think anyone would do anything about it. So the bat stayed in the building undetected until dusk on Monday, when it started circling the heads of terrified people, who screamed and swung at it with the weekly newspapers they helped publish. Exhausted, the bat climbed up into the beams and hid until all the people went home.

The next morning, Human Resource Manager C. called the humane society. They told her that the bat could be rabid and must be caught. They instructed her to keep all the windows closed and call back if it reappeared again. She posted an email with this information and the number for the humane society. She didn’t seem to consider that the humane society closed at 5pm, that bats are nocturnal, and that some employees actually work after dark.

Her next email advised employees who thought they may possibly have been in contact with the bat to get rabies shots, just in case. I did research: actual cases of rabies are rare, the shots are very painful, and they are not covered by our health insurance when taken as a precautionary measure. Still accounting was all-abuzz because E. “nearly got bit by the thing” and probably needed shots because that’s what the email told them to do.

On Wednesday at dusk the bat launched again. Everyone screamed and ran. Production opened all the windows and tried to shoo the bat out. Eventually the bat gave up and hid in the rafters. P., from accounting, came back to production and closed all the windows, but as soon as she left we opened them again. After all, we were rooting for the bat.

On Thursday the bat launched just after 5pm. We could tell from the screaming. C. called the humane society, but they were closed. T. the CFO and K. the controller, walked through sales laughing at all the hysteria. They were particularly amused at the sight of 6-month pregnant sales rep C. crouched under her desk in terror. I put one of the weekly papers over her head and sent her downstairs out of the building. Production traffic-manager J. took control upstairs and told everyone to hold still, close his or her eyes and stop screaming. She bolted up the maintenance ladder and threw the roof door open for the bat. I kicked open the windows. We closed the door to keep P. out because she was trying to tell us it was required by law to wait for the humane society. Finally, the lucky bat flew out the back door, which had just been opened by a writer returning to the building.

The bat was never mentioned or seen again.


—Thanks for everything.


* This is an actual on-file exit letter. Names have been changed, or omitted at the request of the author.

EX VOTO “Life’s Work/Life is Work” JR+

The Job That Ate My Brain
by the Ramones, from the album Mondo-Bizarro


Out of bed at 6:15 In a rush and you can’t think
Gotta catch the bus and train
I’m in a rush and feelin’ insane

I can’t take this crazy pace
I’ve become a mental case
Yeah, this is the job that ate my brain

Go to work, it’s such a drag
Face the boss, he’s such a nag
In a suit and in a tie

I look so late I wanna die

I can’t take this crazy pace
I’ve become a mental case
Yeah, this is the job that ate my brain

I punch the clock at 9:05
I know I’m late, but still alive
Everyone just stares at me
(I’m last in line for this party)

I can’t take this crazy pace
I’ve become a mental case
Yeah, this is the job that ate my brain

Five o’clock rolls around
I feel so glad I kiss the ground
Ain’t enough hours in the day
There’s got to be a better way

I can’t take this crazy pace
I’ve become a mental case
Yeah, this is the job that ate my brain

(©‘90 Marky Ramone/Skinny Bones)
R.I.P. Joey Ramone, April 2001

There is a vast world of work out there in this country, where at least 111 million people are employed in this country alone —many of whom are bored out of their minds. All day long. Not for nothing is their motto TGIF—‘Thank God It’s Friday.’ They live for the weekends, when they can go do what they really want to do.

• Richard Nelson Bolles, 1970

EX VOTO “Life’s Work/Life is Work” RE

Untitled
by Rob Erb

Keep away from people who try to belittle your ambitions. Small people always do that, but the really great make you
feel that you, too, can become great.
• Mark Twain

EX VOTO “Life’s Work/Life is Work” LN+

9 to 5-7-5
by Lisa Noble & Jeff Sykes



my job sucks real bad
my job sucks real bad it’s true
my job really sucks

where does the time go?
the vision the love the horror
fight or flight i heard

dishes were my life
computer devolution
now i long for death

who’s in charge indeed?
white people and their meetings
yes man—that’s the way!

clarity vision
a new world ahead of me
king sized value meal

giggle birds fly down!!
pluck the eyes that see all flat
sing the anthem-nipple!

supertranslated
all work becomes slavery
supertranslated

EX VOTO “Life’s Work/Life is Work” AR

Company Policy
by Angelina Reed

In the summer of 1995, looking to utilize my education, broaden my horizons, redirect my attentions, and to somehow lessen the pain of being dumped, I took a job at Eggshell Pre-press House*, a small, well-known business run by husband and wife, Fred and Peggy Sue. I joined the ranks of three other employees: Allen, the scanner operator, who had worked there for many years; John, who did the more traditional pre-press work; and Crystal, who attended the front counter. My job was to use the computers to run film from the electronic files that the graphic arts customers provided.

It was during my first week there that I got my first glimpse of the erratic behavior of the owners, and although I don't remember the specifics of the initial outburst, I do know that they only became more frequent and worse. Fred and Peggy Sue yelled at Crystal at least a couple of times a week, always leaving her in tears. John and I were often reprimanded for not being busy enough.

“If there are no jobs in the shop, you can always clean. This place is filthy,” Fred would grump, running his finger along the various ledges around the office. “Look at all this dust. Can you see it? I bet this hasn’t been cleaned in ten years. Just listen,” he’d say, running his finger along the ledge again. “I can HEAR the dust.”

So, when there were no job tickets to be completed, which was often, I would spend my days with Simple Green and the fine little droid-like unit, a 1960s compact model vacuum bought brand new by Fred and Peggy Sue when they first married. I vacuumed every surface in every room, careful to clean everything thoroughly and completely. I calculated a good pace, not too fast nor too slow, as I knew that I definitely didn’t want to get caught cleaning the same room twice in the same day, but knowing full well that I would be cleaning it again next week. I even spit-shined the vacuum when time permitted.

Making the days there even longer, we were forced to listen to K-BAY, which John and I lovingly referred to as K-GAY or GAY-BAY. Of course, there was a radio in every room.

My training and instruction was to be administered by Fred, who expressly forbade me to ever seek help or ask advice from either Allen or John. Fred’s lessons were a challenge for me, and not because they were difficult. I could barely keep my composure through his “How to Make a Laminate Proof” demonstration. As if his deathly foul breath wasn’t enough, he had long, rough fingernails, of which he took particular pride in the extra length of his crackled, yellowed right thumb nail, touting it as being extremely useful for picking apart sheets of film, and also apparently for keeping some extra food tidbits in for snacking on later. For my computer training, I was handed an early model personal cassette player with foam headphones and directed to the “Learn QuarkXpress” tapes in the back room. Although I disliked listening to these dull cassettes, the air was fresher.

By this time, I had witnessed an intense screaming match between Fred and Allen, where they seemingly took turns swinging their arms up and down, pumping out the angry words from their mouths, their faces wrinkled and colored an oxygen-deprived deep red. This was the first time I saw Allen walk out on the job, although I soon learned that he had done it many times before and had always been graciously called and asked to come back, as if nothing had happened. Allen was the only one there who could pull such an act, as Fred actually needed his services, most of the business being for Allen’s beautiful scans. But Allen wasn’t the only one to incur Fred’s wrath, just the only one to engage with it and dish it back, for I had seen John yelled at numerous times and I, too, had been scolded for my mistakes.

“See this?” Fred would bellow holding the unsaleable film or proof between his forefinger and his crusty nailed thumb. “Now you tell me. Who’s going to pay for this?! The customer?! Me?! Why should I have to pay for this?! Tell me, who should pay for YOUR mistakes?!“ From then on I hid my mistakes by secretly tossing them into my backpack, taking them away from the office and safely disposing of any further evidence against me, fearful that I would somehow be made to pay for it.

We got a new time clock, and a new phone system which gave Fred and Peggy Sue the ability to monitor the other rooms. Unbeknownst to them, John and I knew exactly when they were listening in, as a beep announced their presence and a flashing red light indicated their stay. We would stop talking mid-sentence and point energetically at the phone; we were not supposed to talk, work related or not. Within the next week, Fred had scheduled an office meeting with Allen, John, and I. Crystal, who was considered to be in a different department than us, and under the strict control of closet-smoker Peggy Sue, had been forced to secretly type the handout for the meeting.

As feared, the meeting was long and tedious. We were made to stand as Fred read each item aloud and then continued to elaborate with several personal observances. Although Allen was in attendance, Fred’s stories left no doubt that these items were directed at John and I. As my eyes stared blankly down at the paper before me, I felt like I had quietly left my body there as the clock ticked away.

…And I felt nothing.

NON PRODUCTIVE / COUNTER PRODUCTIVE ACTIONS OBSERVED THAT ARE NOT CONDUCIVE TO A TEAM EFFORT AT EGGSHELL:

• Unattended equipment or items that are “Not my responsibility” left on or running without regard to cost.
• Abuse of time spent on billable jobs just to show how fast they were done or how much we know about the subject rather than real time.
• “Instructions” or advice on how jobs should be handled without proper knowledge or responsibility.
• Breaks or time away from building for more than ten minutes without punching out.
• Deliberatley not following a set time procedures for hours, lunches, etc. on a daily basis.
• Stretching less than a days work into a full days work by lagging on jobs, and re-doing maintenence and cleaning chores (going thru the motions of completeing) rather than just punching out.
• “Passing the Buck” on who said what, or what was to be done, to cover up for responsibilites not followed thru. Not reading information on job tickets.
• Lack of knowledge of work to perform and refusal to take notes or read documentation, follow directions or ask proper questions in order to conceal the fact that you do not have the training nor understanding of the task completely and for which you are being paid.
• Needless waste of time and materials just to “get the job done” without proper understanding of the task; or taking the time to concentrate on the job before floundering ahead, thus producing bad films, proofs, or other unsaleable items.
•

…

I was certain that I was doing a terrible job, and although all of these incredible happenings made for amusing stories amongst my friends, many of whom believed that I was spinning fictional tales, I was beginning to tire and feel disconnected. My first review, marking the end of my three-month probationary period, was near. I figured that they were going to let me go, that I just wasn’t working out, and that I would graciously concede, secretly glad it was over. Or so I thought. As luck would have it my review was full of praise, a few odd criticisms, and a raise! I was so shocked, I couldn’t even sputter the words that I‘d practiced in front of the mirror, “This really isn’t working out for me, either.”

Crystal finally couldn’t take it anymore and quit to travel Europe. Fred and Peggy Sue went through three front-counter people within the next two weeks.

Alone in the back room one day, in a fit of utter rebellion and uncaring deviousness, I changed the radio station. When Fred found out, he freaked out, and while nervously re-tuning the radio, he lectured me on the many reasons the office is tuned-in to K-BAY. I knew then that I couldn’t take it anymore. I had to leave.

My dear, best friend Shelly asked me to join her, her mom, and her mom’s friend on a trip England, and that was all the reason I needed to go. I gave Fred and Peggy Sue less than two-weeks notice for my almost four month stint. On my last day they wished me well, and told me that I was always welcome to come back to work for them. As if I ever wanted to.



* All names have been changed to protect the innocent… and the insane.

EX VOTO “Life’s Work/Life is Work” TREE

Truly F@¢%#%
Thoughts on the new millennial economy as shared by Tree

I met a young woman at a party on Saturday that is 26 years old and makes 127 thousand dollars a year as a network engineer. I found myself disliking her on that account. My jealousy was enormous. I felt guilty about it. Over email, my friend J. responded…

“I am truly irritated at this younger generation making hundreds of thousands of dollars doing work that has zero meaning or potential for changing the world in ways that I want to see the world change. I was about to write, ‘doing work that has no impact on the world,’ when I realized of course it has an impact… it’s driving everything in our culture and I hate it.

I subscribe to a daily email list from an association of independent radio folks and there’s been discussion about ’content’ writers/producers for internet sites. Apparently the pay scale is just as lousy there as it is in public radio —unless you want to write drivel about soap operas. It’s all part of this bizarre tier scheme of who gets paid what to do what work.”

S. says to me last night that her Humane Society job is the first job she’s ever really enjoyed. She gets paid $6.50/hr. —Yes, you read that correctly. Why is working with animals less valued than someone who develops the fucking code for an internet site that makes it easier for you to put your credit card number in and buy something?…

This world is truly fucked.

EX VOTO “Life’s Work/Life is Work” MP

I Dream of Asia
by Max Perez



best job:
i’m currently working as a Perl programmer. This is pretty much of a stretch for me as I dont normally like to program. After being rather harshly booted from my last job (see worst job, below) I got a contract here doing html and Java script interfaces testing software. They were pretty happy with me and offered me a job as an “application engineer”. This involves accompanying the sales folk to customers sites and helping them stay honest, er, rather helping them realistically assess what we can do with the customers software. After the visit is done, I write the custom part of our software for their demo. If they like it, I hand it over to someone else for completion. The best part is that the customers are in Europe and Asia, as well as in the US. I’ve always wanted to be tri-coastal (Calif, NY, & Europe), and now I may have a chance to be worldwide. This is almost my dream job.

worst job:
i’ve had a lot of bad jobs: Infantryman, taxi driver, and security guard leap to mind. They all shared the traits of long hours, low pay, and little status. At least in the infantry there was some fun times, blowing things up and driving weird vehicles through the country.

but no, the worst job was in a office where I was hired to do high end technical support for an email application that had to be customized for each company that wanted it. I’ll admit to being a lazy bastard, and having an unhealthy internet addiction that I’ve fed since 1987, but I usually manage to become a valued employee anyway. The job changed a month after I hired on to include a lot of scutwork. The start time changed from “ten-ish” to “8:30-and-don’t-be-late”, which was a bit of a killer for me as I chose the job partially on the start time. Then management began to jump ship. Reorgs are normal for a growing company, but I never knew what my job was. I had no client list so I didn’t have the basic information to do my job. This managerial ship jumping had a higher impact than usual. Then all the company founders left, resulting in another management reorg.

the ipo was then pushed back indefinitely. Now, I’m not just about the money, but its not unimportant to me. So, no client list, no management, no make-money-fast IPO.

i should have quit but I was busy surfing the net and holding out for my stock options anyway. As it was, I ended up getting fired after eleven months of employment. I was a little bitter as I had only one month before vesting in the first quarter of my stock options, but they had essentially paid me a pile of cash for doing nothing, thereby financing my move to the bay area.

my ego was soothed a little when I found out that a friend who hired on to the company shortly before I was canned, quit a month later claiming that his job was unmanaged and chaotic.

even so, getting fired still hurt, so I took a vacation to Thailand for a month and then applied for unemployment. The unemployment insurance was denied as they claimed I was fired, not laid off. Whatever. I partied for a month upon my return to the US and then got this Perl programming job which is certainly more interesting, has much more potential, and pays more. Living well and all that.

well, now that I’m happy at work and learning Perl, which I think will be both lucrative and kinda fun, I really miss Thailand. My dream job isn’t there, but it will take me there.

my dream job is to have a rock band on the downhill side of success, mining the last of our glory in Asia.

EX VOTO “Life’s Work/Life is Work” ER

Don’t Feed the Crows
by Eric Richter

It’s getting tougher to get out of bed and get on with the day lately. Unemployment must really be kicking in. Or Funemployment, as I’ve been told it should be called. Whatever you’d call it, the days start the same; I shuffle out of bed half blind and half mad and stand patiently over a boiling pot, or in line at the local joint, and shrug off the gift of another new day while the coffee brews. Unless I’m late for work or something. Which I’m not today, seeing as I’m still unemployed.

So I get a cup of calm all brewed, and I hide out in the Sports section or the Front page, where other people play out their lives so I don’t have to look at mine. For a while, anyway.

At least until reading something about a shooting at some office, at which point I am caught up in my recent dreams: dreams where I speed along in a car, helplessly caught and ripped by bullets in a gunfight; or the one where I run through the same pattern of halls and doors inside my grandparents’ burning house as I try to lose the Terminator, clenching and grinding my teeth as I dive to get around another corner before… well, you get the idea. Evidently the newsprint wasn’t strong enough to hold these things back.

I should tell you here and now: the dreams terrify me. So does the news. I mean, my god, what if they’re all true! And what if I’m trapped between them? Trapped in a corridor of endless options that ultimately lead to life’s grim, and seemingly unavoidable, demise. That’s why I was not in a hurry to open up the day. The very real sensation of being shot repeatedly, or trapped inside a burning hell with a robot trying to maim me is, well, scary. And I don’t know what to do about it. That’s scary too.

But what really scares me most is the crow dream.

See, I’ve been having the same frantic car crash and terminator dreams for years. But the crows are new, and they’re visiting often. And in their coming and leaving I can trace the stitches of a well-fitted suit of habits. Habits that define my life. What an ugly suit they make, and how tightly it fits! Sadly, I fear that suit won’t get much better looking.

I don’t mean to be morbid. Sure, I would rather spend my time dreaming of life’s end as more of a retirement party. A big bash kicked off with congratulatory speeches by Tom Landry and Muhammad Ali, the respective angels of discipline and sacrifice that I will always revere. After the speeches, Jim Jarmusch would somehow weave my life into a slide show that revealed my time on earth as golden, and show the mistakes I made to be divinely-inspired steps to a jolly enlightenment. Then we could all hit golf balls out over the houses on West Cliff in the sunshine, drinking Schlitz and slapping backs. Heck yeah, it would be great! And the whole shindig would wind down with Malcolm X, William Blake and Al Green hanging my beloved black socks high up in a heavenly rafter… and I’d build a bonfire with my lover while the curtain came down, leaving the two of us to slowly skinnydip away into the stars, an eternity of Mondays be damned.

That would prove God exists. And that life is work worth our time.

Dying in a hail of hot lead doesn’t give me that feeling. Neither does being caught alone in a park full of hungry crows with an empty popcorn bag, watching with one good eye as my last and only true friends scatter off from the branches, indifferent to the shame of my exhausted givings.

Maybe having a job isn’t so bad after all.

What we call the beginning
is often the end.
And
to make an end
is to make
a beginning.
The end
is where we
start from.
—T. S. Eliot

EX VOTO “Life’s Work/Life is Work” CS

The Perfect Chooker
by Colin Sjostedt

I’ll never forget that one time I was stupid enough to even think about that pukefying summer job. I was as dumb as a woodchuck in those days. Not a regular woodchuck either but one of them special ed. jobs with the football helmet and mini yellow bus.

But who in their right little mind could resist the soft sell? MAKE $8,000 IN 10 WEEKS! The finer print mentioned something about a fishing boat in Alaska but I didn’t get past the dollar signs. After suffering through my 2nd year at a big dumb university in Ohio I needed some flash money to attract the ladies. My witty banter at the all-night binge drinking parties was getting me bitch slapped so many times I had calluses on my cheeks. Think about that for a minute. The shallow hootys I wanted to know better would be so pleasantly blinded by my big wad they wouldn’t notice a lack of table manners.

So I called the number and got my info packet in the mail. I glossed over the blather about hard work and lonely nights at sea and got right to the part about swimming in Jackson’s. The money was paid in one lump sum at the end of the summer and the room and board were free. With eyes as big as Hostess Sno-balls, I filled out the application including something called “an accidental death waiver”—whatever.

My parents agreed to pay for my air fare to Anchorage. My mom was saddened that I wouldn’t be coming home to help her weed the garden and sit in with her bridge club but my dad was thrilled that I’d finally be doing some real work. When I told him I would be getting paid to vacation on the high seas drinking daiquiris and occasionally casting a pole he laughed until he was crying.

After a tearful goodbye to my imaginary friends it was off to that special place just left of the Great White North. I was greeted at the airport by a surly, disheveled, stinkbomb that went by the name of Earl. I tried in vain to make small talk with Smellman but he only said, “I’ll be back to gitcha in the morn, Stumpy” as he dropped me at a Motel 6. There was no reservation under my name or the name Stumpy for that matter so I had to pony up $22 of my own sugar for the room. I was awakened by a pummeling at my door at 4am and was soon guided aboard a decrepit schooner lovingly called “The Blackhole”—could this be what my English professor referred to as foreshadowing? I was given the two penny tour along with nine other zombies that looked to be about my age but with half the brain cells—not that I got many myself but these poor blokes looked like they were mentally engraving their tombstones with, “Thank the Lord it’s finally over”.

After viewing the sleeping bunks, cutting tables, packing room, and ice machine it was time for some Q&A. Where was the sunning deck, game room, and cocktail waitresses with the big honey dews and inviting eyes? This was a fishing factory not Club Med I was told. The Love Boat was at the other pier. Okay, okay I get it. Just show me my fishing pole and comfy chair and I’ll get right to work. Frank, who was every bit as dumpy as Earl but smelled much worse, said I was the front runner to be the first guy tossed off the boat and immediately put down $50 to back up his claim.

We were told to get some rest—it would be 20 hours before the first fish started to come in. The zombies got in their bunks and promptly snoozed off. The gently ocean waves had me in a deep slumber only interrupted by vomiting every five minutes. My sweet dreams of costume fitter at Hooters came to an abrupt end with the screaming of grown men and the smell of slippery critters from the deep.

Turns out my cush job involved cutting the heads off fish and packing them in ice—not the heads but the other parts. This task was pretty new and exciting for all of three minutes. The other cutter/packers were working about ten times as fast as I was until I got the hang of it and cut that ratio in half. It was all blood and guts and ice and puke for the next ten weeks. Like a Vegas casino, life aboard “The Blackhole” was timeless. After working for a month only three days had gone by. I cut my hands with the savagely sharp knives so many times that I went through 10 pairs of rubber gloves which, of course, came out of my salary. We worked in shifts day and night.

After the ice was broken I got to talking to my fellow slave workers as we did our glamorous jobs. The range of discourse went from food to sex with nothing in between. We talked about what we would do with our new found wealth. Hookers and steak came up often. What about a hooker that could cook, or a chooker, I wondered? That quickly became our favorite word. Mmmm… gonna get me a fine-ass, blonde Asian chooker that can sow my oats and fry it up in the pan at the same time.

At about the eighth week a strange thing happened. Our imaginary chookers had become real live women with names and family’s and favorite kinds of ice cream. The sex and food talk fell by the wayside as we discussed careers and the ideal place to raise a family with our chookers. I’m gonna live in the suburbs and drive a mini-van with my chooker, exclaimed short balding zombie Steve with glee. Our goofy day--dreaming made the time go by incrementally faster and before I knew it we were coming back to port.

Our newly found emotional maturity disappeared with an audible poof as we got a glimpse of the finest street skank that Anchorage had to offer. These high class dames didn’t even mind our sea stench or desire to be fed greasy burgers during coitus. After getting my fill of ho and turf it was back to the land that is round on the ends and high in the middle.

After a few weeks of home cooking and cable TV it was back to higher education. In my linguistics class this comely cutey that gave me the hollow man treatment for two years was starting to notice me. Maybe I had actually picked up what George C. Scott called “character” in The Hustler. On our first date Shelley opted for the cheapest burger joint in town over the French place. I didn’t even have to burn much of my hard earned flash money. I guess that’s what my English professor would call irony.

Eddie:
How should I play that one, Bert? Play it safe? That’s the way you always told me to play it, safe. Play the percentage. Well here we go, fast and loose. One ball, corner pocket. Yeah, percentage players die broke too, don’t they, Bert? How can I lose? Twelve ball. How can I lose? Because you were right. It’s not enough that ya just have talent. You gotta have character, too. Four ball. Yeah, I sure got character now. I picked it up in a hotel room in Louisville.
Fats:
Shoot pool, Fast Eddie.
Eddie:
I’m shootin’ pool, Fats—when I miss, you can shoot. Five ball. Fourteen ball. Twelve ball…
• Paul Newman in The Hustler, 1961

EX VOTO “Life’s Work/Life is Work” GH

But, What I Really Wanna Do Is…
by Gene-o Hamilton

It is ironic that my best job and my worst job was the same job. It was several years ago and I was very new to the Santa Cruz area. I had fallen on hard times and was desperate for money. In my journey of this new weird and wonderful playland of liberal facades I crossed paths with a “professional” photographer, later to be known as Little Leeba and Her Fiery Camera of Death. She saw my destitute circumstance and offered me a position of “male model.”

She assured me everything was on the up and up. At first everything seemed fine. I was living the jet setting lifestyle that I had always dreamed of (swimming pools, movie stars and all that crap). Then one day when I was in a doctor’s office –strictly routine I assure you– I noticed a familiar image illuminating from the magazine rack. It was a picture of me! There I was spread out in all my glory for all to see. I was horrified. The thing that was making me happy somehow had suddenly become the thing that made me feel dirty and ashamed.

I was so overcome with guilt that I dashed from the office never to return. I am still going to therapy three times a week. You see, it appears that Leeba had been selling my images to Republican publications. I share this story in hopes that those who read it and are planning to venture far from home will think twice before blindly accepting offers from questionable characters with cameras. Beware of the contemptuous beast lurking behind the lens.

I now sell artfully produced erotic adventures of wholesome people (PORNO). I am slowly regaining my pride and principles and hope someday to be a director.

EX VOTO “Life’s Work/Life is Work” PL&PH

Sick Thrills in the
Real World
by Paula Lopez

I’ve only have had 5 jobs in my life, counting my current one. Working here in the trenches has not been bad. When the title of The Freedom Fighter, a.k.a. Queen Puh Bah, was given to me by my supervisor I was honored. So far it has been good. Can’t complain because there’s been worse situations. I’ve waved good-bye to many, however, as they escaped the encampment.

You probably figured out by now that I’m speaking in code. Working for a weekly newspaper has been a step in the right direction. I went to college and received a degree in graphic design, and along the way received a photography certificate. I am one of the few that has a job doing what they studied for. It let’s me be who I am: a child at heart. I like a working environment where we work as a team. Working against a deadline is a sick thrill for me.

It’s not my dream job, but it keeps a roof over my head and food on the table. Along the way I had to work with idiots and jerks for bosses. I was glad to hand a resignation over to my last one. He had no people skills, loved to cut corners and belittle people. Lets say if OSHA ever got a hold of him, he would out of a job.

Eventually I will move back home, Southern CA, and find a job down there. Maybe with the L.A. Times or L.A. Magazine. They and many others, told me to get experience first; the degree was good, but they wanted more. It’s a dream, I know. But dreaming is how the strong survive. Either way I know I’ve learned more out in the real world than any college or university can teach.

––––


Birth Mother:
F/T, Multi-task. Some Benefits.
by Pearl Heer

WORST Job, No. 1: In regard to stress and effort, acting as God’s little helper in going forth and multiplying.

BEST Job: Regarding stress, effort, fun and games; seeing the results of No. 1 going from itty-bitty, to all grown-up.

DREAM Job: In regard to pay-off, pride and public acclaim—bringing up a whole hutch full of Heers!

EX VOTO “Life’s Work/Life is Work” TH

God Darn the Pusher Man
by Tim Heer, Sr.

It was the 60’s, not the summer of love, a little before that, and I was wearing my first uniform for that decade. It was all white. White pants, white shirt, white hat, and with a brown and pink polka-dotted bow-tie. It was an era of innocence, of unknown wrong doing, a time as I look back from adulthood I am not too proud of.

Had I known then that I was profiting off of other’s wickedness, taking advantage of their need for escaping from the realities of the 60s by escaping into a den of earthly pleasure, where I was always ready to take their last dime. I was no better than that one down by the whirlpool, looking for a new fool. Just another pusher man getting their customers hooked on the new flavor-of-the-month, offering them a free taste with a small pink spoon. This concept was not clear to me then, but what was clear at the time was the feeling that I was feeding the animals at a zoo. At times I can still see the little overweight people, grabbing the cone from my hand with a glazed look in their eyes and drool on their lips. The worst part of the job was the constant worry that someday, someone, would come in and order… a licorice ice cream soda…

One would think that being a Baskin-Robbins 31 Flavors Soda Jerk would be the job made in heaven. But most of the time the smell of ice cream and the roar of the crowds as they impatiently waited for their next fix was more than I could take. I do remember one night working with Joe, the San Jose City College baseball star. I had just had my first date with Marie. Now I was all excited and singing songs from West Side Story, as I cleaned up during a slow time. Joe was taking care of the few customers that came in and giving me a bad time about how he had been out with her the week before. This jibbing with one another was kind of fun, after I realized that he had no idea who she was. It did make a slow night go by a little faster.

The very next time we worked alone it was a Saturday night and he had spent all day with his new, latest flame, Marilyn. Now how many Marilyn’s could there be in the San Jose area? Because fifteen years before in the third grade, I had a crush on a Marilyn. Of course, there was no way Joe was going to believe me, after what he had put me though the week before. I tried to persuade him to just ask her, the singular-sensation Marilyn, if we were not boy and girl friends back in third grade. It took most of the night, but he finally promised to ask her…

It must have been a long time before I saw Joe again. He was working more nights and closing the shop. But one hot Saturday, with a store full of people, he came in to pick up his last check. He was moving down south to play for San Diego State. On his way out the door he stopped, looked back at me and said “Oh. She said you were wrong—it was the second grade!” I guess it was at that moment that I realized that it really was not the “life’s work” that matters. It’s the people you go through life with that count.

EX VOTO “Life’s Work/Life is Work” LH

Life in the Shop
by Larry Heer

DAY ONE
Pierce Plumbing and Heating was in an old building long ago torn down on Main Street in Los Gatos, near San Jose. The wood of the walls and floor was soft with age, dirt, and human sweat. The shop smelled of cutting oil and stale cigars. In the dim light of the dusty room, in the corner; I saw the pipe. It was orange clay, about 18 inches in diameter with two inch thick walls, three feet tall. I was thirteen. My dad had decided that I was finally old enough to come to work. My first task was to move this terra-cotta chimney liner to a storage shed out back. It was my first morning in a sheet metal shop.

I rolled a hand truck up to the heavy cylinder. The truck was a big ugly wooden thing with steel wheels, not like the shiny rubber tired models they sell these days. I shoved against the top edge of the pipe with the heel of my left hand, and tipped it back, slipped the steel blade of the hand truck underneath. I wrapped my fingers over the rough rim of the pipe, pulled the top forward, and with my right hand clenched on the truck handle by my ear, leaned it back towards me. I slowly backed out of the corner, carefully balancing the weight. I steered the truck around a workbench and across the rough wooden shop floor. More than forty years later I remember the scene as if it was a movie I watched last night. This was the moment I had dreamed of for years. No more newspaper route, no more fruit picking, or weed hoeing. I had a real job and I was making a dollar an hour. Life was sweet.

The steel wheels of the hand truck thumped on the nail heads in the worn floor and jarred against the gaps between the boards. I maneuvered past the leaf brake and around into the plumbing department, past shelves filled with mysterious pipe fittings. At the back of the shop there was a ramp leading down to the dirt floor of the pipe cutting area. I leaned the truck way back, balancing down the planks. I felt like I was performing a trick in the circus my brothers and sisters used to put on under the big oak tree on our rope swings at the cabin. My summers at the cabin were over. I had a real job. I was grown up.

I reached the ground and out into the bright sunlight of a June day. My confidence grew as I wheeled down the driveway, the truck bouncing along the hard dirt. The door to the storage shed was hanging open, I pushed the truck into the darkness, stood the pipe up. I remember a shaft of sunlight coming through a large crack in the wall, and dust flecks slowly spinning in the light. I remember the pipe settling onto the dirt, rocking forward. In slow motion the pipe tipped, rolled, and fell to the floor, shattering.

I was sure that since only a second had gone by that it must be possible to push back the clock, just a tick or two. Just a little bit, please God, just let me back it up a minute, that’s not asking much. I looked around, how was I going to explain this? I wish a brother, or better yet, a sister were here, I could blame it on them. The cold horror of the situation hit me. I’m going to be fired. Ten minutes into the first day of the first real job in my whole useless life and I’m going to be fired. The world’s youngest failure. Maybe I could pretend it didn’t happen. Just go back and clean the shop. Maybe no one will notice. Maybe I could hide the pieces, they’ll never miss it. Maybe....

The walk back up to the front of the shop, to my dad’s office, was the longest of my young life. I stood in front of the old man’s desk fighting tears and told him what I’d done and waited for my punishment. He looked up from his blueprints, there was no anger in his face. He told me to clean up the mess and get on with my work.

I learned some tough lessons that day. That disaster often happens just when I think I have it made. That I should take the time to consider the possible consequences of what I am about to do. That being an adult means taking responsibility for my actions.

I’ve made a lot of mistakes since. The time I crushed my finger in a machine, I really wanted to back up the clock. Didn’t work that time either. I confess, over the years, I’ve hid a few. Blamed a couple on the other guy. There have been times when I’ve fouled things up so bad, I wondered how did I ever think I could do this work? How did I convince anyone to hire me? Then, confidence destroyed, screw up again, and sometimes a third time.

To excel, you must care deeply about your work, always striving for the perfect result. Sometimes that passion for perfection can make it almost impossible to deal with the inevitable flaws.

Everyone makes mistakes. The challenge is to accept the responsibility, fix the problem, ensure that it doesn’t happen again, and get on with our work.

To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and the affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others; to leave the world a little better; whether by a healthy child, a garden patch or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is the meaning of success.
• Ralph Waldo Emerson

EX VOTO “Life’s Work/Life is Work” JT

Dream Music
by Jason Tellez

I suppose the dream job for me would be traveling musician. I take a lot of inspiration from the Duke Ellington band. Here was a master musician who knew how to squeeze the love and creativity that makes music more than just notes.

I would model myself after him and write out special music that had a real “feel” to it. Music can almost be physical in that it leaves impressions on your brain just like a piece of art or a picture.

The skill of making your band feel every note is a most difficult one. It involves a lot of ego stroking and positive input. A band that functions as a unit takes a lot of practice and self-sacrifice. There should be relatively few surprises but enough room for experimentation. A good leader gives enough inner and outer space for the making of music.

My dream band would have good players who could play both leader and follower in any instance. The possibilities for splattering peoples ears with creative love and mathematical precision is endless.

When this magic is happening, there are no words to describe the feeling that passes between audience and the musicians.

The man who can’t dance
thinks the band is no good
— Polish proverb

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The Hardest Work That Ever I Done, Was Eatin’ Chicken Pie
by Tripura Anand



That’s a lyric from a depression-era song off an album called Boomer’s Story by Ry Cooder. Well the hardest work that I ever did was commercial salmon fishing. The longest hours and the most demanding physical and mental labors over an extended period of time. I call them my Macho Years, ca. 1970-1975. Women’s Lib was at its height and I had something to prove. I started out deckhanding and then decided to buy my own boat. Looking back at it now, it was like a past-life experience that was never forgotten. Even while it was happening I knew it would make a great story someday, but not right now. I’ve got some other things on my mind that I really want to say about work and me.

Have you heard of the word, “dharma?” Roughly translated, I understand it to mean duty. I think of dharma as special work in the world. You know what I mean, don’t you? What am I really supposed to do in this lifetime? For some strange reason I believe that we all have special work to do and it’s just a matter of finding out what. I’ve been rather obsessed with the question, “What am I supposed to be doing for work?” for as long as I can remember.

I must confess that I am extremely jealous of people who always knew what they wanted to do, and I’m insanely jealous of people who actually did it. In grade six we had to answer the question, “What do you want to be when you grow up?” We were expected to give a presentation on the topic complete with research into our chosen profession. There was a complete blank in my mind on the subject and so I picked a profession, with my eyes closed, out of a stack of information sheets—“Home Economist”.

Skip forward into my thirties and I am still drawing the same mind blank as I fill out the Scantron bubbles for one of those computerized career search programs. As the data from my replies rapidly eliminates tens of thousands of options, the final possibility pops up—“Hairdresser.”

If you are one of those people who thinks that it really doesn’t matter what you do, then you are probably wondering why I am so hung up on this issue. I can’t explain it but two stories come to mind.

The Ridgetop Voice
The year was 1978 and I was hired to take a woman on her first wilderness canoe trip. I designed an easy 5-day circuit in an extremely scenic area of Northern Ontario, Canada. It was day number four and we decided to climb up to a rocky ridge that we could see across the lake from our campsite.

We paddled to the far shore and then hiked slowly up through the mixed white birch and maple forest. We climbed for quite a long time, stopping occasionally to catch our breaths, until we finally emerged under a clear fall sky onto the ridgetop. We each found our spot, maybe fifty yards apart, and sat down.

The vista was a magnificent carpet of autumn colors; fiery red, banana yellow, green and rust. The sky was reflected in countless little lakes and ponds. This leaf and water tapestry extended all the way to the horizon. So far in fact, that the curvature of the earth was visible.

After some time passed, out into this vastness I mentally flung the question, “What am I supposed to be doing for work?” To my horror a voice said clearly, in my mind, “When are you going to get out of that relationship?” Dear friends, this was the first time the universe had ever answered back. And I was not too keen on the reply. It was true that I was in an unhealthy relationship but did that really take precedent over my query about my life’s work? I had to accept that it did. Still I had no answer.

The Dream
It was 1998, twenty years later. Much to my surprise I had “gone back to school” and finished a BA in Art after a 25-year hiatus. This had come about because a guidance counselor told me that I had “the heart of an artist” and needed to finish my degree in order to “open new doors” for myself. When I got out of school, I applied for two jobs. One was a full-time graphics production job complete with “benefits” while the other was a part-time job as a picture framer for top pay of 7 dollars an hour. The decision was made when I had a vision of myself spending the next 20 years of my life sitting in front of a computer laboring under deadlines and it wasn’t a pretty picture.

So I ended up as a professional picture framer and continue to work as a framer while I finish graduate school in a Masters of Fine Art program, where I am now. I’m telling you this because just about a month ago I had a dream. In my dream I am asking the same question, “What am I supposed to be doing for work?” Upon waking I could still hear the horrible words of the reply echoing in my head, “Since you are not doing what you are supposed to be doing, you can frame pictures.”

Can you beat that? Well I can’t bear it. What is that supposed to tell me? Nothing. Still no answer. Worse, it’s a fucking put down. So I continue to go through life haunted by the question of work-that elusive special work that I’m convinced that I was put on this earth to do. In the meanwhile I have been employed as everything from circus clown to yoga instructor, from fishing boat captain to picture framer. And I continue to suffer the agony of the searching for my dharma working blues.

I slept and dreamed
that life was beauty
I awoke and found
that life was duty
• Ellen Stugis Hooper

EX VOTO “Life’s Work/Life is Work” RM

How to Succeed By Trying Everything
by Rex Morgan

Most of the sixty plus jobs I have had, have had some unique benefit to working at that particular place, as well as certain downfalls:(Approx. 3 months and an apron)
35% employee discounts for instance, at Westside Community Market (precursor to present day New Leaf) back in the day when I was vegetarian and didn’t eat sugar. But then I got fired because the surfer boy who had my job before wanted his old job back—(okay, that, and I was always a little late, but hey! All the hippies working there were late too!)(Almost 6 months and a lab coat)
Looking at the stars through a rad telescope while working at Lick Observatory was great. I adapted to the night shift, but the road up there had so many hairpin turns—some of those turns were even three-point turns in my truck! I guess it was not a good idea to try to keep up with the motorcycles driving ahead of me because while I succeeded in keeping up with them, I blew my head gasket… One of those jobs where the expenses were more than my income.(Two full fire seasons and heavily equipped)
Fighting fires with CDF was a glamorous, adrenaline-junkie job, but throwing away my captain’s stash of smut magazines strewn about in the bathroom put me in bad standing for the remains of fire season that summer.(Three months and a city uniform)
Working at Harvey West park was fun because I got to drive around one of those mini-trucks, but leaving work (emptying garbage cans was the sum total of my responsibilities) three hours early because of a head concussion I sustained the night before*, lost me that job and has haunted my personal record. I got offered a job at Loch Lomond Reservoir as park ranger, and then got the offer pulled when they found out I “deserted my duties”.(One day shy of a full-month and button-down shirts)
Working at Westek Electronics as an Accounting Clerk was fun and excruciating because the Accounting Manager was a total hottie, but she quit after I had been there for only three days for refusing to fire me when the president asked her because he thought I “looked gay”.(A few days, here and there, over the years and a hair-net)
Believe it or not, my favorite temp assignment has always been working at Lipton’s Factory on the Westside. The environment was fast paced and demanding, but all the people I worked with had been there for seventeen years and owned homes and were really wonderfully nice, enthusiastic and proficient at their jobs. Plus all the women looked like cute 1940’s Rosie the Riveter types because everyone had to wear hair covers.(Every weekend for 3 months and a state uniform)
Working for State Parks on the weekends my Spring Quarter of my Frosh year at UCSC really got me on track academically. It was fun to tromp by the window of the first girl I ever kissed while I was all dirty from doing prescribed burns all day on beautiful Skyline to the Sea Trail, between Big Basin and Wadell Creek on Hwy. One. However I got my first intense case of poison oak for three weeks all over my legs and arms and neck.(One summer, 1 to 3 days a week and casual clothes)
Being a nanny was fun with three little girls, if not a bit frustrating when one would cry because she was scared of the redwood forest.(Five months and cut-offs)
Being an afterschool recreation leader was not much fun at Louden Nelson. Those kids drove me crazy until I created the Huck Finn club when we would hike over to San Lorenzo River and go wading and look for coins and fish. We never found either. Some hippies on the River path would shout warnings at me: “Get those kids out of the water, it’s polluted, man.” I would hiss back at them, “Shut up!” I didn’t want them to ruin our day.(2 years and a crew-cut)
By far and away my favorite job was being a crewleader with the California Conservation Corps. What was the downside? Flying in helicopters over Yosemite to the Badger Pass Fire in 1988. Building the Pacific Crest Trail in Sequoia National Forest, training sixty CMT’s (Corpsmembers in Training) every two weeks. Yelling at them, waking them up at 5:45 every morning for PT (Physical Training) by ripping off their blankets and kicking the metal trash cans and pulling on the light. Busting people for talking after lights out and making them clean latrines at 10:30 at night. Planting trees in Australia. Firetraining young adults from the city who have never walked on a sloped surface like a mountain. Seeing 60 different people pull together and feel proud of the accomplishments of the crew. Spit-shining them boots. Ah! Those were the days!


* BTW: Leaving the theater after the film premiere of the Tom Cruise vehicle, “Mission Impossible,” the overly excited author, clearly in an agitated mental-state brought on by Tom’s amibiguous sexuality, dashed to the nearest obstacle and in one, smooth, supple Ian Hunt-esque leap, launched himself over a half-wall then fell unexpectedly fourteen feet, landing mostly on his head…
— Editrix

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Untitled
by Tony James Clark

Work is love made visible.
And if you cannot work with love but only with distaste, it is better that you should leave your work and sit at the gate of the temple and take alms of those who work with joy.
• Kahlil Gibran

EX VOTO “Life’s Work/Life is Work” SOS

Frigid Clones’ Diary
by Sugarpuss O’Shea

Monday, 16 August:
0 bitten nails, coffee units 3—only one (1) Mocha-Latte Rush Hour Frappe (v.g.), cigarettes 32 (v.v. bad, particularly since also chewing Nicorette—must quit, but helps stop nailbiting—ugh)
9:20 a.m. I am destined for inner poise. Started work at the Gift Horse Gallery—no more pocket smocks, condiment guns and grease traps for me! (v.g.) My three years at college is definitely paying off ( btw someday soon will finish degree—now am a brill. career woman). I am surrounded by absolutely the mooooost gorgeous, brilliant artwork! (v.v.g.) I mean, it’s not the Louvre, but like, who can afford a Mona Lisa? The Gift Horse Gallery specializes in Gifts of Art No One Can Refuse! That’s kind of our company’s mission statement, so that’s how we’re supposed to answer the phone, and say it with a smile like Mr. Delphonse wants. In particular, we are the totally exclusive gallery for Dream-Putti figurines, and that means we are the only place people can see the newest designs! Of course, I didn’t know what Dream-Putti were at first, (v. bad during interview with Mr. Delphonse mistakenly referenced the kids toys we gave away at my old job with our Patty Whack-Packs). But now I know. Dream-Putti are like, the coolest art! Along with our line of Fine Art Prints and accessories from the spiritually focused watercolorist C. Gathering Moss. (Everyone’s heard of Moss, he’s God’s Little Paintbrush. He’s like on QVC, even.) Then Gift Horse Gallery features the Dream-Putti. They’re like little naked babies, with no teeth and curly hair and kind of made in different poses. For instance one of them spilled a jar of glitter labeled “Smiles” and that one is called “Oops! I Did It Again!” Or “Hang In There!,” where the naked baby is swinging from a gold cord attached to a star and they’re sort of crystal, but something harder to break called resin. There’s way more detail than say, Pokemon, but these are collectible art works, as big as Lladro or Hummel figurines, and they are absolutely not toys… I just looove them! I’m so glad we sell them, because sometimes art isn’t very nice to look at, you know? Really! These are absolutely the cutest, and they are very artistically made. The original factory designer, Miss Rae-Lanaea Woodelf went through dozens of old like, Sears Portrait catalogues, until she found like, the perfect baby face (she says “her muse,” in the brochure). It was pure inspiration.

I read all about them in the Dream-Putti brochure so I can remember how to talk about how special they are with the people who come to the gallery, and how they “make such unique gifts for family and fortunate friends.” While I was reviewing my text (on my lunch hour, mind you—v. v. motivated and job-oriented, so Mr. Delphonse can see I’m a valued employee), Conklin came up and said the brochure is “grossly misusing” the term unique. He calls them Frigid Clones, instead of Dream-Putti, and said people don’t know what art is—all this while standing and eating a microwave burrito practically in my face, totally acting like a slobby English teacher or something…

1:20 p.m. I don’t think he’s happy as a person, really…

5:20 p.m. (btw: Conklin works in shipping.)


Friday, 20 August:
5 bitten nails (v. bad, like chips once I start I can’t stop), coffee units 15—(v.v. bad. Ugh, Cuppa coffee bar, WAY too close to the gallery. I did only have 12 officially caffienated units—that makes 3 de-caf, v.g.) cigarettes 3 (v.v.g. need for nicotine replaced by protein in nails?)

11:45 a.m. The first week at The Gift Horse Gallery has been, like —long—but I’m learning all about all kinds of stuff. It’s not like I’m wasting my life frying food, watching people eat, getting yelled at when the garbage is overflowing. I work in the Fine Arts business. I’m selling beautiful art that makes people feel good. I’m learning from Mr. Delphonse about how to put things in the gallery so people like, can’t help but like love it and buy it.

I’ve met a lot of collectors, which at first I thought meant they were really super fabulously wealthy. But, like this guy came in, wearing sweatpants and a Le Tigre shirt—if he had a whistle, I thought he’d start ordering me to do layup drills. He kind of slouched around, then asked if we had any phone cards? I told him we were an art gallery, and No—Sorry, no phone cards, (is this like a 7-11 or something, I thought?) But, sure enough, he was a phone card collector. He informed me that phone cards can be quite artistic-ally made, and of course, once they stop being made, then they are collectible and highly valued.

Wow, it’s like there’s all these levels, you know? I mean, really, I could see how people would collect certain phone cards, with like maybe a really famous picture on them? You’d like have an artistic phone card, you know—it’d be unique, just like everything we try to sell, I mean “exhibit” (preferred term) in the G. H. Gallery. I was thinking about what I’d collect. It has to be something unique—maybe all my Frappe takeaway cups? They have great designs on them! All cleaned up, on one of the gallery shelfs, they’d look good, like Italian made or something…

2:45 p.m. Oops! I’m not paying attention again. (btw: de-caf just doesn’t cut it.) Cletus and Bettina, the Idaho potato candle artists are here, paying a visit to the G. H. Gallery, telling me where their New Spuds line should go. They are very inventive, having made candles that look totally like potatoes, but made from the potatoes—It’s very eco-friendly artwork. Somehow, it involves soaking them in some kind of ureal sodium laurel immodium sulfate emulsification—it’s kind of technical. I sort of mentally glazed-over (v. bad) when Bettina was talking. But in the end they create candles in all the colors of… well—a potato bin. Like red ones, yellow ones. They brought us a sampler of their new “Exotic Tuber” line, which look a little alien to me. But, they are very unique works of art, and you can use them, like at a big dinner party or company picnics (they keep away the bugs too!)

Cletus and Bettina came all the way to our shop with new boxes of potatoes because this other batch has been getting deformed at room temperature, which is kind of bumming people out when they bring them home. And they have a new display basket, which looks just like an old busted farm basket, but keeps all the potato candles cool with a built-in refrigeration unit.

It’s just such a super fabulous clever idea, I can’t believe people in Idaho are like so—sophisticated. I mentioned it to Conklin, since he was unpacking the new display, and he just looked at me like I’d been sick on his shoes. “God—you are really a dupe…”

He walked back to shipping with the emptied boxes and packing materials. For a moment, I thought that maybe Conklin was from Idaho, and I’d just insulted his jr. high 4-H background of animal husbandry awards.

“What, how am I a dupe?” I said following him into his windowless lair. Conklin seemed to menace me for a fraction of a second with his box-cutter, then set to slicing the box into manageable panels to recycle (not so nice stains from the wax potatoes, couldn’t re-use that box!) He went a beety red all of a sudden (from exertion of box cutting? less burritos would help) then practically hissed, he was talking so fast through his clenched teeth.

“I am on the outer-ring of the universe of art, cusping the ‘fine craft’ market, where little resin putti called Zingleberries, Kute-n-Krylic, Dream-sicles, Frigid Clones, whatever—are kept under vitrine and collected—but in a thinner atmosphere than say, the local Photo-On-A-Mug! shop. This turn of events is the bitter irony of realizing early on that I could never be a successfully independent artist, but always wanting to do something ‘artistic’, preferably a job ‘in the arts’… My god, hadn’t I heard the phrase, ‘Be careful what you wish for’ enough times?!”

Conklin thrashed around with the box, then swept past me to go out side to the recycling bins. The heavy shipping door seemed to suck all the room’s air out, as it slammed behind him.

4:03 p.m. I decided I’d ignore his outburst. I mean, he didn’t even seem to be really, like, actually talking to me, so I wasn’t going to absorb this weird toxic mood of his. Remember: inner poise. Conklin was a box-and-foam-peanut wrangler, probably best friends only with the UPS guy. I couldn’t be bothered. I had to get back to my job, in the gallery. With the artists. And the art! …But first a smoke…

4:05 p.m. Gawd, yourself, Conklin… Had to puff in front of the hair salon next to the gallery—didn’t want to ruin the nicotine high watching an angry man crush cardboard round back…

What was the deal with Idaho? Some kind of hot button, or was it the hot potatoes? (v.g and v. bad pun all at once!) I laughed to myself. This was only my first week, and I knew Conklin had been working at G. H. Gallery for like four years. Though I was new, Mr. Delphonse had praised my work. He’d crowed in front of the other staff (all three of ‘em inc. Conklin) about how I was “really generating heat” in the gallery sales. It’s not like Conklin got that lady to buy the whole set of “Dream-Putti on Vacation” figures (naked babies with sunhats and unfolded maps, etc.). I told her that the set would become like, heirlooms—she immediately gave me her Platinum card. I almost passed out… Dream-Putti, incidentally, are like, very expensive…

5:10 p.m. My first week, shaken not stirred, thank you. Feeling a lot of Inner Poise, sort-of stored up to face next Monday. Just have to stop nailbiting, (v. bad when pointing out details in the C. Gathering Moss Fine Art Prints, people distracted by swollen ragged cuticles and not getting spiritually moved). And regulate the caffeine intake. And learn more about art so I can really help people learn about it too… And ignore the Angry Shipper.


Wednesday, 25 August:
3.5 bitten nails (v. bad, especially with Berry Bright colored nail polish I put on to keep me from ripping into them) coffee units 5—(v. good, 1.5 a day. keep it up!) cigarettes 0 (v.v.g. need for nicotine replaced by vast knowledge of art)
9:05 a.m. At my appointed spot, in total command of the G. H. Gallery. Mocha-latte Frappe nearby but am nursing it (v.g.). My phone skills are surpassed only by my penmanship, Mr. Delphonse says. He just can’t stop praising me—well, it’s better than getting letched on by my old Patty Whack boss. At least I’m in a job with an appropriate sounds important because it is career title, “Gallery Associate.” Super saleswoman that I am, I have been helping the gallery visitors understand it’s the emotion that makes our G. H. Gallery art so unique. For instance, just look at the Dream-Putti brochure—“Happiness is Homemade: the feelings of joy mingled with warm laughter a parent (grandparent, older sibling, caretaker) gets when their child (grandchild, sibling, ward of the state) tries to make cookies for the first time.” Or maybe when there are too many things to do and not enough time to do them, those are the emotions that are captured, soooo perfectly in artworks like Dream-Puttis “Time Out!” figurine. That’s the one where the little naked baby is sitting on a tall stool, its fat little arms all crossed like it’s been given a scolding, with very artistic airbrushed details— or Moss’ Fine Art Print, “Balm of Gilead.” And even customers who can’t afford a whole Authorized Open Edition Series of Fine Art Prints, they can probably go home happy with his Signature Series Praiseful Photoframes, each one with a sticker of authenticity from the C. Gathering Moss factory artisans. Oh, and a bible verse embossed on a gift card for free!

11:05 a.m. G. H. Gallery has just received a huuuuge shipment from our overseas artisans for our Halloween/Thanksgiving/Christmas stock. Mr. Delphonse asked me to help Conklin in shipping, and learn how items are entered into the G. H. Gallery database and inventoried. Ugh. I’d rather have tapeworm. I flash on a biology lab from college Conklin the Co-worker = Nemesis, similar to nematode (eg. flatworm, or i.e. parasite), space-invader, irritant, fungus, eye-sore, fly in the ointment… But I am Employee Extraordinaire, and so I tap into my Inner Poise. I can easily rise above the Angry Shipping Man. I will ask pertinent, thoughtful questions—remaining dignified in the crypt-like Fortress of Bubble Wrap, while Conklin shows me what the Alt-F6 command does, and how to get the FedEx labeler to print correctly. I will be professional, a willing to learn, ready to help multi-tasking genius employee. This is what separates the wheat from the chaff, the strong from the weak… I look at my remaining fingernails—I’ll just keep my hands behind my back. No problem.

3:45 p.m. (had to take a smoke break, collect lost Inner Poise) So hideous! Conklin’s like, more socially retarded than I thought… Has no sense of the “proximable bubble,” (term from Soc. Psych class)—crowds right up on you, totally repugnant with his hot burrito breath mingling with like menthol-rub, or whatever he puts on wrist, (carpal tunnel problems, still gross). After like a blazing, fast-forward example of the inventory process, Conklin had me sitting at the shipping computer, while he rummaged down into the Chinese crates, extracted enamel boxes ornaments, delicate crystal clowns (handling them all like he was digging in a sock drawer—Hello? That’s art you’re handling, bucko… Mr. Delphonse must have never seen him do this). Anyway, my Co-Worker from Hell’s Shipping Dept. barked instructions to press this key and go to this or that field, and for God sakes don’t keep clicking on the mouse—all at louder than conversational levels, and then comes over and literally pressed his lower abdominal area into my shoulder, while I sat at the computer, suddenly pointing at things on the computer screen barely missing my eye.

Then, after huffing about my poor keyboard skills, and crushing into me several times stabbing at the commands while I leaned exagerratedly the other way (was that his?… ugh I feel soiled) Conklin said I could just probably handle cleaning the new stock with a soft rag, to get rid of the woodchips and newspaper dust. Ass. Whatever. I resigned myself to cleaning the artwork. I was like moving slowly, purposefully. Focused grace. This is an important step, cleaning—like curating, like they do in the art museums. I held a small starfish figurine. The starfish wore a chef’s hat (on one of its arms?) and proffered a platter. It was really unique. The figure, from Bubbly-Wubbleton’s new 2001 collection was entitled “Salty Sam’s Seafood.” Perfect for a fisherman—or anyone with an aquarium. I had six cleaned, and ready to be put in our inventoried and placed in the vault, when I realized Conklin was talking to me. He was just going along, tapping the keys and streaming words as if I had been completely involved in the conversation. As if.

“…how does one find themselves with a career in certain fields? Like ‘Fat Renderer.’ That’s got to be grim, huh gathering carcasses? I always thought it was just ‘parts-is-parts’ from meat-packing, but they’re actually getting most of their ingredients on the highways. Sail-cats, greasespots, road kill—you know that’s where those post-mortem roadside attractions go? If you think about it—at least that work has some integrity. It’s the life-cycle, re-translated for our paved over plastic-wrapped world. They’re the equivalent of anthropomorphized mushrooms, giant legged earthworms with bright blue trucks; de-composing the icky and the dead into a more purified substance.”

Silently, still cleaning the fine ash and odd horsehair off the artwork, I looked at the back of Conklin’s head. Hmmm. Early male pattern baldness. No wonder he was Angry Man.

Conklin continued, “Honestly though, I think that employ has it all over a fast-food worker—that’s a job I wouldn’t take on a bet! Those team-player corporate uniforms, scratchy and made by designers at Dow Chemicals, with a Dyna-labeled name tags, so any Neo-Nazi can get in your face and say, ‘Hey, Heathrow! I said NO tomatoes!” But, God! To be aligned with the depressing line-up of sub-normals who they hire. I shudder to think…”

I started to blush. I mean, like—did he know I used to work at Patty Whack, or was this just random convenience food slagging? I could feel my face burn and my back tighten, like when he’d leaned on me. I wanted to elbow him in the gut.

“The typical kitchen, composed of delinquent syphilitic home-girls who’d rather shiv you than take your order, or the flaccid out-patients who obsessively mop the same tile while they urinate themselves, or the Hamburgler College manager who secretly knows he’s a useless human being with no real purpose, in charge of a sebaceous scabbed crew pumping out the deflated looking patties, adhering them with the pus-orange thin-set sauce supreme to tortillas or buns or wraps. It does almost make me sympathize with Neo Nazis—like maybe extermination for these crap centers is the only solution, and only majorons eat there, because only majorons would work there…”

I meant to sound tough, he was so superior sounding! But I bleated at him, like an irate nanny goat—“You’re like, so perfect, right Conklin? You never had to take a job you thought maybe was below you, maybe just to make a living?”

“Oh no? What do you think I’m doing here?” He turned slowly towards me in his perch, like Dr. Evil. I imagined he built robots at home to serve him and do his evil bidding. “What is it, Miss Frigid Clone, that you think you’re dealing with here? The Art World? We’re not even in the same galaxy. We are the short muscles in the sphincter end of the collectible tchotchke beast. You and I both pimp in this Authorized Dealer of the World’s Finest Non-Recyclable Durastone Landfill Trinkets and Googaws. You just don’t even get what’s going on. You’re a dupe. A tool. Strangely enough, I feel sorry for you…”

That tears it. “Conklin,” I hissed through my own clenched teeth trying to craft my scathing exit line, “Don’t bother. You’re the one who’s balding…”
I yanked the door open and left him in his tape-gun and postal-meter cell, to wallow in his own stupid smug stupid juices. Angry Balding Disgruntled Shipper—whatever… I lit a cigarette, and alternated chewing off nails and taking long drags. A Zima was in my future tonight, for sure—maybe several…

Friday, 27 August:
9.25 bitten nails (v.v. bad, have had to keep hands behind back, sort of gesturing at things with elbow or head-nod—pointing bad habit anyway) coffee units 0—(v.v. g., however…) cigarettes 48 (v.v. bad need for nicotine driven by total loathing of psycho co-worker)

9:35 a.m. All the joy in my new vital brill. work is just draining out, sucking through a big black hole, that pulses and throbs like some Star Trek effect back in the shipping area. Thankfully, Mr. Delphonse has not said I need to be trained any further by the cruel and unusual Conklin, and I have avoided him as much as is humanly possible for me and whatever he is (sooo not human). Of course, he’s been shooting daggers at me whenever we pass, because, unfortunately the designated smoking area is out behind G. H. Gallery with the dumpsters and all the foam peanuts and cardboard and other discards. It’s like startling a giant rat when he’s out there, his eyes narrowing at me, and his moustache (crust-ache more like) and chin fringe, they literally bristle.

I am, however, calm in appearance. I know, now, that I cannot fight this foe with words—only serenity and obliviousness towards him will succeed. I merely light my cigarette (number 49, must regain Inner Poise before lungs give out) and pretend to be terribly fascinated with the precautions posted on the dumpster. Please, can’t you see I’m on a break…

3:05 p.m. Mr. Delphonse is out of his private office, next to me and totally beside himself—excited, squeezing my shoulders in such an enthusiasticly fatherly way, I’m sure he’d pick me up and swing me around if he thought it wouldn’t throw his back out.

After ushering in a group of eight tourists before 11:00 am., (btw all in town for a Dowsing Convention, weird even so), showing them almost every single Dream-Putti in stock (hello? that’s over a hundred ugh), I have just finished the invoices. The grand total of purchases is $2,750. No surprise that Mr. Delphonse is just about to puddle on the floor.

It wasn’t to be believed, really—like, they all seemed to want to keep outbuying the other. Like one of them thought she wanted to buy a C. Gathering Moss Limited Edition “Bells of Saint Catherine” (btw which is a genuine bell with Moss’ real artwork reduced to fit on side of bell)—and the others just tittered and said O What will your Tom say? and she’s like I can get buy things without Tom’s permission and they were all like Hmmm, and kind of like, biting their lips kind of fretful, or not really I guess because, suddenly they all picked up one of the Moss Authenticated Artwork Accessories (candle-holder, memo-pad box, illuminated miniature ceramic bible pew, sachet) and said, I’d like to get this please, can you wrap it? All this small stuff. Conklin was going to writhe in agony. “Oh, yes absolutely,” I said as I buzzed the intercom for him to come get the purchases, “It’s our pleasure.”

I walked away while Conklin came to gather the items, and that’s when the woman who’d wanted the bell first asked How much for this painting? It was an enormous back-lit C. Gathering Moss Authorized Artwork (btw all Moss vendors were obligated to exhibit it in their showrooms) and it showed the “Garden of Utter Purity and Right Faith” which resembled an indoor flower show I’d seen once in Stockton. Except, in the middle of a mound of tree-ferns and mammoth orchids, sat a male-model Jesus-type. And a fluffy lamb, head in the rather overly toned lap of Gorgeous Christ.

“That’s not a painting!” Conklin snapped, causing all the Dowsers and myself to jump.
Rude snapping turtle-man was right, but he didn’t need to shout. I was the Gallery Associate. I would handle this—all Inner Poise and Amazing Art Expert.

“My co-worker is correct—this is not a painting ‘per se’ but actually a genuine C. Gathering Moss Authorized Limited Edition Offset Reproduction from an original oil painting,” (v.g. remembering brochure verbiage) “There were only 2500 printed in the U. S. territories by personally selected print houses on textured canvas, and Mr. Moss not only wrote his signature on each Fine Art Print, he added his own extra brush-stroke, can you see it just like, there—to suggest the light coming from the… central figure.” I just like, couldn’t bring myself to quote the brochure “the Righteous J.C.” Ooh, oh yes, uh huh the Dowsers said. Conklin was making a slight retching sound, but I didn’t react. And how much is it?

“$2,000…” So, so, quiet even with ten people in a room. The frame is very… unique, wife of Tom commented, drawing further sighs and agreements from the others. I could hear Conklin retreating to wrap the selections, by the sound of his slapping sandals. “Well, it is Moss’ artistic aim to uplift a person by showing the way of faith through the magic of his inspired painting, uh…” (not, per se…), “which is then made accessible to like, a lot more people… Because this is a Fine Art Print, and he’s signed it, which makes it very valuable. Especially on the secondary-art market. It’s a good investment… In art.”

Silence from the Dowsers group, while they stood in front of the couchlong image. I was worried maybe I’d quoted too freely from the swirl of C. Gathering Moss “Higher Aim Sales Guide” brochure text. It had all suddenly flowed so fluidly from my head and mouth, that I actually felt a little drained.

I’ll take it. It’ll fit right into the new enclosed porch—You do ship don’t you? The wife of Tom handed me her credit card, and I sold that painting—duh, print (btw no. 1778 out of 2500 LE), thinking maybe we should order two more, in case this happened again…

In the back of the shipping room, I thought I heard a sob…


Friday, 1 October:
1 bitten nails (v.g., totally over bad nailbiting habit, except for one thumbnail I reserve for emergency gnawing) coffee units 4 (v.v. g., one puny coffee a day, with only a drop of fake milk. I feel saintly) cigarettes 3 (I am Super Woman, lungs like a free-diver)

11:30 a.m. I was reading an article last night from some paper (don’t know… “Your Life’s Work” title made me look again) about twenty-somethings, and the author was all like:

We all struggle, after all, to find purchase on the rocky shores of gainful employment. We’re trying to scratch out a niche; a special place where we may seek edification, acceptance, restoration, or vision; it is more than a Mc-Job—it’s the definition of the calling, the vision of oneself defined for life, that only priests and street-mimes, unfortunately, seem to hear.

A certain person takes a certain job. Well-suited. Full-time. Satis-factory. These terms blend both the practical and the prosaic into a near meditation.Om-padme-on-an-hon-estli-ving… Remember to breathe. Repeat.

Everyone deserves a job, finds a niche, or at least can find a place to do good —so says an endless list of teachers, counselors, teen-club leaders, and U. S. presidents. Yet and still, who’d take any of their thankless jobs? Not me, not on a bet…

Yikes! The last sentence returned me to that freak show Conklin put on in shipping that day. That’s what broke my three-week record of no smoking—I had to smoke three butts to keep from like, eating my fingers. Saying those things like about people who happen to work in fast food (only two years at Patty Whack!)—that’s just such total arrogance. And that’s all like, some kind of insecurity, anyway. Maybe he wasn’t breast fed enough or bigger boys teased him in the showers… (ugh I don’t even want to go there!)

And today should have been sooooo nice—no Angry Shipper. Conklin has today off (don’t know, don’t care) and it was going to be a super fabulous Friday, because, as of a week ago Mr. Delphonse told me my probationary period was over. He said he was so delighted with me and my good work ethic, and all super sales that like, I was getting my extra .50¢ an hour starting that day, and a key to the whole Gift Horse Gallery. He was leaving for a weekend business trip this Friday, and I was going to close-up for him!

Then like, Susie, who does the bookkeeping, who is also in the gallery with me to help with customers, but is like behind a kind of screen, because her desk is seriously stacked with clutter and calculators, was all, “Mr. Delphonse has really taken a shine to you,” but she actually said it in this real dull, kind of like listless way with no expression on her face. I mean, her face is sort of leathery and tight (frequent Cabo vacations v.v. bad) and she doesn’t seem to have eyebrows, so it’s like hard to read Susie. (btw Susie used to be an Aerobicize instructor and she sold Herbalife—don’t really know what that is, but she said she’d made and lost several fortunes through the 80s.) But I got the impression, just like a hint, that Susie was not 100% pleased with my ascending role as brill. and Sensitive Art Genius Gallery Associate earning private time in Mr. Delphonse’s private office.

Anyway, I didn’t want any flak with Susie—there had to be sisterhood with us, even if she’s like old enough to be my mom she’s still a hardbody, so I said I like, really loooved her shoes. Her tan taut cheeks mottled, “What? Oh, thanks… These old things—Charles Jourdan’s you know—an ‘Herbalife’ celebration purchase, long time ago…” She sort of buffed a toe on the back of one of her thin but completely smooth mocha colored calves. Her line rang, “Well, anyway, better get back to our work…” Susie seemed to bounce a little bit, as she walked back into her screened-space. I watched Mr. Delphonse’s head appear as he leaned back in his chair from his private office desk. He was like, full-tilt, watching Susie reseat herself—then noticed I was watching him watching her, and shot forward in a kind of catapult move.

Smooth, no one saw a thing… As if! (btw Mr. Delphonse is married.)

5:30 p.m. So, Mr. Delphonse has gone over the closing procedure with me several times (v.v. obsessive oh well). Which displays and artwork stay lit, (always Dream-Putti always C. Gathering Moss) where to put in a back-up disc to download computer stuff, bring in this sign, make sure garbage is out, bring shoe mat in, turn off coffee-maker, punch in this code to set alarm—(my attention, only slightly waning, because like you know, only one coffee, and that was ages ago!) And he pointed out the phone list next to the alarm, with the security business emergency line in case I flip out or the police come. He says it’s simple, really, and I agree—I have the G. H. Gallery situation well in hand. I am fabulous indefatigable Security Woman. I have the key. Piece of cake…

6:20 p.m. So, Mr. Delphonse is gone. Susie’s left. Conklin, not in (v.v.g). There’s another guy, Laramie, who does parttime warehouse/delivery and also maintenance work—not even sure what his hours are, but he came and went by like 3 today… Anyway, I’m all ready to set the alarm.

6:21 p.m. The alarm isn’t working. It’s supposed to say ‘Alarm Set’ after I code… Punching in code again…

6:22 p.m. Ugh! I have like no idea why the alarm won’t set… Will punch in code again, harder (maybe it’s my nails getting in way, disrupting sensors in key pad?).

6:28 p.m. Gawd! This is supposed to be easy, and now I’m like practically perforating the stupid alarm buttons! What is up?!

OK, calm. Breathing. Restoring Inner Poise. Contemplating cigarette—but first, must do this simple task correctly.

6:36 p.m. Yeah, right… this is way stupid. Like, I’m doing it correctly, but it’s as if this pad were some kind of mock-security calculator someone stuck up here on the wall. It’s like just adding my code number in one long googeley list… I can’t even clear it! I’m calling the security company (btw top of the list of phone numbers).

6:52 p.m. Panic is imminent. Called security phone number, (multiple calls, each one takes longer to ring v.v. bad!) enter a voice mail maze of more access numbers. I don’t have an access number, I have a code number for this alarm!! No humans seem to be employed by security company, just a remote computer bank silently routing my desperate phone calls into a dump-run… I stare at the phone list. “Emergency Contacts” : security company, police, fire…
“Employee Contacts” column: first on list, hi-lighted in acid green ‘Conklin, S. 425 0099, lives close by’… Acid-green is flashing me and I realize I’m chewing on my index finger. (v. bad ugh— now I want a smoke, seriously)...

I consider calling police. Maybe they’d agree to just drive-by, make sure people don’t loot the building over the weekend? I can’t phone Mr. Delphonse, obviously, he’s gone. I phone Susie, hoping to get her machine. Her telephone goes unanswered, where is she? She’d only left a bit earlier today, not that she tells me about her life, but she didn’t mention she was going out of town, I mean, you’d think a person just might say, And oh yeah, I’m off this weekend! you know just courtesy— and her phone has rung a gazillion times. I hang up disgusted with her living in the 80s lifestyle, so of course she doesn’t have machine! I could call Laramie, but his name isn’t on the employee contact list, I don’t know what his last name is. My name’s not listed either, and someone named Evelyn, C. who I don’t know (someone not keeping up-to-date on v. v. IMPORTANTlist!)— and the acid-green line wavers, sort of enlarges a bit on the sheet…

I’m not calling Conklin. I’d rather sit here, and smoke all night by the dumpster. Anyway, it’s not that bad— I’ll give her some time. Susie will be home soon…

7:45 p.m. I have let the phone ring while I lean on the back wall, just around the ‘Private–Staff Only’ partition, where I can see the limpid light of Moss’ eternally glowing picture. I watch the dusk get blanketed over by evening through the G. H. Gallery picture window, and now its dark outside. At some point, I realized I had the phone to my head for so long, I have ceased to hear Susie’s Trim-line phone jingle at all. Half of my nails are torn-up, nail-polish is probably stuck between my teeth. I’ve spaced-out— she could have even picked-up— but no, the ringing went on… What about just leaving, just saying, well the alarm wouldn’t work, you know the system just broke down, you know if somebody had just updated the list— Damn! I mean seriously, this is stupid and sucks. I look at Conklin’s number— I mean, he’s not going to be home, I punch the seven numbers, it’s all stupid, so I can’t say I didn’t tr…
“Yeah? Hello?”“Uhm— Conklin?” I’m shocked to be speaking aloud again. “Yup. Hmm–is this the Miss Frigid Clones?” Is he slurring? O god, “Yeah, right whatever. I was uh… I’m at the Gift Horse and I can’t leave.”
“You should…”
“No, I mean— I’m supposed to close, you know, but it’s stupid, the alarm, it won’t set and I can’t phone anybody to help me…”
“Yeah, right, the alarm is stupid.” Nice, nice guy… “Listen, I need some assistance. I need to close up and leave. Can you help me? I wouldn’t have called— believe me, this is just my first time doing this, and I don’t want to have Mr. Delphonse freak out on me.” There’s a muffled sound on the line— I hear a bottle, no, bottles moved around, sorted and clinked. Music is on in the background, or a TV. But low. I’d guess he was alone on Friday night…

“So?” I am not sure if he’s still on the phone.
“Yes?” Maddening! “Can you help?! I can’t get through to the alarm company— I don’t have an ‘access number,’ nobody said I’d need an access number, and I’ve been here for over an hour, and…” I just barely cough up a “please” at the end.
“OK. I’ll be there soon.”
“No! Just, well— Conklin, can’t you just tell me what to do? Do you know the…”
‘click’

As I hang up, I can feel the heat rise from inside me. Pure rancor. I want to kick something, break a pine board with a high karate chop— this was supposed to be simple, dammit, I’m competent!Not a frail! Not a victim! I didn’t want this— the Angry Shipper, my knight, the gallant Sir Conklin is going to help me out, and I’m going to owe. Big time. He’s like leveraged me— somehow, I know this is going to end badly…

I try the alarm code one more time. Nothing.

I’m going to go smoke now.

8:05 p.m. Out by the dumpsters, I’ve already started on a second cigarette when Conklin bikes up sort-of wobbly. I know he’s been drinking. I mean, like it’s Friday night, what else?

“Still smoking I see?” He’s in his usual slob-clothes, I mean, just loose, slack looking. There are spots all over his pants and shoes. Paint. And a bulging backpack,
“What are you talking about? I haven’t said I quit or anything.” “I quit. Six years ago. On my birthday.” As he talks he sort of tips off his bike and sheds the backpack. It rattles when he sets it down. “Six years ago, today, in fact… Wanna drink?”

From out of his bag, he offers two bottles. Zima malt beverage. I like Zima. Too much, maybe. I reflexively reach for it, then stop. “We’re like, standing in the florescent glare of the door light in the back alleyway of the Gift Horse Gallery, where we both work, which is still not properly closed-up, next to the dumpsters, and you want to party?”

“Miss Frigid Clones, c’mon— take it for later then. I just thought you’d celebrate my birthday with me.” I look at Conklin. I think he may be trying to smile, though it still comes off smirky “Is it really your birthday, I mean, is that why you had today off?” I gingerly take the bottle. It’s ice-cold. I love it ice-cold.

“How did you manage without me?” Conklin laughed, and opened up his bottle and took a long drink. “You need help with the Zima too? You don’t need an access code, I’ll let you use my opener.” I just smiled a little bit at the dig. I mean, yeah, I had like asked for his help and it was his birthday… It was nice to have a drink with my smoke, I had to admit.“It’s funny you like Zima—”
“It’s repellant actually. Worse than I thought it would be.”
“What? Why are you drinking it? If it makes you so sick?” I was having that urge to kick-box him, while he made a face and swallowed.
“You like it.” I was taken aback. “How would you know?”
“Your keychain, Miss Frigid Clones. I observe details. Elementary, my dear…” He swigged from his bottle, and sat down on the stacked cardboard by the dumpster. “Why do you like it?”
“Oh, I don’t know. I don’t really drink much alcohol. I mean, I did. In school. My second year at college… It was some stupid radio promotion, partially sponsored by the proud makers of Zima. There were the DJs, and some other like seniors, giving away the usual t-shirt and stickers— lots of free ice-cold malt beverage, and keychains…”

I stopped talking and drank. The cold, vaguely lemony taste was so relaxing. The bright blue keychain, was pathetically, my only college momento that hadn’t been packed away or inadvertently lost. Somehow it remained, and I had been drinking the brand ever since—a convert of convenience. It was cheap, nobody else bought it, yet all the diviest bars and liquor stores seemed to stock it. Conklin shifted on the collapsed cardboard boxes. “The gallery isn’t going anywhere, would you like to sit down. I don’t carry a box-cutter on my days off, so you’re safe.” He patted a spot next to him and his backpack with what looked like an entire six-pack in it— I sat, and tucked my skirt under my legs, as he pulled out two more bottles.

“Anyway… the keychain from college? I didn’t know you had a degree.” He slurred a little, but the sarcasm was clear enough. I glared at him, but his face didn’t match the tone— he was smiling, I mean like he looked friendly… Maybe the Angry Shipper just had a speech impediment, that made him sound like an asshole. Maybe I was just too sensitive. I finished the bottle I had and opened the second Conklin had put in front of me. This was odd, but I was starting to relax— may as well enjoy my Friday.

“Yeah. It’s sort of my two-year chip. I had grabbed at the keychain absently, drunkenly, like it were a gold coin or a necklace thrown at Mardi Gras. The senior who tossed it to me, came over and offered more Zima back in his dorm room after the event, where we sort of groped each other on the narrow bed. I wasn’t used to that. I was having an out of body experience, watching myself kiss him, watching him operate. When he tried to convince me to pleasure him while his roomate was out watching TV in the student lounge, I observed myself get up, redress and leave. I imagined him and his roommate talking,‘and then she just like walked out, what a fucking tease…’”

I paused for a moment. Why did I just talk about all that? Am I a chatty drunk? I hardly ever drank with anybody else. Just I glanced over at Conklin, who appeared to be picking at the paint on his pants leg. I pulled my purse over, and took out my cigarettes and lit one.

“So you were… harassed out of school?” He looked over, and his expression was hard to read.

“No. I’m just rambling, sorry— but it was that event, that whole afternoon, the feelings of being near to things I thought I wanted, belonged to, but didn’t really feel part of— I decided not to go back to college the next fall. Two years, and nothing had shown me the way. I went to all my courses, I did the work but I didn’t feel well-rounded, and educated— I felt shapeless, unfocused. So, well, the rest of tuition went back to my parents. They were divorced by then, so like they fought about who should get more. After I found a job, I just stayed in the area.”

Conklin drained his bottle and plucked a fresh one out of the bag. “For not liking them, you sure can drink them down.” He smirked. “Well, let’s just say, I’m trying to appreciate the subtleties of Zima. And more is better.”


(FCD narrative To Be Continued)