Success?

Not sure what my last post was in regards to, but today I talk about the present.  In one week I leave back for Saint Louis after a stint in WI.  I have been working with theater now for the last two years and overall it has been great.  I get respect that has never existed in jobs I have held in the past. I am finally viewed as the creative person.  I feel good about it but everything is fleeting...

I have managed to be employed for 51/2 months of the year with almost nothing in between jobs.  I still ride the poverty line and find pride in working hard while making little to no money for the larger part of the year.  While being very satisfied with my current endeavors I am curious about the future.  Will I ever have health insurance?  Do I really have to clock 45 hour per week in order to have a living wage? 

Also, I am 31 years old and unsure about societal expectations but I feel like I might be successful?  My old room mate Brian and I would have this discussion about success as he was always concerned that it was regarding finance.  He used it as a way to dis-like women that held old American ideas close to heart.  (You know the hope of a kept woman).  Marring for riches and vacation and stability and to have a man that your children can call dad.  I am not opposed to a parent being valued as a caregiver for those are skills I do not have.

So we now have a still poor, unwed, childless female fighting the forces of the world with a slight hope that maybe I will never be ill.  SUCCESS I feel it.  I know that it is not clearly visible to the outside eye but maybe it has never needed to be visible.  Success is a feeling in a moment of hard to find contentment a fleeting cherished moment.  

Why O' Why

Well I cleaned up some poop today.  yes--human

I live cheap at the cost of human poop.

I was throwing away hours of work into the dumpster as the sewage smell really got me in the nose.  I think it was the saturated old note books from college that left the dumpster so eager to give back.  I am quite glad to be rid of the stuff really. 

I can see my landlord's argument after all it may have partially been my own fecal matter that contributed to the issue in the first place.  I have had a terrible diet of juice and booze for the past week.  I also ate some rice and eggs occasionally.

I may not have filled a space for potential poop if there had been past indicators of the poop parade.  

Out of the Red and into the Gray

Jack in the Box had worn me out and I was starting to need a little respect as a human being.  I found it hard not to feel like a slave in the drive through window.  I felt sad about my co-workers and their lack of idealism.  I really wanted a version of America that I don't think will ever exist.  I just want it to be okay to work at a job and get respect regardless of your occupation.--no judging-no classism.  I love having a strong work ethic and staying busy.  Unfortunately, as a creator it is difficult to get paid for all the work we do.  Beauty is under priced.

Well, back to the old me full of grand ideas and wanting to conquer the world.  I thought the only real way to get respect as a teenager is through a retail job.  Note:  I had been to a mall like 3 times in my life before high school.  I was sure that the mall was where I could make more money per hour and maybe be treated a little nicer from the clientele.  The biggest highlight would be to not smell like old french fries every night.

I can not remember how JCPenny ended up hiring me but I was very excited.  They had a dress code and I had to dress nice which was difficult seeing how I had only hand-me-downs and thrift store finds.  Also, there were less hours available and the pay was only the a dime higher than my last career. Even if I wanted to buy new clothing it was not really financially feasible.   I was also taking a risk with the job because I was hired on for extra holiday help.

I envisioned a retail world where I would get to help people in fitting-rooms and learn to fold fancy and gain some organization skills for clothing placement.  This was not my job.  I was a catalogue slave for the people that hate shopping in populated mall department stores but really need their mall junk.  There was a separate entrance in the back of the store so that the folks picking up packages could have a some what private experience.

In my short experience I found catalogue people to be mean and some what unforgiving to a young under trained me.  I was on my feet in "nice" shoes for 8 hours at a time and had to climb these crazy rafters to find packages that seemed to be in no order at all.  My co-workers where all in their mid to late 60's and should not have been climbing ladders and scaffolding.  I became their runner in my terrible shoes and felt old beside them. If I could have gotten gray hair at seventeen I would have gained an entire patch of grayness in those few months.      

I Loved That Yellow Couch

I think I may have gotten the couch from my brother Brian.  It was a little larger than a settee but not quite a big as the contemporary couch.  It was yellow brocade that had a shiny thread running through it.  The high light was certainly the fabric.  I was so excited about it.  My couch for my first real apartment.  I was moving out of my boyfriend's family house and had found a large apartment with two bedrooms and a huge kitchen for $325 a month.  I think it was 2001 and I had finally turned 18 so I could actually rent a place.

I wasn't renting by myself there is no way I could afford rent by myself and my boyfriend at the time was college bound and not wanting to move in with me.  I found the next best person.  My old co-worker Brian from the Jack In The Box.  I still did not know at this time that he was obsessed with me seeing how I had a boyfriend the entire time of our friendship.

Crazy town began gradually.  I started finding entire bottles of Southern Comfort emptied around the apartment, but mostly in the living room were my beloved couch lived. They were on the window sills and fallen over under the glass top coffee table.  Several bottles.... Then the pee began.  I would get home after working and going to school and visiting my friends to find pee all over the bathroom seat and dark brown urine in the toilet along with cigarette butts and ashes in the shower.  The pee looked like syrup.  The man must have never drank water in his life. 

I knew this was an act of resentment for having been gone to long or maybe from a lack of attention.  We had lived together for about a month before the first episode began so I knew this was not regular behavior.  I was too young at the time to confront the issue head on and honestly I may not have the courage now to face such a crazy--who knows what the hell he was thinking.  Behaving like a neglected pet that pisses on your pillow while you are gone.  Some true animal instincts were on the horizon.

My poor couch.  He had a bedroom and a bed and entertainment in the room and a door for privacy.  The bedrooms were large and separated by the before mentioned huge kitchen.  We had lots of privacy in our own little boxes.  Despite the room division and adequate space Brian chose to sleep on my couch.  He would be asleep on this small couch with his pants undone and hermaphrodite porn in the TV's VCR.  I found out the porn thing by  turning on the TV one day and it was set to play automatically. That was the last time I touched that television set or that couch.  Shit was getting nasty.

I never talked to him about the incidents and tried my hardest to avoid him and find other places to stay as I was beginning to fear interactions with my old friend.  I had a lock on the inside of my bedroom door which I found very useful.

By the time it was move out time my beautiful yellow couch had been worn down into a greasy mess.  The fibers were pulled apart on the arms and the center sank low from having been slept on for months.  Oh and it smelled of a thousand cigarettes and had spills of old booze and who knows what else from the porno thing.

I found out later that Brian thought I was leading him on and toying with his mind---I of course had no idea...The mind is crazy sometimes.   

Alongside a Burger /A Crew

In good company with Carl as a shift leader were 4 others.  The Crew:

A tall thin poet man nicknamed Papa(because he liked young girls).  Papa whom I called Brian worked the 2pm till 10pm shift and he mostly existed in the late night hours at coffee shops.  Brian was a good friend and we hung out quite a bit before he became obsessed with me.  I was young...

There was Becky that had a skinny abusive greasy husband and a couple of adult children that milked her for everything.  She lost her house one summer and was bathing in the back prep sink for a while.  Nice lady she even helped me with some English papers for school.  She turned out to be a great proof reader.

Susie should have been a militant lesbian but messed up one time and ended p with a little girl.  I went over to house one time to help her daughter write a book report and ended up getting pulled over by a real asshole police officer.  I had worked 16hrs then went to help a 3rd grader with a book report...what a turd.

Karma was a very large woman with a little girls voice and a strange husband that told her all the time that he thought he was gay.  She crushed the frame of a bike one day and I gave her rides to work for a while.  We got a bomb threat one night and Karma freaked out hard and we all got to go home early.  She really liked the bacon potato wedges.

The General manager was a real class act she always knew the right things to say at the right times--she was also very funny.  She had some children a long time ago. I think Barb was in her 50's and had hired 4 of the Kraft family Keith, Shiela, Brian and myself.  She knew we were work slaves.
It came out later that she was a lesbian because one of the the gay male dancers that worked at Jack-n-the-box spotted her at the gay bar.  She passed a way about 10 years ago from enfazema she smoked a ton of Misty's.

Jack in the Box

Well, Carl had a kid and a wife name Lola.  He liked the band Rat and would listen to the cock-rock station into the late hours of the night.  The grease in the air and the denial of shakes were my humble surroundings during my midnight stints at the Jack in the box.  Carl was a good guy?  He did have a slight rat tail which I thought was a beautiful feature that completed his look.  The beer flowed from the back ice chest on those long summer nights.  Always the Bud for beer, Carl was an American.  He would drink until he was angry and could no longer stand the idea of cooking a burger or dropping some fries into the fryer.  He refused to serve shakes at night; I could never figure out why after all I would be the one making them.
Things were simple: arrive at 10pm make about 150 tacos and overstock the shit out of some buttermilk house ranch.  I was the food disperser for the overly drunk and coked-up folks of the town.  They would share their vises and guidance with me.  I was good at the drive through.  My efficiency mixed with my fine attention to detail amazed and mystified the alcoholics which I believed were used to having a less than perfect drive through experience. I would hand out ranch dressing like it was candy on Halloween.  I managed to satisfy the customers and clean the entire closed dining room area and do all the prep work for the following day.  I was a multitasking machine always strapped up to the speaker machine that would beep in my ear as a car pulled up to the glowing sign of burger delight.

Carl had a wife and then he didn't after fornicating with a young short haired teenager in the walk-in cooler. That girl had a kid too..  oh Carl was a double dad.  I think back now and wonder how he wasn't fired after said incident.  I guess he had already lost his wife and he was a damn good midnight manager.  Poor guy worked two full time jobs and carried around a picture of his kid that he would look at while he smoked cigarettes in the break room.  Carl used to tell me about the music shows he had gone and seen and all the fun he had as a youngster.  I knew a that moment in his life he had no free time and regretted marrying Lola who was a past Jack in the Box sweet heart.

The End of a Telemarketer's Money Rolls

So the job ended.  My fast talking newspaper slinging ways ended that summer due to my neglect in coming into work.  My house had apparently burnt down that summer and we temporarily moved across town.  My job location was no longer on the way to the grocery or the bank.  No ride, no job--it was piss.
But I was resilient, the job market was still mine for the taking.  I was going to be the best at something?  I had to wait till we found a better place to live for the school year before the hunt could actually continue.  We stayed in a hotel room which was absurd for that large of a family then we moved to a trailer in neighboring town for a few weeks.  The trailer was actually kind of nice.  Living in a wide hallway is kind of fun.  You just stack your shit up the side walls and live in the center.  (this is my current living situation).
The trailer was just a temporary fix though.  My mother soon found a small cottage house in down town Belleville that was really her dream home.  There was an entire room filled with ceramic dolls and plush light blue carpet and a fancy couch.  The desk drawers all had papers and stuff in them from the owner of the house.  It was like living in a strangers house for a few months while our old home got rebuilt from the fire damage.  The landlord lady would come in sometime unexpectedly with her key as if she had a right to our paid for space. I think this was the beginning of my dislike for the landlords. 

And honestly the term landlord makes me want to barf. The Lord of land, the entitled land owner is a lord?  It is weird! There must be a better word for people with extra space than lord.

Well my next job was at Jack in the Box.  It was a legacy. Two of my older siblings had worked at the box and now it was my turn be the best drive through attendant possible.  Burgers and French Fries!

My First Job

Found in the newspaper--potential $15 per hour(more money than I have ever made).  I quickly notice that they also take workers permits, which is essential to my unemployed status at 14 years old.  I give then a very nervous call and request an interview--Bing!  I get one the year is 1996.  I did not realize at the time that everyone got jobs and the world was made of gold.  I have to then convince my mother that it is not a waste of her time to take me to the interview.  I accomplish this goal by letting her know that it is on the way to the grocery store.  I am a shoe in at this point.  I don't have the slightest idea as to what the job even is-- but I know I want it...

A job represents all that is good--not being poor. right?

The sweetest woman in the world has me sit at the only real desk in a gray painted cinder blocked room.  She hands me a wrinkled but laminated sheet that spills out a diatribe of rushed information about The Belleville News Democrat---the worst paper maybe ever.  I then look around the room at the people husslin' on the phones and become aware that I am going to be the best telemarketer ever.

I read the script to the woman with perfect clarity and even followed the given responses to her hesitation to wanting my beloved paper---but mam, we have made changes to the paper and the coupons found inside will more than pay for your subscription.

Bonnie is the queen on the telemarketing business.  She runs the office alongside a real creepster named Kieth.  Kieth had a mustache, the blond kind.  He also had some questionable teeth that I will not go too much into detail about--scummy.  Bonnie would motivate us with hostess snacks and playing cards--like we were all fat gamblers.  Who ever makes the next sell would win the snacks or toy.  It was like playing BINGO at the old folks home.

Sometimes I would wait on a dead line after being hung-up on and listen in on my fellow pioneers.  Larry the old dude with the pedophile glasses was the hardest sales man--you could frequently find him yelling into the phone-mean style-almost threatening the potential Newsprint client.  He was a crazy dude--life long newspaper sales guy--he had been with he outfit for the past 11 years and generally had the best sales of all of us.  You could also find him talking on the phone completely out of script--but they let him because his lies worked.  I would borrow from his technique occasionally. 

Then there was Simon who's approach also worked wonders, but I had no way of replicating.  He was a smooth talker and womanizer.  He gave those housewives something to want.  He was close to my age but let the ladies think he was a young 40 year old. I would catch him faking a southern cowboy style accent from time to time.  He wasn't the bad looking but he rocked that 90's metal hair with the long black hair on top and the shaved underneath--kinda nasty.  We got along really well and share cigarettes on our 15 minute breaks.
Life was good that summer.

Over Worked Under Paid

So I hear about this lucky group of people that are under-employed.  Does that mean you work less than 40 hrs a week?  That should be every one.  Just raise your hand if you would rather work 35 hrs a week for a living wage instead of working at least three different jobs for near minimum wage and still have no security?  By security I chiefly mean health care or dental care or at the very least when you go to the dentist you could still get paid for the unfortunate time you are loosing because you are in crazy pain and maybe aren't physically able to gather a pair of 4 inch heals for your sweet client.. etc... 

So what about the over employed under paid people?  How did they find so many jobs in the current economic climate?  I thought there weren't any jobs?  Well the truth is the economic situation has little to no real effect on the truly screwed stupid workers.  I don't intend to sound mean but I have not worked smart.  My reality is one of direct stupidity. I work about 60 hours per week and I am well below the  poverty line but the biggest kicker is that I can not benefit from social programs due to my contract work status.  I have what is called an entrepreneurial spirit.  I make my own economy.  I make, I sell, I hustle, it is like a bad poem for your standard impoverished.

I was over employed long before the economic down fall.  I did this shit when I was 16 working for $4.25 an hour I would take home about $650 per month after taxes I would work around 45 hrs per week and went to high school.  Those were the good old days of energy, ulcers and cigarettes.  Life was truly wonderful.  I have just grown weak and unable to feel satisfied fully by my underpaid state.

The American dream of working hard and and being able to accomplish your goals is a load of shit in a basket gently delivered to every baby.  It is like being baptised into a religion before getting the opportunity to read the documentation.   Growing up with the broken down Camero in the lawn if just the visual of the American Dream. This dream creates poverty and and a strong over worked class of people that are the back bone of this country.  These people (me included) get shit on from every direction.  They are the waiter and waitresses and the baristas and bar tenders that wait on the guilty. That is why I have to tip. Go ahead ask them if they have health insurance--they don't.

I blame my discontent of the movie Amelie.  She works at a really slow cafe and has a beautiful apartment and time to change people's lives in a positive manner.  I hate movies and Sweden this shit really exists worker have rights other places.  A right to health care and vacation is really important to the human condition.  We get sick, we get burned out on our life, we need things....  We can not continued to  go on or we will start to look the part.  No Teeth, Stomach Pain,  Poorly fitted dirty clothing.  When will I look my stereo-type?    
  -Ms. Kraft

Naturalizing

Recycling, Bathing, Getting Pedicures, Reading Books, Joining organized social institutions such as book clubs or softball teams.  IS LIFE THIS BORING, where did the optimism and energy go?  I am merely planning out every boring moment by the next obligation-vaguely hoping for a a new story or a strange interaction.  Why can't a slightly over weight mother of four tell me she used to turn tricks in the New York subway?  Why can't I find a bug that is carrying a joint on its back?  Where do I meet the strange and confused---I just want to fit in... please?

Contemplating waxing strange parts or rearranging a living space---starting to watch television--wondering what the hell the youth are doing with all that damn technology at their finger tips!!

I want to revert back to the fresh-juicy beginning of aspiration.  Where was it when things were exciting and worth the further research.  The introduction of subject matter into a conversation, the gumption of uncharted conversational territories, discussions of the color puke orange,  Stupid Aesthetics