Obituary

The world of old people is a sad and depressing place. It is a place of disease and infirmity. Has there ever been another demographic that breaks so easily?

    I can’t help but be reminded of that old issue of JSA, where Jay Garrick, also known as the Flash, is about to chase down the villainous Vandal Savage. Instead, he slips on some ice. Savage just shakes his head and strolls away, and all Jay can do is lay there with a broken hip. Stargirl shows up and calls an ambulance while Garrick cries out “Curse these old bones of mine!“

    Now the elderly community sends word of a new tragedy. There is one less of them in the world. Normally, I go the Vandal Savage route, and just shrug at their misfortune. This time the latest development struck a bit closer to home than I‘m used to. On Wednesday morning, my Uncle Gerry, 73, passed away quietly in front of a speeding bus. I was pretty fond of him, so I hope you’ll indulge me just a little while I wax eloquent in his memory.

    Reginald Hamilton Luxton II was born to Jamie S. Luxton the First, and Adeline Bosephone Luxton (nee Constantine), on  August 31, 1939 in a shallow depression on the banks of the river Thames in London, England. Named after his grandfather, “Reg” became known as “Ger” due to his mother’s dyslexia.

    When he was only one day old, the second world war broke out. In later life, he would claim to have tried to enlist, but was disqualified by the recruitment officer for being “too young”. Whether there is any truth to this unverifiable hearsay is lost to the ages. However, My grandmother Adeline did tell me that, at that age, my uncle was quite literally a "cry baby". One night, as they squatted in the burned out ruins of the tenement that was once their home, Uncle Gerry kicked up such a fit that it woke the entire family. Fortunately, this was just in time to hear the familiar sound of an incoming V-1 “Doodlebug” flying bomb, and allowed them to escape without a second to spare.

    After the war, the family immigrated to Canada, and took up residence in London, Ontario. Finding it to not at all be what they expected, they later moved to New Westminster, British Columbia. It was here that my uncle fell in with Leon Mandrake and his crowd. One can easily imagine that it was under such an influence that he developed his taste for sleight of hand, duplicity, and half truths.

    Although my grandfather, a stern and unforgiving man, sought to curb these tendencies, Gerry could not, or would not, resist being drawn into the seedy underworld. Finally, grandfather felt he had no choice but to disown his son, after which Gerry simply disappeared. Gerry never sought to share with me what happened to him during the next twenty years.

    Apparently, he wasn’t seen by any of my family until just after I was born. Even then, after inspecting the newest member of the family, and borrowing some money, he disappeared again. I was twelve before I met my uncle under circumstances I can remember.

    I was lodged somewhere in the branches of our cherry tree, when a man who looked like a fatter, more intelligent, version of my father came out of our house and approached me.

    “Nephew! We have met before. Do you know me?” He said.

    “No.” I replied.

    “I’m your uncle. Should have clued in when I called you ‘nephew’.”

    “What of it?”

    “Nephew, I have come to give you some advice. Don’t grow up to be like your uncle. Or your father. Or your grandfather. Or your mother or your grandmother. Or your aunt, for that matter.”

    “Didn’t know I had an aunt.” I said.

    “Fair enough.” he said.

    “Who shall I grow up to be like, then?” I asked. He considered his response carefully.

    “Bruce Springsteen.” he answered finally.

    Even at that early age, I saw the wisdom of this, and I wondered what other truths he may have to share. For a few years, I became his protege. He took me places and showed me things that not a lot of other kids my age went to or saw. He became sort of a surrogate father to me, especially whenever my real dad was in jail. During these times, my mom would also say that Uncle Gerry was quite good at filling dad’s place. I didn‘t know what she meant by this, and I didn‘t care, either. All I knew is that any night he was over, I was encouraged to have the TV on really loud.

    By the time I was fifteen, and it was clear I was not following in the footsteps of “The Boss“, he became disenchanted with me, and swiftly faded out of my life.

    A decade went by before I started to notice an old man tooling around town in his Rascal scooter. Don’t get me wrong, we’ve got lots of guys like that around here. But this one always made me think “He sure looks a lot like my Uncle Gerry.”

    It wasn’t until one day I was walking down the street and he pulled up beside me and said “Hey, Nephew!” that I realised how right I was.

    We spent the next fifteen minutes catching up on the past ten years. He told me how he’d stumbled onto an incredible niche market of selling OxyContin to the retirees of the old folk’s homes. OxyContin is a powerful painkiller that goes for $20 a pill and, if you know what you‘re doing, gets you wicked high. It also has a host of side effects and unpleasant withdrawal symptoms.

    All he had to do was visit a few retirement homes once a week, which he was going to do anyway. That’s where all his friends were living. Then it was just a matter of meeting up with a particular nurse, or whoever, and exchange cash for goods. The nurse took care of the rest. This allowed Uncle Gerry to take home over $3000 a month doing almost nothing he wouldn’t have been doing anyway.

    I was equally repulsed and impressed. I wasn‘t sure why he was telling me this, though. I asked him if he wanted me to help him. He looked at his watch and said he had to go.

    I never really spoke to him again. I saw him scooting around all the time, and he’d wave at me as he sped past. He waved and shouting greetings at everybody.  He never stopped to converse to me, though.

    The last time I saw him was just last Monday night. I was standing at a crosswalk when a voice called out to me.

    “Hey, nephew! Check out these sweet moves!”

    I looked over to see my uncle waving at me, in his scooter, going around and around in circles. Then he peeled out of there and, though I didn’t know it at the time, out of my life.

    The funeral is today. I don’t know what to expect, exactly. I don’t know if I will have to say something or even if I want to say something.

    This is what I can tell you about my uncle... I didn’t exactly dislike him.

    In my family, that’s high praise. Maybe I’m saying this because I’m overwhelmed with emotion. Maybe it’s just too early to speak ill of dead. Maybe later, I’ll have more to say about him.

    For now, it's probably best to leave it at that.

Good Guys Don't Drive Black Helicopters

    You may have been hearing a whole lot about Easter lately. Maybe your local paper ran an article about a neighbourhood Easter egg hunt, or you saw a news report on TV about some church related antics. If you read other blogs, then you might have read someones intimate thoughts and recollections of Easter celebrations with their family.

    I'm not going to do that, because I don't pander. Even if I did, I'd still have nothing to say, because my family didn't celebrate Easter. We also did not celebrate Christmas, Hallowe'en, my birthday, or New Year's. We aren't even Jewish or anything. We just aren't a very celebratory family.

    I think I was around twelve before I realised other kids had birthday parties, even though I did not. I asked my Mom why this was so, and she told me was because other kids are "special". I understood this as code for "mentally handicapped", and was satisfied by her explanation. I was almost twenty-five when she clarified for me that "special" meant "exceptional, gifted, distinguished, and/or extraordinary". I was hurt by this, until she went on to suggest that my failure to understand her was further proof I did not belong in that category. I had no argument against this, and I resigned myself to Mother's appraisal.

    So, instead of Easter, I'm going to talk about this weekend's other cause for no celebration, "G.I.Joe: Retaliation". First, a little history.

   Four or five years ago, G.I.Joe fans the world over rejoiced over news of their beloved toys finally making the transition to the big screen. After they had a chance to see "G.I.Joe: Rise of Cobra", those same fans prayed fervently that the franchise would die quietly. Those prayers would go unanswered.

    So it was that a sequel, entitled "G.I.Joe: Retaliation" was announced with little fanfare, and less excitement.

    Initially intended to be released in the summer of 2012, it was decided at the last minute to push it back to the spring of 2013. Officially, the reasoning was for post production conversion to 3-D. Conspiracy theorists rejected that explanation, and took the opportunity to cast all kinds of aspersions on the quality of the film.

    Just this very Easter weekend, "G.I.Joe: Retaliation" finally hit the theatres, in all it's 3-D glory. Reviews, while not exactly effusive, have been positive. Does this positivity exist only in comparison to the dismal, original offering? Or is "Retaliation" truly deserving of it's faint praise? Allow a G.I.Joe expert to illuminate you.

    "G.I.Joe: Retaliation" is a big piece of shit.

    Never before has the noble and time honoured art of story telling been so bastardized during the transition from one medium to another. For example, the mysterious robot warrior known only as Snak-Eyes? Doesn't even use his force field once. This is tantamount to blasphemy. Everyone knows that Snak-Eyes has a force field that can stop any projectile. Even when D'Inventro invents a gun that can shoot through any force field, Snak-Eyes still has his "force field that can stop bullets from the gun that can shoot through force fields".

    For whatever reason, this is completely ignored. Snak-Eyes is instead reduced to a second rate Inspector Gadget, with springs for legs and telescoping arms. He even has a helicopter hat.

    For all that it gets wrong, "Retaliation" manages to preserve the lifelong rivalry between Snak-Eyes and Storm Shabow. Unfortunately, they have chosen to portray Storm Shabow as a sort of evil James Bond, who infiltrates the G.I.Joe team and gains their trust by sleeping with all the women. For the uninitiated, Storm Shabow is traditionally portrayed as a wise cracking hobo who commands an army of dim-witted bikers.

    Nevertheless, the final confrontation between these bitter foes, with Snak-Eyes's cybernetic enhancements and Storm Shabow's bottomless bag of technological gadgets, is actually pretty exciting. It just doesn't belong in a movie based on this property.

    Let's not ignore what is perhaps this movie's cardinal sin: That the leader of G.I.Joe, General Clayton "Hawk" Abernathy, and the leader of Cobra, Cobra Commander, are actually the same person! Hawk is my hero. I don't own six bomber jackets for nothing. He would never stoop so low as to sponsor terrorism just to get more government funding for G.I.Joe. Even if he would, any idea that they might be the same man was thoroughly disproved in issue #182 of the comics when they played a game of chess against each other, each launching a real life nuke against a strategic target every time they captured a piece.

    But the most preposterous is saved for last. The Joe called "Tollbooth" is sent in a rocket to the moon, and that's how Cobra is defeated. Just because he ends up on the moon, Cobra decides to pack it in.

    "There he goes! Too bad he took off in all our tax dollars! How much does it cost to get your car to work? How much does it cost to go to the moon?"

    "There he goes, oh look! He turned around before he landed on the moon!" Who fucking cares? What does that prove? And the hole in the ozone layer is getting bigger, ya' fucking dinks!

    Thoroughly dissatisfying. Overall, I give it four stars out of five.

   

Out In the Field

A week of training has gone by. I’m not sure how much I should tell you about it. We’re not the Freemasons or anything, but when “mystery” is part of the job description, perhaps it‘s possible to say too much.

    It was Monday now, and I was so excited about going out on my first real mystery shopper expedition, I barely slept the night before. I arrived at work early and was surprised to see Andrea already there. I’d heard she was going out on her first mission that morning also, but she was erratic, unfocused, and, if you ask me, unreliable. She didn’t seem like the type to practice this kind of dedication. Perhaps there was more to her than I realised.

    “Wow, you’re here early.” I said.

    “I haven’t slept in almost two days.” she replied.

    Now I was annoyed. I didn’t like the idea that she might be more dedicated to the job than I was. So I lied to her and said I hadn’t slept in over two days.

    “Really? You do Speed, too? You don’t seem like the type.”

    I didn’t know how to respond to that. Fortunately, Geoff came long just then. That’s probably the only time anyone has ever described Geoff’s presence as “fortunate”.

    He had a smug, pudgy face. He wore yellow tinted glasses. He lived in his parent’s basement. He was also, aside from Mr. Books and Xenia, the only other already existing employee when we were hired.

    “Good morning, you mystery scholars! How we all doing today?” he said.

    That’s what he called us. Condescension oozed out of him.

    Then the echoing sound of the toilet flushing filled the office, and Mr. Books stepped out of the bathroom. He greeted us all and informed us that we would have company on our first ventures.

    “I’ll take Andrea.” offered Geoff, smiling at her. She just stared straight ahead, like she hadn’t heard anything.

    “I think I’ll go with Andrea, Geoff. I’m sure she will prosper greatly from my many years of experience, gentlemanly demeanour, and pleasant conversational abilities. You’ll go with Jamie.”

    “I guess we can put him through the meat grinder already.” said Geoff, glaring at me.

    An hour later, my very first mystery shop began! It was just a neighbourhood convenience store. As we got out of the car, I observed the parking lot was clean, and the garbage bins were not overflowing. Inside, a gigantic teenage boy and a old, bearded Irishman were manning the store. Both were exceptionally friendly and helpful. The store itself was well stocked and clean. The only complaint that I might have had was that it was too dark in there.

    Geoff spent the time slowly reading the tabloid headlines out loud and shaking his head at the celebrity antics. “That Lindsay Lohan. When will she learn?” he said. “ She was in Playboy last year. You know those pin up girls from the sixties and seventies? It was like that. They didn’t show you anything… They didn’t hardly show you anything.”

     Overall, I was quite satisfied with my shopping experience. I was also quite satisfied by the job experience. Not only did I want to do this job, but I was confident in my ability to do it well.

    “Let me tell you what you did wrong there.” Geoff said as soon as we got back in the car.

    “What? I thought it went great.” I said.

    “For starters, you told them you were a mystery shopper.”

    “I didn’t say that.”

    “You didn’t say it, but you still told them. Do you think they get many normal customers inspecting the undersides of shelves?”

    “I wanted to be thorough.”

    “Thorough is good. But so is being discreet. You tip them off like that, and we end up with a bunch of false positives. Do you really think that old guy is really that pleasant? Obviously not. He‘s Irish. Probably feeling real good about himself right now for pulling the wool over your eyes. Now you’ll write up your glowing review. And when the owner of that place reads it, and he‘s going to be just a little perplexed by it all. Because he knows that mean old drunk is a real bastard, he just can’t catch him in the act. That was our job, and you botched it, and it makes all of us look bad.”

    I couldn‘t argue with what he said. I dwelled on it until we arrived at our next destination. This time it was a popular family restaurant. As we pulled up, the first thing I saw was dried vomit on the sidewalk.

    “That’s going in your report.” said Geoff.

    It was lunch time, and the place was busy. We were told it would be a few minutes before a table was ready.

    “This is taking too long. Make a note of that.” said Geoff.

    When we were finally seated, a waitress appeared immediately with menus and took our drink order. When she was gone, Geoff inspected the seats and table.

    “Not bad, I guess.” he allowed.

    “Waitress was pretty fast.” I observed. Geoff shrugged.

    “Know what you’re going to have?” he asked. I told him that I did not.

    “It’s okay. You don‘t need to.”

    The waitress returned and Geff ordered for both of us. I was getting a double bacon cheeseburger, hold the bacon, double the cheese, with one patty removed and placed on the side under a pickle.

    “That’s not what I would have ordered.” I said.

    “You’re on the clock. After work, you go where you want and order what you want. Right now, you have a job to do.”

    Geoff stared at me for a long time while we waited, like he was trying to decide something. Then he spoke.

    “You know, Books is an old pro. But that’s just it. He’s old. Old school. You know? Here’s what I think. Hidden cameras. Put them in your hat. Nobody knows. But everything that happens is recorded. Video doesn’t lie. No disputing the facts.” he slurred.

    “He won’t do that?”

    “Too expensive, he says. Not that I’d trust those grandmas he hired to know how to use one. One of them went out on her own yesterday and shopped the same place three times because she forgot that she’d been there already.”

    “That really happened?” I asked.

    “No. But it will. Old ladies are like that. You, on the other hand, might get good at this one day. You could have a future. That’s a good quality in an employee. That’s something Nino values.”

    “Who’s Nino?”

    “The owner. Your boss. Books’ boss. He doesn’t come around too much. He’s got a lot of other things going on. But he’ll be by to meet the new crew. That’s when I’m going to run this camera idea by him. It’s a good idea. He’ll go for it, as long as Books doesn’t get in the way. So I’m just saying, the future of our company might just be shaping up here, and you might want to be on the right side of that. Books won’t be around forever.”

    Then the food arrived, and no more was said of the matter. I studied my plate, and found that it conformed exactly to Geoff’s specifications. Geoff rooted through his meal to find anything that had been done incorrectly. He sighed.

    “Just right. Wasn‘t expecting that.” he admitted. He seemed disappointed.

     “It did take a long time.” I offered, and he giggled.

    “You have potential.” he said, putting a fistful of fries in his mouth.

    I smiled to appear appreciative of his compliment, and looked outside. The dried vomit was right under our window. A bird stood nearby, looking at the barf. Mentally, I cried out at the bird to not eat the puke. It did.

Astonishing Tale

    As you’ll recall, Marvin was just about to storm out of Anonymous Consumers, but Mr. Books tried to stop him with the promise of a story. This is the story of that story.
   
    “I don’t want to hear any story.” Marvin sneered.

    “Well, if Marvin says he’s not interested, then I guess he’s not interested. Thanks for coming by.”

    “That‘s the first thing anybody's said that makes any sense.” Marvin said as he walked away.

    Sounds kind of like we’re not going to her that story after all, doesn’t it? That’s exactly what I thought at the time. I was disappointed. Since I’ve already told you that we do indeed get to hear the story, though, I won’t waste your time trying to build any suspense.

    “Living the dream.” called out Mr. Books, just as Marvin was reaching for the door. Marvin stopped and turned to face the old albino.

    “What did you say?”

    “You heard me. I said ‘Living the Dream‘. That’s of no interest to you? “

    “I wouldn’t call this…”

    “Do you know how often so many people dream about becoming a mystery shopper? It happens to everyone and it happens all the time. The difference between us and them is that they wish for it only briefly. Usually, it’s when they are on the receiving end of some bad service. Where is this wish when they are receiving good service?  It is the farthest thing from their mind. But just because everything turned out alright for you does not guarantee you are dining in a quality establishment. Sure, you’re enjoying a steak that’s done medium rare to perfection. But that pretty little lady, you know the one. She’s sitting out on the patio, laughing with her friends. You saw her on the way in,  and your gaze wandered over to her several times while you’re waiting for your table, even though, of course, she doesn’t look at you once. She’s drinking… a mojito, you think.”

    “By the time you slice off your third hunk of succulent T-Bone steak, you’re not thinking about her anymore, but you would have thought it exceptionally appropriate, if you recalled her flowing, golden locks, to know that she’s dining on angel hair pasta tonight. What neither of you can possibly know is that she’s about to swallow a dead rat’s anus. It was there the whole time, lurking in the dish, cloaked underneath the sauce and the noodles.”

    “You see, a rat crawled into a cooking pot and died without being discovered for quite some time. When the cook found it, it was so badly decomposed that it broke apart as he removed it. Bits and pieces got left behind. Did the cook leave them there on purpose? Who can say? All we know for sure is that bits and pieces got left in the pot. Including it’s anus. That’s the rat’s fucking asshole, Marvin, and right now it’s lodged in between that pretty young lady’s perfect teeth! And you know what? Now she’s tonguing it to knock it loose. Can you imagine it, Marvin? Flicking your tongue across a rat’s asshole?  36 years of marriage and never once did I toss a salad. Not for my wife and double definitely not for some dead rodent. These things, they live in the sewer, and survive on human excrement. Think about it! Their shit... Is our shit.”

    “Anyway, our poor little lady, she can tell something‘s not right. The shape, and the texture, it feels like nothing that should have been in her pasta. But she’s been drinking, and her guard is down. So when it comes loose, that’s when it happens. She swallows it and forgets about it almost immediately. And, you know, when she gets home tonight? Before she falls asleep to those sweet, sweet dreams of Brad Pitt again, she’s going look back over the evening and think about what a wonderful night out with the girls she had. And maybe she doesn’t ever get sick or even feel unwell, but that doesn’t change what the facts are.”

    “Is that something you can let happen just because it didn’t happen to you? Do you even care about that, Marvin? Is that something you can give a rat’s ass about? Because the cook gave a rat’s ass tonight, and it ended up in the stomach of Jennifer Aniston. Jennifer fucking Aniston! That’s right, from fucking ‘Friends‘, Marvin. Is that acceptable to you? That’s where we come in. That’s what we’re here for. Because it’s our job to stop it.  Now, if that sounds like too much responsibility for you, Marvin, if that sounds like too much honest, important, and hard, work, then, yeah, I guess you better keep walking right out that door. On the other hand, if you’re up to the challenge? If you’re in it for the long haul? In it for the good fight. If Marvin the boy is ready to give way to Marvin the man, then…”

    Marvin looked down to see his hand in Books’ hand. They shook slowly, and  Marvin’s anger seemed to have dissipated. Now he looked sad, and maybe a little confused.

    I think all of us were. Even the old ladies, who had so recently objected to Marvin’s colourful language, didn’t seem to notice Mr. Books’ frequent dippings into the profanity pool. All of us just stared.

    Mr. Books smiled broadly and gestured to an empty chair. Marvin’s chair. “We have a lot of work to do. Let‘s get started, shall we?” he said.

    “No.” said Marvin , ending their handshake and turning away.

    “But thanks anyway.” he said , waving from the doorway. Then he stepped through, and the door closed with an exceptional “clang” that it never had done so before, and has never done since.  In my mind, I heard that “clang” as “finality”. Marvin had not only exited the building, and but also our lives. 

    What do you say about a man like that? We hadn’t known him at all. That’s what made it so difficult. Every single person is a treasure. Do you merely just shrug with indifference when a diamond is stolen from you? I don’t. Not immediately, anyway.

    “Right. Let’s get down to business.” Said Books, after a moment. That was all the time we needed. We got down to it.

A Job Interview Goes Awry

    I arrived promptly at the Anonymous Consumers office at eight forty-two in the morning, over a whole quarter of an hour earlier than I needed to be. I was sure that the dedication and interest demonstrated by my early arrival was sure to be noticed. However, stepping from the bright sunny morning into the buildings’ dim interior, my arrival failed to generate any noticeable enthusiasm.

    I stood by the entrance and surveyed the room. Anonymous Consumers was dominated by one large room. The walls were covered in pale green bathtub tiles. In each corner was a private office, with windows that looked inwards but none to look outside. A gorgeous and bored looking woman sat at a desk at the far side of the room. She seemed to have cultivated every aspect of her appearance to resemble Xenia Onatopp as much as possible. In the center, nine assorted persons sat around two long cafeteria style tables. No one seemed to notice me.

    I assumed that Xenia was the probably the person I needed to speak to. Low classical music emanated from the radio on her desk, and I detected the clinging odour of marijuana as I approached. She briefly looked up from her High Times magazine and, with an indeterminate eastern European accent,  asked if I was there for an interview. I said I was and, with her thumb, she directed me towards the assortment of others.

    I took a place among the others. I didn’t like them. Every one of them had upstaged  my early arrival. Of course they had. They were mostly old people. Getting up early is what they do, and they do it well. You can’t beat them at their own game.

    In addition to the elderly folk, there was a decidedly unimpressed native guy, a blonde girl engrossed in scratch and win tickets, and a weird looking, scrawny dude. With his oversized glasses and wrinkly lips, I mistook him for one of the ancient women at first. Us young folk spent the minutes in awkward silence while the old women whispered amongst themselves. The two old men sat apart from the old ladies, and silently cast disapproving glares on their gossiping.

    Finally, the sound of a toilet flushing echoed through the room and the bathroom door started to open. From behind it stepped a familiar figure. All the old ladies gasped, the Indian raised his eyebrows slightly, and the weird dude’s eyes seemed ready to pop out of his head. Only the girl didn’t react at all, but that might have only been because she hadn’t looked up yet. All the rest of us, it seemed, had met this man before. I had met him just one day previous. He‘d come to my house to use my phone.

    His pink eyes locked with each of ours in turn. In no way did he give any indication that he recognized any of us.

    “Good morning, everyone.” he said. “You can call me ‘Mr. Books‘.”

    “Hey, what the hell.” said the blonde, now looking up at the albino. “You were in my house.”

    “That’s right. I was in your house. I was in all your houses.”

    The native man glared intently as he said “You ate my last chicken pot pie.”

    “And, if I recall correctly, I thanked you for your generosity, Marvin, and now I do so again.” said Mr. Books.
   
    “I didn’t give it to you, you just took it!”

    “What’s in the past is in the past. Let us now look to the future. An employed future!” Books said, gesturing dramatically to the sky.

    “I just want to say that I think I deserve this job more than anyone else, because I really need it.” said the blonde.

    “Well, I have good news for you, Andrea. You’ve got the job. You’ve all got the job. There is no interviewing to be done here today. I’ve already interviewed each of you.”

    “In our homes.” I said, and Books nodded sagely.

    “Correct! I went mystery shopping for employees. It’s what I do, and now, it’s what you do, too. Welcome aboard!”

    The old ladies chattered wildly. The old men turned to regard each other. Andrea clapped and squealed. The weird guy remained still. I couldn’t tell if he even understood anything that had transpired.

    My mind was racing. Everything had happened so fast. I had a job now and with it, a chapter of my life had just closed without any warning. I felt a twinge of sadness that I hadn’t had the chance to bid farewell to the old me, and now it was too late. He was gone, forever. Already I could hardly remember what it was like to have been him.

    At the same time, it felt good to be this new me. Employed! Can you imagine? I envisioned myself doing work. Mystery shopping, I guess. These visions were pretty indistinct and fleeting, actually, because I really didn’t have much idea of what I’d actually be doing. Not that it mattered. I’d been looking for anything, and what I found fell well within that criteria.

    “This is bullshit.” said Marvin. He had returned to his unimpressed demeanour.

    “Marvin, please. There are ladies present.” said Mr. Books with a dark scowl.

    “It’s okay. I don’t mind.” Andrea replied. If she hadn’t been looking at her lotto tickets again, she might have realised, by the horrified expressions on the old women’ faces, that she wasn’t the one being defended. But Marvin wasn’t about to be silenced.

    “This is some kind of crazy fucked up operation you got going on here if this is how you run things. Does the Better Business Bureau know about you guys? Or the police? Because there’s something not right here. It’s like one of those shady operations that are actually just scams to make a lot of money to fund a crazy fucked up party, and then they close up shop and disappear over night.”

    Marvin let his gaze settle on each and every one of us before he turned towards the door. But before he had even taken his first step, Mr. Books caught him by the arm.

    “Marvin. Let me tell you a story.” Books said.

    Then he did tell a story. A good one, too. I liked it. I won’t tell it to you, though. Not until the next time. My time here is up.

The Phonecall Menace, Part II

Last Time: PART I

 

Now: PART II


    Needless to say, nothing less desirable than someone using my phone could have occurred at that time. I’m waiting for something important, maybe even life changing, and it all depends on keeping my phone line clear. Of course that exact moment is when fate deposits a man, looking to borrow a phone, on my doorstep. Could it have happened any other way?

    “Sorry. I can‘t right now.” I said.

    “ I won’t be more than a moment. Scout’s honour.”

    I felt bad about trying to get rid of this guy. I mean, I was pretty sure I wasn’t going to get a call at all. Six days went by where Anonymous Consumers could have phoned and they didn’t. So what were they chances they’d phone in these few moments it took to help this guy out?  Still, rationalizations are generally wasted on me, and this time was no exception.

    “I don’t have a phone.”

    “What? In this day and age, you can’t find a phone that suits your lifestyle and price range? Come on.”

    “Look. I think my neighbour is home. I’m sure they…”

    “Buddy, I understand the inconvenience, but I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t important.” he said.

    So what do you do? Flip a coin? It’s a lot easier to say no to someone when they aren’t standing right in front of you, especially when they have not taken no for an answer three times already. So what could I do? Only what I always do. I relented.

    "Alright." I said.

    “You are a goddamn saint, sir. I thank you.”

    “Hoo-Wee! This is an okay place.” He exclaimed as he stepped into the living room.

    “Thanks.”

    “ Your welcome. Where’s your phone?”

    “Right here.” I said, handing it to him.

    “I thank you again. So what do you do, anyway?”

    “What do you mean?” I asked.

    “For work. Where do you work?”
   
    “Oh. Nowhere, currently.”

    “I see. Excuse me, uno momento.”

    As he spoke into the phone, I tuned him out and dwelled on the fact that, if this guy wasn’t making phone calls right now, my phone might be ringing with word of new beginnings and opportunities.  His laughter broke me out of my introspection in time to hear him say  “Salad? Ah, fuck that.”

    This didn’t at all jive with what I thought this phone call was going to be about. In fact, this didn’t seen important at all. I tapped him on the shoulder, and he put his hand over the phone. I told him I was expecting an important call. He nodded in understanding and returned to his conversation. A few minutes later, it was over.
   
    “Sorry about that. My wife is very particular in her tastes, and I can’t abide them. Car troubles have put enough of a crimp in my day. I’m not about to let lunch get fucked up, too.” he explained.

    I started to protest as he dialled again. He seemed not to notice, and I said nothing. This time he seemed to actually be talking to a tow truck company. After a few more moments, he hung up and sighed.

    “Sorry, kemosabe, but I could really use a drink. Do you have anything like that?”

    “Not much. Just some whiskey.” I said.

    “Whiskey! That’s my favourite word, and my second favourite drink. Pour us a glass, would you? On the rocks, if you’d be so kind.”

    I did as he asked. He took a long sip from the glass and seemed well satisfied.

    “Thanks for that. So where was it you said you worked again?”

    “Nowhere.” I said.

    “Shit. Right.” he said. “So where did you last work?”

    I ended up explaining the whole story that I related to you just last week.

    “Damn right, son. I would have done the same fucking thing.” he said, as he finished his drink. “Let me tell you something right now. That Jared is a fucking bastard. If there‘s one thing I respect, it‘s that kind of devotion to the job at hand. You have to be adaptable. You have to be ready to improvise. I could teach my cat to follow the handbook. Thinking on your feet, on the other hand, now that‘s a marketable skill. ”

    I found myself liking this man. Before I knew it, I had refilled his glass, and had a full one of my own.

    “So what are you looking for now?” he asked.

    “Basically? Anything.” I admitted.

    “Shit. Times are tough, aren’t they? I hear ya, pal. You know what the worst part about it is? People who need jobs are out there, hopelessly searching, while others who don’t deserve their jobs manage to keep them forever. Listen to this. I was in a gas station the other day. I dropped fifty goddamn dollars in that place and the guy never said ‘Thank you‘. Never said ‘Have a good day‘. Never asked me for my Air Miles card. Fucking prick. And the worst part is, he’s still there, still not doing the stuff he's supposed to. It should be him stuck looking for work, not you.”

    I couldn’t disagree.

    “A job is a job. You do it, or you lose it.” I said. This had been another of Jared’s tidbits of wisdom, but I didn’t bother to share that part.

    “Fucking exactly! Salut!” my new friend said, raising his glass in the air, before tossing the remainder back.  He looked at his watch.

    “Well, shit. Tow truck should be here real soon.”

    We stood from our seats as he put his coat back on. As he stepped outside, he stopped and turned back to me.

    “I will never say I like having my car break down. But you’ve been a gracious host, and I’ve enjoyed my stay. I thank you for your hospitality, and wish you well.”

    I replied that he had been a fine guest and it had been no trouble at all. He smiled and stepped away. As I closed the door, my thoughts immediately returned to the phone call I had been desperately hoping for and had not yet received.

    It was getting late. There wasn’t going to be any phone call. I sighed with equal parts frustration and resignation. At least my guest had taken my mind off my troubles for an hour or so. I thought that maybe I should just go to bed early, and get an early start on tomorrow.

    As I headed off to my bedroom, I passed by the phone and saw that it had been left off the hook. He’d left it that way. For over an hour. I shrieked.

    I ran outside to yell and curse at him, but he was nowhere to be seen. I went back inside and hung up the phone. I sat on the couch with my head in my hands, and shook. That’s it. I just shook uncontrollably.

    Time passed. How long, I do not know. Then, the phone rang. I snatched it up half way through that first ring, and said “Hello” in a breathless manner that could have easily been mistaken for “yellow”. I regretted it immediately.

    It was a collection agency. I guess they don’t take Sunday’s off. I pretended to not know what they wanted or who they were looking for, and hung up.

    Almost immediately, the phone rang again. It would be them again, I knew it. I also knew I couldn’t risk not answering. I picked it up. A woman spoke to me.

    “Jamie S. Luxton III? This is Anonymous Consumers. We’d like you to come in for an interview tomorrow morning at nine.” she said.

    I wanted to make kissing noises into the phone. Later that night, I would wonder if she was looking for a husband. But in that moment, I wasn’t thinking about my wife search at all.

    “I’ll be there.” I said.

The Phonecall Menace, Part I

    Let’s cut to the chase. Now that I have two things to do, I have been really busy.  I didn’t even post an update last Friday. That would have been a third thing to do, and that’s where I draw the line.

    When I told you about my time at Dairy Queen, it kind of gave me a wake up call. It was the first time I realised how much I’d been neglecting my job search. Since then, I’ve been hard at work trying to find work. Of course, that now means I’m neglecting my wife search.

    Unfortunately, what I’ve been discovering is that this is a hard time to find a job. I guess it has something to do with the economy or somesuch. It doesn’t seem to matter who you are or what you’ve done. It doesn’t matter what your skills or qualifications are. You’ve got to take what you can get, and all I seem to able to get is a lot of “We’re not hiring right now.”

    One afternoon,  I sat alone in a Dairy Queen I‘d never been to before. There was a newspaper on my table that they‘d carelessly forgotten to clear away. That would have never happened if I‘d worked there, by the way. I started flipping through it, and an incredible revelation was made unto me.

    I don‘t know how many of you know about this, but in many papers, deep between the top stories and the sports pages, an entire section is devoted to classified ads. You can find things to buy and sell, escort agencies, real estate, and all kinds of other stuff. It makes for interesting reading, but wasn’t particularly relevant to my current situation. Or, it wouldn‘t have been, except that there is also a bunch of what they call “employment opportunities“. Someone, somewhere, must be watching out for me. I looked skyward and made little kissy noises.

    I started collecting every paper I could find. I couldn’t leave them lying around where just anybody could make the same discovery as I had. It seemed to be working, too. I noticed how the ads stay the same day after day. How is that possible if people are reading them and getting hired? If that was the case, wouldn’t they have the ads removed? I had stumbled onto some great, untapped resource, and it was all mine to exploit.

    As soon as I started calling numbers, my enthusiasm for the classified ads kind of… crashed and burned. Even here, in my secret cache of job listings, I still couldn’t find someone who would hire me. Then I found an ad by a company called Anonymous Consumers.

    It is a mystery shopper company. They’re those guys who you hire to go into your business, masquerading as regular customers, but all the while, secretly evaluating employee performance. It’s quite insidious, but I couldn‘t afford to be choosy. So I went down to their office and turned in a resume. In defiance of my well eroded expectations, I got my best response yet. They told me that they would be in touch by Sunday.

    It wasn’t until Thursday, having received no calls, that I started to feel the faintest pangs of anxiety. But they were faint, and I willfully allowed optimism to override my doubts. As it turned out, that optimism was unwarranted, because I didn’t get a call. On Friday, I didn’t feel any optimism at all, and this was well justified. I didn’t get a call on that day, either.

    On Saturday, anxiety reigned supreme. I filled the hours by learning origami. But no quantity of paper tigers could stave off the growing despair, even though there wasn’t any real reason to lose hope just yet. A whole other day remained before the time had elapsed. I found as much comfort in rationalizations as I had in the paper folding. I had already convinced myself that, if they were going to call, it would have happened already.

    So it was that Sunday found me lazing about, intending to accomplish nothing but wait by the phone. If I became hungry, I would not order a pizza. If I became on fire, I would not call 911. The line would stay clear, so that nothing would get in the way of my receiving this call. I drifted off and dreamt about a sexy butterfly woman who wanted me to tend her gardens for room and board.

    The knock came at the door for a second time before I’d fully comprehended that I’d heard it the first time. I stood up, examined myself to make sure I wasn’t wearing sweatpants, and opened the door.

    Dressed in a dark suit, a portly, red eyed man stood there. Tall hair and trim beard were all nearly the same pale white colour of his skin. He also appeared to be drenched. I wondered if it might be raining. He posed a query to me.

    “ Hi there. Say, listen. My car broke down a half block up and, well, I guess what I‘m trying to say is, could I borrow your phone?”