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THE HIGH RISK, THE LOW RENT, & THE MIDDLE CLASS
Signs Of The Times...
"PEACEFUL SLEAZY FEELING"
Episode I: the high risk, the low rent, & the middle class.
(if you don't know what's going on, go down one post...)
Though born in St. Louis, and weaned as a suckling pup in assorted Unpleasant Valleys of Midwestern Missouri—that vast backward wilderness from which our nation’s aspiring gas station attendants and banjo prodigies spring, I spent the most formative years of my youth and young adulthood in the bayou cities of Louisiana. Mostly, I lived in Baton Rouge. “Baton Rouge” is French for “red stick.” The city is so named because no icy Northerner will ever understand the sheer hospitality and genuine, lusty laid-back culture of the South until he first removes the big bloody stick from his ass.
I have longed to return—even if only for a moment—for a long, long time.
Every momentary lapse in ill fortune tends to follow a momentary lapse in reason. When nothing is offered, nothing is constructed—ill or profitable. Rick the Yuppie had struck quite an ill chord indeed with me, as far as initial impressions went. He repeated himself often, feigned excitement over mundane things, and spoke to everyone like he or she was his best friend, often after five minutes of acquaintance. This implied to me that he had no real friends. The Alley People were oddly distant from him, with little to say of him outside of his attendance and punctuality—mostly in the form of “He’s always around,” or “He never leaves.” This was distressing. He also had the habit of constantly flexing his muscles, as if his eternally tensed shoulder blades were striving to conserve his anti-perspirent by pinching it all in. He seemed shallow, hollow, and mousy. But the greatest, wisdom-shitting wells of depth and culture don’t exactly drip off of my buttocks, either. He boasted a lot—and in that chiding, passing vague-reference sort of way which party geeks use to fish out other party geeks. But he said “New Orleans,” and “paid trip for anyone ‘brave enough,’” and this was more than enough to give the fellow the benefit of the doubt. That’s not a lot of benefit, coming from me; but then, there is an awful lot of doubt.
But hey—I was just a sleazy journalist looking for a free ride. I was in no place to judge.
I was given less than a week to pull everything together—Rick would be convening with two of his cohorts promptly Friday evening. I had less than a week to clear my schedule, collect some cash, and arrange to be off from work…even if it meant faking some hideous disease.
In retrospect, I wish I had faked some heinous illness. It would have been a wonderful coup against co-workers who deemed me easily replaced. Sadly, I have been considered inexpendable only once in my life, and this weekend was to be it. Obtaining the weekend off—as the monthly schedule had already been posted—was about as likely as Metallica regaining the respect of their fans. Pulling this off required me to scrape favors from friends like leeches off a drowning bayou moonshiner.
A flipped coin decided that licensing my car, heating my home, or paying anyone who wasn’t presently suing me, would all be wished away to the cornfield known as “Next Paycheck.” I then authorized my bounty-hunterish friend Kris to shatter the kneecaps of any sniveling prick who owed me even a gambling token. This amounted to nearly $7.39 by Friday—far more than I had collected from payphone coin returns and “Feed the Children” tins. Things were looking up.
My store, being a chain, enabled me to feasibly drag fill-ins from other locations. This failed routinely, as it were to happen. Yet the hand of victory was ultimately slave-cuffed by a day’s pay loss, and the reluctant switch-off of three co-workers who owed me not one damned thing. This did not mention the longsuffering diligence of my dear friend Diana, and a frustrated manager sick of hearing about it all. As such, the miraculous was achieved, and every denizen of Hell received his or her very own snowcone.
With a cranky Walkman, and a duffle bag full of cassettes, clothing, and contraband, I arrived at the nearby Waffle House where I was to meet Rick and his two associates. Rick (the man with the plan) introduced Jesse, one of our two travel-mates. Jesse (the man with the van) seemed harmless enough—a tallish, balding, unassuming fellow with a dark, slender mustache, dressed in a neatly pressed tie-dye and Dockers. He rarely spoke, and carried few opinions. Given the size of our van, this was a good thing. In a minivan filled with four grown men, five overnight bags, and one cooler full of Diet Coke and posh-boy flavored water, there could be room left for only two opinions at best, and one ball peen hammer, in the event that one those opinions might be correct.
After a restless hour of long pauses, forgotten topics, and poor English for suburbanites, Rick’s second accomplice, Carl (the man with the cash) joined us for another 20 minutes of queasy chatter, grease, and coffee. My first impression of Carl was that of someone who could endlessly shoot the breeze, and always miss. He unnerved me a bit. His off-putting stare and bloodshot, bile-yellow eyes could give a fire-walking Hindu cold feet. Though openly identified as the financial benefactor of the trio, he was the complete antithesis of the others—both of whom were moderately successful, professional-types. Carl bragged about using pizza coupons twice, and that he cut his own hair. He also appeared to do it in the dark. His thick, cropped mustache and corresponding splotch of chin-gristle was uneven, and often speckled with things that did not belong, and did not leave. With a crackled racing car iron-on in the center of his 70’s-style maybe-white T-shirt, he stood slightly hunched, shuffling his feet in such a way that he failed to walk so much as slouch forward with momentum. His awkward movements, the way his long neck and arms swished and swooshed as he spoke, urged me to go easy, and not judge—he probably had a nervous or muscular disorder, or was even a little slow. When I tried to tactfully inquire in the lot, Rick swore to me—crucial octaves louder than desired—with silent Jesse nodding emphatically as he often did, what Carl bragged about several times during the trip: that he had a 180 IQ, and was a prize-winning sportsman. And—again, according to Rick—there was nothing wrong with Carl physically. He was simply an eccentric Only Child. He was also a chain-toking pothead, and bisexual.
Weary, and well past schedule, we frantically cramped and shuffled into Jesse’s clean, but odd-smelling van like drunken necrophiliacs tag-teaming a stalling hearse. First at the wheel, Rick embarked upon his search for the most homogenous music on radio. Carl rode shotgun, leaving Jesse and I in the back. Jesse often mumbled apologies for the lack of seats, and cumbersome ridged shelving along the van walls. Apparently, this was his “work” van. Apparently, “work” didn’t know. Oh…and apparently “work” consisted of transporting body parts and specimens between labs, hospitals, mortuaries, etc. It wasn’t all that disturbing—not nearly so much as the asymmetrical, plastic-sealed lump that rattled in the top left tray, forgotten about by all but Carl, who frequently took it out and sniffed it throughout the trip.
“So Gabriel,” Rick chimed, “What’s our first turn?”
“Huh?”
“The first turn, guy! You’re supposed to be the navigator!”
Oh shit. “Uh, why do you say?”
Carl smiled an arse-juicing grin, and winked his gimpy eye, “Well we brought you along ‘cause you’ve been there before. Rick said you were practically a native.”
“Did he?” Oh dear.
We were an hour past St. Charles, and too far to walk home. I didn’t dare tell them that I actually lived in Baton Rouge, or that I had flown the friendly skies most of the time. I winged it, and made some common-sense guesses. “Stay on the highway. Just follow it down. Fuel up at the last Missouri town, and don’t stop for food until Memphis.”
I was safe for only those moments I remained awake to nod in affirmation. I was at rest only when the soothing natural novocaine of apathy said, “Why not?”
TO BE CONTINUED...
)+(
Episode I: the high risk, the low rent, & the middle class.
(if you don't know what's going on, go down one post...)
Though born in St. Louis, and weaned as a suckling pup in assorted Unpleasant Valleys of Midwestern Missouri—that vast backward wilderness from which our nation’s aspiring gas station attendants and banjo prodigies spring, I spent the most formative years of my youth and young adulthood in the bayou cities of Louisiana. Mostly, I lived in Baton Rouge. “Baton Rouge” is French for “red stick.” The city is so named because no icy Northerner will ever understand the sheer hospitality and genuine, lusty laid-back culture of the South until he first removes the big bloody stick from his ass.
I have longed to return—even if only for a moment—for a long, long time.
Every momentary lapse in ill fortune tends to follow a momentary lapse in reason. When nothing is offered, nothing is constructed—ill or profitable. Rick the Yuppie had struck quite an ill chord indeed with me, as far as initial impressions went. He repeated himself often, feigned excitement over mundane things, and spoke to everyone like he or she was his best friend, often after five minutes of acquaintance. This implied to me that he had no real friends. The Alley People were oddly distant from him, with little to say of him outside of his attendance and punctuality—mostly in the form of “He’s always around,” or “He never leaves.” This was distressing. He also had the habit of constantly flexing his muscles, as if his eternally tensed shoulder blades were striving to conserve his anti-perspirent by pinching it all in. He seemed shallow, hollow, and mousy. But the greatest, wisdom-shitting wells of depth and culture don’t exactly drip off of my buttocks, either. He boasted a lot—and in that chiding, passing vague-reference sort of way which party geeks use to fish out other party geeks. But he said “New Orleans,” and “paid trip for anyone ‘brave enough,’” and this was more than enough to give the fellow the benefit of the doubt. That’s not a lot of benefit, coming from me; but then, there is an awful lot of doubt.
But hey—I was just a sleazy journalist looking for a free ride. I was in no place to judge.
I was given less than a week to pull everything together—Rick would be convening with two of his cohorts promptly Friday evening. I had less than a week to clear my schedule, collect some cash, and arrange to be off from work…even if it meant faking some hideous disease.
In retrospect, I wish I had faked some heinous illness. It would have been a wonderful coup against co-workers who deemed me easily replaced. Sadly, I have been considered inexpendable only once in my life, and this weekend was to be it. Obtaining the weekend off—as the monthly schedule had already been posted—was about as likely as Metallica regaining the respect of their fans. Pulling this off required me to scrape favors from friends like leeches off a drowning bayou moonshiner.
A flipped coin decided that licensing my car, heating my home, or paying anyone who wasn’t presently suing me, would all be wished away to the cornfield known as “Next Paycheck.” I then authorized my bounty-hunterish friend Kris to shatter the kneecaps of any sniveling prick who owed me even a gambling token. This amounted to nearly $7.39 by Friday—far more than I had collected from payphone coin returns and “Feed the Children” tins. Things were looking up.
My store, being a chain, enabled me to feasibly drag fill-ins from other locations. This failed routinely, as it were to happen. Yet the hand of victory was ultimately slave-cuffed by a day’s pay loss, and the reluctant switch-off of three co-workers who owed me not one damned thing. This did not mention the longsuffering diligence of my dear friend Diana, and a frustrated manager sick of hearing about it all. As such, the miraculous was achieved, and every denizen of Hell received his or her very own snowcone.
With a cranky Walkman, and a duffle bag full of cassettes, clothing, and contraband, I arrived at the nearby Waffle House where I was to meet Rick and his two associates. Rick (the man with the plan) introduced Jesse, one of our two travel-mates. Jesse (the man with the van) seemed harmless enough—a tallish, balding, unassuming fellow with a dark, slender mustache, dressed in a neatly pressed tie-dye and Dockers. He rarely spoke, and carried few opinions. Given the size of our van, this was a good thing. In a minivan filled with four grown men, five overnight bags, and one cooler full of Diet Coke and posh-boy flavored water, there could be room left for only two opinions at best, and one ball peen hammer, in the event that one those opinions might be correct.
After a restless hour of long pauses, forgotten topics, and poor English for suburbanites, Rick’s second accomplice, Carl (the man with the cash) joined us for another 20 minutes of queasy chatter, grease, and coffee. My first impression of Carl was that of someone who could endlessly shoot the breeze, and always miss. He unnerved me a bit. His off-putting stare and bloodshot, bile-yellow eyes could give a fire-walking Hindu cold feet. Though openly identified as the financial benefactor of the trio, he was the complete antithesis of the others—both of whom were moderately successful, professional-types. Carl bragged about using pizza coupons twice, and that he cut his own hair. He also appeared to do it in the dark. His thick, cropped mustache and corresponding splotch of chin-gristle was uneven, and often speckled with things that did not belong, and did not leave. With a crackled racing car iron-on in the center of his 70’s-style maybe-white T-shirt, he stood slightly hunched, shuffling his feet in such a way that he failed to walk so much as slouch forward with momentum. His awkward movements, the way his long neck and arms swished and swooshed as he spoke, urged me to go easy, and not judge—he probably had a nervous or muscular disorder, or was even a little slow. When I tried to tactfully inquire in the lot, Rick swore to me—crucial octaves louder than desired—with silent Jesse nodding emphatically as he often did, what Carl bragged about several times during the trip: that he had a 180 IQ, and was a prize-winning sportsman. And—again, according to Rick—there was nothing wrong with Carl physically. He was simply an eccentric Only Child. He was also a chain-toking pothead, and bisexual.
Weary, and well past schedule, we frantically cramped and shuffled into Jesse’s clean, but odd-smelling van like drunken necrophiliacs tag-teaming a stalling hearse. First at the wheel, Rick embarked upon his search for the most homogenous music on radio. Carl rode shotgun, leaving Jesse and I in the back. Jesse often mumbled apologies for the lack of seats, and cumbersome ridged shelving along the van walls. Apparently, this was his “work” van. Apparently, “work” didn’t know. Oh…and apparently “work” consisted of transporting body parts and specimens between labs, hospitals, mortuaries, etc. It wasn’t all that disturbing—not nearly so much as the asymmetrical, plastic-sealed lump that rattled in the top left tray, forgotten about by all but Carl, who frequently took it out and sniffed it throughout the trip.
“So Gabriel,” Rick chimed, “What’s our first turn?”
“Huh?”
“The first turn, guy! You’re supposed to be the navigator!”
Oh shit. “Uh, why do you say?”
Carl smiled an arse-juicing grin, and winked his gimpy eye, “Well we brought you along ‘cause you’ve been there before. Rick said you were practically a native.”
“Did he?” Oh dear.
We were an hour past St. Charles, and too far to walk home. I didn’t dare tell them that I actually lived in Baton Rouge, or that I had flown the friendly skies most of the time. I winged it, and made some common-sense guesses. “Stay on the highway. Just follow it down. Fuel up at the last Missouri town, and don’t stop for food until Memphis.”
I was safe for only those moments I remained awake to nod in affirmation. I was at rest only when the soothing natural novocaine of apathy said, “Why not?”
TO BE CONTINUED...
)+(
posted by GABRIEL C. ZOLMAN @ 7:06 AM
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