Tuesday, April 13, 2010

How my Cat will Die....A Children's Fairytale

Nearly the point of exhaustion. Obsessed with death. Lately I’ve been unable to look at even my cat without conjuring up, and then existing within, some historic timeline–starting with the cat’s arrival in my life and then gelling into a sort of montage, including highlights of what she used to be and do.

She used to play Fetch! In her youth, a master at finding balls, and
holding them in her mouth as she dainitily trotted back. She would only go for those aluminum balls, though. I’ve always thought (but never confessed) that clearly this had something to do with the fact that her natal Sun is in Aquarius. They love all things silver.
My Aquarian kitty. She could hear the aluminum crinkling some 20 yards to the fore, and come running. But alas, no longer a kitty.
There are various other scenes I replay, often for some unavoidable reason involving the different litter boxes and their respective surroundings that she has shat into over the years. Sigh.


It bothers me how her eyes have been dulled by time--less vibrant, less acute. And ultimately the timeline will end with her death. The imagining of all forms of that scenario: like for example, will I find her one day, just a little lump that I assume is sleeping?

Picket: Lines, Fences

Picket: Lines, Fences

With outside noise boxed
In its own wilderness
I wait inside, first in line
For some serendipitous
Round and round
Theme park ride

I'm the white lap cat
That came out of nowhere
Stunning -- Hungry
Tossed from a seeming abyss

In a vast motel
I'm the Canadian quarter
That filled your icebox slot
An undetected foreigner
With a future just as uncertain as the blessed rest
How quickly the faces the smiles in photgraphs turn stiff, become fixed in a moment that is gone, can never be again.

what happens when your home is sold

They will file in, buzzing
peck their ways to the view
laser eye the walls on either side down
and the horrible border of my childhood room
will be virtually redone

my biggest memory is the whole sky
at night smooth move up and down a porpus
and you warned me about the world
I was ten
you said materialistic, it was bad
and I knew you meant it
and it meant a lot
We’d all heard enough about your world travels when...
We were being driven by a man
who was driven from his homeland
Poor and probably better educated
than us combined
He came for his family
for the prosperity of food
But the ride was not enough, you needed
an offer of congratulations: you had been
there or near there somewhere near his home
And you had to tell him,
this some-odd person of the night
of your mock wonder, your exploring eye
You wanted white teeth, a sharp smile
a gesture of congratulations
For your Americanass
having done your world touring
stuffed sitting on a bus, camera in hand
and then you needed a thank you
a why isn’t that nice?

Simple

The simple facts: Had I known, would I have participated? Like when I got my cat. If someone said "Your Dad will be dead before your cat", would I not have gotten her? Does one thing have to do with the other?
If you would have told me before I took that first puff of weed that, less than a decade later I’d be hung up in rehab. Looking for answers from places with names like “Promises” and “Hope for Life”. Would that knowledge, a real knowledge, not an uncertain, wavering, I can contest that, pissant, fourteen-years-olds excuse for knowledge but real knowledge, have precluded me from taking that first hit? From successively seeking it out at seemingly every turn in the few years thereafter?

I know that feeling my father must have used to have. I keep feeding my cat treats, woefully afraid that it is at least the primary, if not the only, reason she loves me and that if I stop she will cease loving me. That’s why he incesssanlty bought me ice cream. He was buying love, paying it forward. And I’m afraid any love I showed him he figured was because of the oreo.

Adios

While most immigrants o.h.o.c.r.i.t.u.s aren’t particularly assuming, they do try their best to fly under the radar in their hand-me-down cars with out-of-state plates, lacking insurance. Most have a work ethic far superior to any born-here American, and somehow accept their lack of citizenship, and ultimately civil rights, with a very quiet grace. A please don’t make me leave grace. Unlike in the 80’s most people o.h.o.c.r.i.t.u.s who have come here were not rounded up and put on boats unwittingly sent by their Commie dictator since they were, well, less than model citizens (be it on account of their ears falling of or the fact they raped every female in their family, etc.). No, these people have gone through much, much more than situations at Kennedy that have left a few Americans teetering on the edge of sanity. They had come with the specific intention of building a better life, just as my non-oho ancestors had. Either that, or they came here cause shit may have allegedly been “going down” where they cam from, either on their own account or otherwise. The person I’m about to recall for you was of the latter variety, having come here for unspecified reasons somehow pertaining to his job in the government and the need to get away from the county (Colombia) as a result. He would remind you every other time he saw you that he was, in fact, once a principal in a Jesuit University there. I started off my journey of getting to know Manuel on probably a sort of shitty foot, let’s say it was it’s owner had just recently been diagnosed with Diabetes, although it had been festering. The reason for this is I had the distinct displeasure of working with one of his daughters at this restaurant before working with him. One of their stays was short-lived, but I will always remember Sabrina–not for her bussing skills or lack thereof but for her horseman’s face that came angrily stampeding towards yours whenever a request of her was made. The other, who I worked with more frequently, was insolent, rude and rollity-eyed to the point of being obnoxious–as if she were Paris Hilton, but her parents had recently gambled off every last piece of property at a drunken orgy and she was now forced to toe the line, working for meager pay in a position eons below someone of her stature–at 18 years of age. You’d ask her to do something a certain way, cringing as she executed it incorrectly numerous times, and she’s snap at you–her mouth telling you uh-duh, I obviously already know that you idiot, while her eyes worked perhaps a magic picked up at some chi-chi-mariki religion in Colombia, which burned through you–I am piercing your soul, you evil white whore. Anywho, having no idea what to expect but seeing what literally came out of him, I thought, I wonder what this guy is gonna be like. Well, I knew it would be interesting. And oh, it was. Unlike those who had come here for a better life and were eager to work those extra hours, save that money, he told you flat out that he had a better job before, and let me know, in broken English, that Colombians are a much better breed than the Guatemalans we worked with. They were lucky he talked to them. Poor him. But all I could think was the obvious: if you hate it so much here, if you were such a toot!toot! Man of importance from whence you came, why not crawl, er, pridefully strut on back their. Heck, book your whole family a first-class one-way trip heading out tomorrow. Adios! But obvious to me was that he must have done something to go from esteem and authority to living in a second floor walk up bussing tables in America. Yes, it’s not that I’m some genius. But because Manuel considered himself three-steps ahead of all of us dumb Americans, coupled with the fact that he was clearly delusional, I don’t think he had any clue that any of us had soaked up the information he readily and regularly offered up about his history, and added the 2 plus the other 2 and wound up with four. No, we were too dumb for that. What really struck me about this individual was his confidence that he knew better than anyone. He must have considered himself a regular Newton or Edison. He had never worked in a restaurant before, probably had never even dined in one in America, and he was working with people who had 5, 10, 20, 40 years experience specifically in the restaurant business, specifically in the US, specifically on Long Island, and yet, he constantly piped up about how we could do things better, run more efficiently, etc. etc, and most of the time he had no fucking clue what he was talking about. I often wanted to lean in with some tweezers and pluck the hairs off his facial mole one by one, while I patted him on the head and like I child explained “There, there, you have such great ideas! We are so proud of you! Now you wanna finish wiping down Table 12?” Firstly, because I’m an asshole but also because I hate the whole men are superior bs. That was another issue– he was a bus boy, and hence his job was to do what even those with a cursory idea of the duties of a bus boy would know: fill water glasses, bring bread, clear the table. But all these things were all beneath him. More accurately, he’d prefer to not do them and would either tell you that outright, or would disappear at different times to do things like hide in the kitchen, or make personal calls outside. Or, he would pretend not to understand you when you asked him to do any one of those things. And you would almost always have to ask, because, although after say 50 times of performing one of only about ten operations, he still didn’t build up that automaticity that many of the American kids could: “Glass=more than half empty, let me fill it, I am no idiot, and that is part of my job”. No, not with him. First, wanting to help him with his English (which was supposedly why he took this job) I would ask him things in complete sentences “Hey, Manuel, would you please bring water to table 10?", which (this was hysterical at first, then sublimely funny, but soon made me wince was always followed with an “Excuse me?” the intonation of which I’ll attempt to convey phonetically: “Eh-hux-cuh-uh-you-saah me?” So, in the begginging when I still had some patience/desire to help him assimilate, I would fully repeat myself “Sure, would you please refill the water on table 10?. Eh-hux-cuh-uh-you-saah me? So, I would modify it a little, making it sligthly more terse (I was probably getting pulled in two directions at this point myself” “Table 10, bring some water”. Ex-cuh-uh-you-sah me? Now, with desperation: “Ten, water, please”, to which he would look at me with irritatedly, although as I realized soon enough it was a mock-irritation cause this guy was fucked in the head and viewed this at best as a game. He tried to break you down. He was, in a word, a dick. Sometimes when we were really busy and he would whip out another Ex-cuh-uh-you-sah me? With that doe-eyed BS mock wonder, I would simply say (and I knew this killed him) “agua por diez”. Ha! Comprende? Yea, I thought so.
And the demands he would make. In restaurants, many times you share “meal time” before service--we did this here and not only would he spend the whole time whining about how he didn’t like/sign off on this or that thing that we did or way that we did something, but you’d see the manager/owner pulled over to the side, hairy mole looking him squarely in the eye as Manuel pontificated this or that injustice to which his watering glasses hath forced upon him. When he was on my official shit-list-from-whence-there is no return, I noticed this manager almost leaning in to overhear the conversations and dealings between Manuel and I. That, coupled with the way Manuel would congratulate me when he felt I was being nice to him, I knew that Manuel had gone to our boss/the manager, and actually complained about me! Me! I would sit with him (at first) during meal time and would do my best to engage him in conversation, to include him in other conversations the staff were having–I really thought “I hope I can help him learn English so he can go get a better job”. But the whole pretending-to-not understand thing was so fucking annoying. And the times where he congratulated me for being polite to him, were times where I, along with doing my waitress-related duties, also did his bus-boy related duties, which was much less irritating than finding him (he was often unfindable–I coined him “the ghost”), or playing the game where he acts stumped. I was over that. Especially since, if in a pinch, I needed him to actually do something, I would when asked to repeat myself, just respond mostly in Spanish. The look I got for that–ooh-wee! I KNOW WHERE his daughter got that zapping you with my eyes bit. Jesus Christ I thought. I don’t know if it was this that made me wince, or the fact that (and I wanted so badly to discreetly tell him this, as it made me want to vomit even when it wasn’t me doing the dining) he had that somewhat substantial mole on the side of his face with several long hairs coming out (probably about an inch). Yes, that’s true–not poetic license. It shows a new era has arrived–back when my ancestors came here they worked hard and shut up. They were openly discriminated against, but they fought through it. Now, I am NOT suggesting that new immigrants should be subjected to some old-timey discrimination-we know better than that now. But jeez, this guy hasn’t put a dime into any kind of infrastructure cost and he would complain that there was a pothole not far from his house. Really? You should have said something. I hope Manuel is doing well today. I no longer work at this restaurant, and he got a job before I left at a liquor store. May he be their best customer.

The ER

Generally, in an unfortunate way, the immigrants from “down-South”(father than the US border, and heading as far as Argentina) are less than demanding as they try to settle in to our okay country–in search of better lives. Usually, they earn meager wages in places like hotels, restaurants, and are paid under the table, so that although they don’t have to pay taxes, they also don’t earn Social Security benefits either. Ultimately, that sucks. And as a Democrat, and more importantly someone with some (although not always enough) compassion, I most of the time feel sorry for them. But not always--For example, not at the emergency room. You hear it said, at least I had, and wanted to dismiss it, that due to lack of heath insurance, people of Hispanic origin currently residing here (anyone think that may be deserving an acronym?) use the ER as their “primary care physicians”. And while I hate stereotypes, it is here in the ER as well as over the years waiting tables, that I have found, well, that there’s a reason why they became steroytpes in the first place–they’re true. Generalizations, yes, they are not good–in a general way. But sometimes you need a little comic relief, at someone else’s expense, especially if said person is directly responsible for your ER visit amounting to a day’s work, at a whopping eight hours.
It was the end of the line for me at the ER that day. I could almost taste the backwash of Vicodin. And I needed it. I was coming off of Effexor, on purpose. It’s not in the doctor bible yet that this is a horrible experience that can make your internal organs feel as if they are being twisted and pulled into a devil may care distortion. But, I can tell them that that’s the case. After waiting what felt like hours, probably because it was hours, I was almost in--next at bat for some pain relief lovin'.
I’d had this happen before, only to be teased with a screaming child coming in just as the orderly was heading out into the waitng room with my chart in hand. Fuck, I’d think. Fuck fuck fuck. I joked out loud that this would happen again, and ha ha ha, never one to miss an opportunity to help fate fuck me over, just as I was next up this time, in came a Hispanic man–with two children. Fuck. But, not to let this get to me, I thought optimistically, one down, one to go. The little brat, excuse me, little brat of Hispanic origin currently residing is the US, would be called quickly, and in no time I’d be happier than ever to hear my name. But I was not so lucky. This family o.h.o.c.r.i.t.u.s. was only the harbinger of more ill-health in small packages to come. There were four more said familias en todo, y all of them were f's.o.h.o.c.r.i.t.u.s. And, like I said, this is not the first time this happened. Suddenly, as I was doubling over in pain, sure that when they suggested “Kidney Stones” they must have meant Paleolithic rocks, I wanted to walk around the room, glaring at each and every parent, and offering them my medical expertise–if only I’d had my English to Spanish dictionary. “Oh, you’re kid has a slight fever?” “Go buy one of these, my friend”, and as I pulled out a Baby Tylenol, they would be forever thankful, idiot parents that they were. I would fake a smile, and do an impersonation Princess Diana wave, and they would walk off to la farmacia, saying prayers for my own good health, while I waked over to the registration lady and let her know that the Ortiz family would no longer be needing medical assistance, today.

Getting Out

What getting out of Mattituck meant for me was different than what it meant for anyone else. It was not so much the place, as the state of mind. I have many friends who have gotten out of Mattituck, only to stay intextirably linked to their former selves, their parents ideals, their homegrown fondness for corn. For keeping up with the Joneses, even if the Joneses in Mattituck might be a little more low key than Manhattan or Manhasset Joneses. They may have moved miles, but their heads are still buried in the sand, both figuaratively and literally. So, living back on Long Island and having to endure their mock sympathy...their unknowingness that their heads are where they are...is really fucking annoying.

In Mattituck there is a Democractic bent that sits. A Democratic bent that knows that it has laurels to rest on. And forever will so help me god and Amen. A clash of religion and what's really in the heart.
And it paints a Jesus picture--has to do with being a "real Christian". Has to do with doing the right thing, as long as I can take periodic vacations with my dispendable income. As long as I have a few J Crew sweaters and my slipppers are also from J Crew. Not without MY baby! Not without TWO for ten dollars. NO!
Mattituck (and I specify this place because it is where I grew up) is perceived as a microcosm of the whole world. As with one, so must be with the other, right? There's a nationalism involved, even though it's just a speck of a town.
The whole idea of being a “nationalist” is fine–as long as if that’s you, you agree to admit that it makes you an asshole and that by doing so you renounce your religion. You spit on it. You in effect say “Fuck the whole caring for everyone thing”. As long as you don’t call yourself Christian, or Jewish, or a man of spiritual nature....and also a nationalist. Because: the NIMBYism is repulsive. It slides its way into everyone's mentaility. The "I'm better than..." is so repulsive because, for all it's protracted effort, the result is rarely more than mediocre. Nice try, Tucker!
You can’t decide to completely shun the main message of you religion but also quote Biblical lines down to the nitty-gritty, inciting them when it serves you even as you’ve already discarded there major lessons.
For all the million things I hate about the town I now live in, close to my hometown but on the other side of the tracks, at least it has no fucking clue what it is. It doesn't try to be something it's not. I've always been a fan of "If you don't try, then you can't fail", which is to my own detriment, but sometimes effort is worse.

Big Shitty

The city seemed like a good place to go. It was away. It was new. It was big. People had ideas and cared about ideas. And also it was close to home. Close enough to the bosom that I could take a quick train trip home for some good old-fashioned moms cooking. Far enough and lenient enough that I could smoke pot constantly and not nobody was gonna bother me. At least before Herr Guilianis’ rule. He really pricked things up. When I first arrived at NYU in 1996 I lived in a dorm right on the park, Hayden Hall. I rarely made it to class, that surely was a downfall. But I loved that I could drink a forty ounce of OE and smoke a blunt in front, in Washington Square Park, and if the police were any the wiser then they didn’t care. After Guilianis regime (aka the Disney brigade) there were video cameras (with people actually watching the video in real-time) and a stake-out trailer where the eyes were always upon you. Once in the late evening, on a quiet night with oddly few people around, my roomate and I, while living on the corner of Thompson and Bleeker, strolled over to the park with her puppy to enjoy a nice kind joint, when some non-descript middle-aged man with a conspicuous baseball cap came over, after seeing us smoke, to ask where had gotten the weed. I, still semi-retarded and not much the wiser would probably have given him the number to one of our delivery services, if...If he was younger and cuter; if he had taken the time to shoot the shit for a minute before deciding to make his move. But Sam took the lead from the get-go. She responded to his first question, which by the way was leading “so you two were just smoking a joint over here. Period. Question mark”. Sam says no, we weren’t and the way she’s looking at him is telltale fuck you buddy, the jigs already up might as well save your breath. But, sticking to his steno pad story, he tries to play it out a little longer, and finally, after a few painfully awkward minutes, wants the number to a delivery service. “You girls know they have these things, right? These ‘delivery services’ that you call, and they come to deliver you weed, right?!?”. Yea, no. We’ve gotta be going. Your number? I think we’ve got it. I, feeling sorry for the guy say “Why didn’t you just tell him we were smoking, give the guy the number?” Because Kat, that guy was totally an undercover. Alas and alack, the conspicuous baseball cap looked so for a reason.