Soul

Listening to some music. House itself is quiet since I have my headphones on. I’m sure the chair I’m dancing in is making some squeaking noises and I may or may not be singing along at various points where I know the lyrics. Funky. Not the music. Well, the music too. But I’m feeling funky. Been so lost these last few days. Weeks. Years. I lost it. lost touch with whatever it is that causes a writer to write. Well besides the draw of money or fame, and not that I wouldn’t enjoy both of those immensely, but writing solely for either of those reasons or even both of them is great and contributes to the broader artistic spectrum and blah, blah, blah but it lacks soul.

Come on, I’m not being a snob here but you can tell the difference. The difference between “According to Jim” and “Modern Family.” I should probably talk about something more literary but I’m not a snob about television at all and am in fact addicted to this medium so I will as I have always done on this blog and elsewhere continue to talk about it frequently. But back to my point, and I hope you are following this because I am sure having a tough time keeping up, the difference between the two shows isn’t in the humor or acting (okay, maybe a little), but in the poignancy, in the way each episode makes you think and reflect and feel.

Watch Belushi bluster about and be a cartoonish version of the stereotypical football watching suburban dad and it’s funny because you’ve seen that guy and maybe hung out with that guy and probably paid that guy ten bucks to jump off of something when you were all drinking once, but it doesn’t make you think about too much else. Watch the episode of Modern Family where Mitchell surprises Cameron with his participation in a flash mob, after they’ve spent the entire episode bickering about how Mitchell isn’t nearly spontaneous enough and needs to just let go more often.

You laugh when Cameron tries to dance along on the side, feeling self-conscious, maybe a little dejected. You laugh because you know that is his character, maybe a little stereotypical (but played with so much more depth), and how much he loves to cut loose. Instead he is relegated to the sidelines. And it makes you think about times when you realize someone’s just done something great for you, given so much of themselves to you, and you somehow wish it was more, or different, or from someone else entirely.

Poignancy.

Does it make you think? And not think about unimportant shit, but does it make you motherfucking think? Do you understand yourself a little bit better because it made you think? Because it made you feel. Because it made you remember that we are all only human and we are all to be pitied and laughed at just as much as we are to be rejoiced and reviled.

That's the difference between art with soul and art without soul. And since I have a soul, I have no choice but to be an artist with soul. It will be my downfall either way.

Enough to Drive You Crazy If You Let It

I stand across the room from my sister, rocking from foot to foot as she vents about her day. It was extra humid today and her store was extra busy and extra understaffed. Besides, her uniform is all black and she has to wear a smock over it, so she is demonstrably upset as she vulgarizes the English language in an attempt to express to me the frustration of her nine hour shift. My mind begins to wander.

I am currently on what might be considered a sabbatical if I were working in my field of study or a leave of absence if I had some big swank office somewhere, but since I am a waitress at some corporate joint is called ‘medical leave’ and entails nothing more than getting to keep my service years uninterrupted. In short, I am taking on each day as it comes. Mostly I keep my nephew while my sister’s at work and in exchange get to eat and sleep and do whatever else I want in her apartment.

Sometimes while she’s at work, I rearrange the furniture.  Whole rooms.

So I’m not working. I’ve been home all day writing. Talking on the phone. Definitely not putting up with cranky and possibly dehydrated customers.  My sister is herself cranky as she retells the most poignant moments of her shift: having to call in the assistant manager for backup help, running out of bags, customers bitching about no bags, my sister bitching about all of it.

I could care less about any of it. But I smile and nod and try to remember some of the swear words for later use. I want to tell her to chill, then I think about what an ass I was coming home from work this last year, venting, worse than venting, forcing the anger out like fire from a pot-bellied stove when all I needed was to let the heat and smoke roll away in their own time. I want to tell her to stop caring, these minor stupid details don't really matter, not at all, in any scheme of anything. But they have this way of getting you to care.  

My sister waves her hands a lot when she swears, I think to myself. 

I really hate having to write titles for these things . . .

For a while there, I was in a slump at the restaurant. The hostesses seemed to seat me with nothing but two tops of old people and large parties consisting mostly of children. High maintenance but low checks. A lot of two dollar tips. I would get excited every time I saw guests over four feet tall with a full head of non-gray hair being led to one of my tables. Maybe, I would think, maybe they’ll order the ribeye and dessert and the kitchen won’t screw anything up.

All hope for a decent tip would leave, however, as soon as I stepped up to the table and the complaints began – why did they have to wait so long for a table? Why didn’t we have anything other than vegetable soup today? Why is their silverware dirty (spotty)? The answer to all of these questions was apparently that I am a bad server and screwed everything up. At least that’s what they told me through the tip they did not leave.

But I’d had enough. I’d had enough of the ass-kissing and unnecessary apologizing all in order to maybe squeeze out fifteen percent from these ungrateful bastards (Why is it taking them so long to recook that meal you dropped? It isn’t my fault that your server ran into my kid while he was chasing his brother around the dining room!). No more, I thought. No more will I smile politely while guests complain about stupid shit. No more will I answer their stupid questions as if they are perfectly valid. No more will I have to ask each and every guest in a party of seven the exact same thing because none of them are paying attention. No more.

Some examples:

Guest: I need more napkins!
Me: Sorry. One per customer. Perhaps you should have worn long sleeves today.
Result: Laughter and 20% tip. (I brought them more napkins obviously)

Guest: (after I knocked over a glass of water and broke it at the table behind them) Guess you have a case of the dropsies!
Me: Am I gonna have to cut you?
Result: Laughter. Man’s wife pats me on the arm. 23% tip.

Guest: I’d like a peach cobbler for dessert.
Me: I’m sorry, but we’re out.
Guest: That’s ridiculous! I came in here just for that.
Me: I’m very sorry.
Guest: I just can’t believe this. How could you run out?
Me: I’m not sure. I only ate seven of them before I came on shift.
Result: Guest stares at me for a moment, then laughs and calls me ‘cheeky.’ 30% tip and tells the manager I did an awesome job.

Guest: (looking around a full and very busy dining room) Why did it take so long for us to get a table?
Me: (as other servers and bussers fly past me in both directions) The Redskins’ game is on and we were all watching in back. Now can we make this quick? Half time is almost over.
Guest: Yeah, well what’s the score?
Result: 25% tip

Guest: My god! Did they have to kill the cow before cooking my steak?
Me: Yes, actually. We had one tied up out back, but some neighborhood kids keep letting it loose. Don't worry though, we had a couple of dishwashers chase it down. Your steak should be out as soon as we get some clean plates to serve it on.
Result: Everyone else at the table laughs. When I bring the steak, the guest asks what the cow's name was. I tell him "Patience." More laughter. 20% and a verbal tip (I used that to buy smokes on the way home)

For the past two weeks I’ve just been myself – my bitchy, sarcastic self – and it’s changed everything. I’d been holding back before, not saying what was on my mind, not becoming incredulous when someone asked why the food for their party of fifteen wasn’t already on the table when they ordered a whole ten minutes ago, apologizing for things that were beyond my control. I’m still not verbalizing every thought that comes into my head. I try to refrain from using the words ‘bitch’ or ‘alpha male jackass’ when standing at a table. But otherwise, I’ve pretty much let loose.

And I’ve been averaging about twenty-five percent every night. Sometimes more.

Go figure.

My bad form

When I woke this morning, forty-five minutes after my alarm should have and probably did go off, I had the briefest notion to just call in and tell The Man I wasn’t coming. I should have done it. I’ve been about an hour behind all day long. I missed a meeting. I realized I didn’t have access to not one, but two databases to which I’ll need immediate access. And I got a parking ticket because I forgot that I parked in the two hour parking zone – because of my tardiness – and not in the deck where I usually park. Don’t even get me started on the parking ticket.

But in those few moments of eye-fluttering, what-the-hell-time-is-it, rising to consciousness, when I considered not coming in at all, I convinced myself that work was a necessity. Why? For one, I have only been at the new job a couple of months and I don’t want get a reputation as a slacker. And second, if I don’t go to the daytime job, I can’t in good conscience go to the night time job either. It would just be bad form.

And I need the money.

I hate money.

Yet I need it so.

I am money’s bitch.

See, I’m between homes at the moment. I’m not homeless, just staying with friends until I find suitable habitation. And by suitable, I mean something I can afford located within a decent school district. The kid will be back in a few weeks and he will need to be in school. Apparently there’s a law.

You would think that finding such habitation in such a school district would not be that difficult. But no.

Virginians were the last to practice Massive Resistance. What is Massive Resistance, you ask? Basically, it was the good ol’ boy way of giving the finger to those liberal nut jobs in Washington who desegregated the school systems. The short version is that instead of integrating, local governments were allowed to shut down public schools and grant money so families could send their kids to all-white, private academies. The practice ended sometime in the mid 1960’s. Sort of. It still pretty much happens in Richmond. The only difference is, they’ve left the public schools open.

Here’s how: The city is spread over the county line between Chesterfield and Henrico Counties. Each of these counties have excellent schools, for the most part. The problem is, the “city” of Richmond (ie the poorest part) is not a part of either county. Richmond city has its own public school system. Richmond city’s school system is not on par with the counties. It gets better at the high school level, but many of the schools aren’t fully accredited (not enough of the students meet the minimum Standards of Learning as set forth by the state of Virginia – thank you, GW and No Child Left Behind), are generally under-funded, and are in physical disrepair (an understatement). And because the Richmond City School System is so bad, most of the (white) people who can afford it send their kids to private schools.

So what happens is that in very lovely, racially and socially mixed neighborhoods, only the poorest kids go to the public schools. And generally, because of institutional failures, and yes, racism, there are few if any white kids in Richmond City schools.

And, yes, I am part of this racist behavior. And I hate it.

The first year my son was in Richmond, for fourth grade, I lived in Oregon Hill, a basically all-white neighborhood near campus and I sent the kid to the neighborhood elementary. I knew when I enrolled him that he was it – the one white kid in fourth grade. But I didn’t care. He didn’t either.

But with kids, anyone who sticks out, anyone different is the object of bullying. I made him stick it out for the rest of the year, but that summer I sent him back to his father. Partially because even the best schools in the county don’t compare to those back in Iowa, and partially because I was having my own difficulties and thought it was best for the kid to be with his dad at the time. It wasn’t. But lesson learned.

When I decided to bring him back to Virginia last year, we moved out to the middle of nowhere with a friend, in an excellent school district. But that didn’t work out either. So now I am between domiciles, looking for a place I can afford, that isn’t in a school district where only half the kids are passing the state’s Standards of Learning.

This is why I had to jump out of bed and endure the day instead of rolling over and going back to sleep.

That'll be five packing peanuts, please . . .

In first grade, we were given packing peanuts as incentive for completing certain tasks. One styrofoam nut for being able to write the alphabet, two for being able to name all seven continents, and a few more to count and write the numbers up to 100. Every Friday, Ms. Crook would open up the Peanut Store, at which we could exchange our packing peanuts for goods. For 1 pp, you could get one of Ms. Crook's home-baked sugar cookies or a plastic spider ring. Five pp would get you a candy bar, a Dukes of Hazzard pencil, or a superball. And in exchange for a mere 10 pp, one could choose either a green or blue plastic motorcycle. I wanted that motorcycle.

There were other, more valuable goods to be had, but I was never much for saving and Ms. Crook made a mean sugar cookie.

There were only a few caveats. One, the Peanut Store was open on a first-come, first-serve basis. There was no layaway program and they didn't accept credit, so if you wanted something, you had to be the first to save enough to get it. Late-comers ended up with the Mounds bars or the Chunky with raisins. Your pp could also be confiscated at any time, say if you were caught cheating or stealing someone else's. And finally, partial packing peanuts were not accepted (Billy Tighe liked to chew on his - like I said, I preferred the sugar cookies).

The point of Ms. Crook's little incentive program was not only to get us to do our lessons, but was itself a lesson about money and exchange.

Ms. Crook was a genius.

Okay, so it took me several years to stop getting excited when the UPS man left a large, non-heavy box on the doorstep (two hundred and forty-seven packing peanuts! Imagine the Hershey bars I could get for that!). And the peanuts were hard to keep in a wallet.

But I thought back to that Peanut Store years later, in high school economics, when we learned about barter and monetary systems, about how 'currency' is really just what the people of any given society have deemed valuable. In come cultures, cattle are the thing of value. Or chickens. Or turquoise beads. For us, the mighty fine people of these United States, our thing of value isn't a thing at all - it's just digits. Points.

Whoa! you say. Hold on a minute! We have money, and that money says right on it "Federal Reserve Note" and there is theoretical gold and silver somewhere in some vault that guarantees that piece of paper. Our money is backed by the strength of the American economy!

(Excuse me while I laugh)

(Okay. I'm good now)

But really, how often do you even handle those pieces of paper anymore? I work full-time in an office, and the only compensation I've received for my time has come in the form of a few points being added to a bank account in my name. When it comes time to pay my bills, I go online and transfer a few points into another account at some cell phone company or utility provider. I even pay my rent this way. And when I go to the grocery store? I swipe a card, linked to my bank account, that deducts a couple of points from my account and puts a couple in theirs.

Most of our exchange is done this way. If we actually want cash, most of us go to a machine where we can purchase a few bills (for a small atm fee) by deducting points from the total number of points we have on record at a bank that may or may not have the actual cash to back up all the points all their members reportedly have.

So our barter system is one of points which represent paper currency that represents theoretical precious metal but really only represents the notion that it will continue to maintain its own value because of the "strength" of the American economy (Can anyone say 'Confederate bills'?).

I miss the packing peanuts.

Ignoring Ignorance

In the evenings, because I have nothing better to do than earn money to pay the man, after my full-time job, I wait tables at a certain nationally-known family restaurant, one you'd find along most interstates. Last night while on a smoke break, I was chatting it up with a couple of the grill cooks and a manager who were also playing a game of catch with a package of napkins. Why napkins? Why not, I guess. Anyway, the manager admonished one of the grill cooks for throwing "like a girl."

I could have let it go.

I didn't. I let a lot of things go - but that's just one of those comments that really irks me. Partially because it's sexist. But more so because I am a girl, and I can throw harder and farther than most of the men I know. Granted, I hang out with non-athletic, intellectual types, but this just further proves my point - athletic ability is not tied to gender.

I digress.

My objection to the remark and subsequent demonstration of how this girl throws, led to more discussion, my use of the word misogynist (in jest), my necessary explanation of the word misogynist, and half-hearted protest from the twenty-something grill cook who claimed that he "loves women" and could not possibly be sexist, followed by more discussion. And another cigarette (because, well, it was slow in the restaurant last night and I'd already earned my $2.16 an hour making sweet tea for the bastards).


At this point a third grill cook stepped into the break area - I have no idea who was actually making the food at this point, but not my concern - and upon hearing the discussion going on said to the woman-lover that he should keep it down because "isn't someone here a . . . feminist?" The best part is that he whispered the F-word.

No wait, the best part is that the woman-lover, who was standing slightly behind me as I ashed my cigarette, shiftily pointed to me and this caused the whisperer to blush a little. Or maybe it was fear that colored his cheeks.

I am not a doormat. I am ferocious. Hear me roar.

As I said before, I hold my tongue most of the time. Especially at the restaurant, one famous for recent lawsuits involving discriminatory behavior. On one hand this makes me a bad feminist, but on the other hand, I have a fourteen year old to feed and since I don't own a farm, not even one cow, I need the extra cash. So I try my best to ignore the ignorance. I've only discussed the F-word with one or two other servers, but apparently that is enough to have it spread through the place like porn on the internet.

"See that waitress over there? She's one of those damned, hippie feminists! Can you believe it?!"

As if I am a Satanist. Or a pedophile.

I think to them, those choices are less frightening.