ericboy's Diaryland Diary ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- \"So let me bring it to you like this: 86 the bullshit and give me the real\" - Senema True story: I'm in Texas, working at a restaurant and a music store. One morning, at about a quarter after eleven, the phone rings at the restaurant. My manager tells me it's for me... and it's a girl! I take the call and it's a woman whose name I honestly can't remember now. We'll call her Spishak. Spishak says that she's not typically such a forward person, but she came into the restaurant earlier in the week to fill out an application and found herself smitten with me. She enjoyed watching me laugh and cut-up with the other associates and even went so far as to say that I looked "Cute" in my jeans. I distinctly remember her telling me that she was the girl in the red shirt and the blue jeans towards the end of the bar. We were in Texas, people. That means nothing. Everyone wears that. It's like our state uniform. She asks me if I remember her; begs me, almost. I cannot tell a lie. I say "no". She says she wants to meet me. I say sure. At this point, I was in awe and admiration for this woman's courage. It's a fucked-up world we live in. You can hardly glance at another person without them pressing charges, these days. It took a metric assload of humility and strength for this woman to call me out of the blue and ask me to meet with her. To say "Hell no; get away from me, you psycho!" would shatter her social graces in at least a small way. I owed it to her to at least meet her in reward for going out on a limb like that. I told her that I was scheduled to work until around three that afternoon and then at the music store at five and on until it closed at eleven. "Holy shit, you work two jobs?" Yes. "Oh. Okay. I'll call you at Hastings [the music store] later on tonight. Have a great day." I went back to work, telling everybody my wonderful story, a small triumph for me. No one seemed to care. An hour later, deep into the lunch rush, she called again. "What are you doing?" Working. "I'm so bored. I'm sitting around the house, watching my kid, my mom took the car, I'm between jobs, there's no fucking weed to smoke and I'm going fucking stir-crazy." That is fascinating, revealing, and disturbingly forthcoming, but I have to get back to work. Call me at Hastings after five, okay? Have a good one. click. Okay. That last tirade, which was much longer and more profane in reality, told me several things that sent off warning signals in my head. She used illegal drugs, which for me, at the time, was synonymous with "charlatan she-devil", she was quick to use vulgarity with a person she knew nothing about (I had, to that point, kept my own in check, as civilized people are ought to do when dealing with strangers for the first time), and she lived with her mother and her child. Okay. This isn't so bad. I'm not planning on marrying this girl, just meeting her face-to-face and thanking her for taking the time to call me and congratulate her on her bravery. That'll get you far in life, toots I'd say and then glide away into the distance. An hour later, she called again. "Hey, it's Spishak. What are you doing?" Trying to keep it civil: Working. "Oh. So..." She went on to tell me about the father of her child, her recent fiance, whom she had split with less than a week ago. From what I could tell of her story, he didn't quite realize that they were split up at that point and she wasn't really looking forward to telling him. I envisioned myself as a poor and relatively ineffective shield for her as he riddled my body with bullets in a jealous rage. I blinked, it was still there; a second time, and it was gone. And here was Spishak, still, on the other end of the line, signing my death warrant. Hey, you know what? I'm almost out the door, here, and I'm anxious to get home and grab a shower before I head to Hastings. Call me there? Okay, take care now, byebyethen! I hung up the phone and turned to my co-workers, who now had taken quite an interest in the little tryst I was arranging. I think they had a pool going as to whom was going to kill whom. Would it be: 1)Me killing Spishak? 2)Spishak cracking my skull open and sucking out my exposed brains, then regurgitating them into the mouth of her waiting child who would flap its arms and squack while it received my masticated grey matter? or, 3) X-Mr. Spishak clubbing me upside the head with the drivers' side door of his truck and then gutting me with a tire iron? I left work, went home, and took an hour nap. I woke up and went to work at Hastings, where I quickly hid myself in the office and pondered to great lengths my philosophy on rewarding the willpower of what was quickly dawning on me to be a lonely, socially-stunted, and deeply disturbed young woman. I was perhaps ankle-deep in these thoughts when she called... again. "Hey, it's Spishak. What are you doing?" WORKING. "Oh. So..." She carried on, each word seemingly more redundant and ridiculous than the one before. I asked her if she had a job, and she said she was between jobs. I asked her if she had a car, and she said she was between cars. I asked her if she had any ambitions, and she said she was between sacks of weed. I asked for her number, and told her I will call YOU when I am done working. "Okay. You get off around eleven, right?" The store closes at eleven, yes. I have to stick around and do some paperwork and then I'll call you and get directions to your place, okay? "Okay. Talk to you soon. I can't wait." I can't-click!-STAND YOU!!! I was telling a co-worker about this, much to her amusement, when she called again. Now, I was losing my patience. "Hey, it's Spishak. What are you doing?" WORKING!!!! "I'm bored-" I'm sure you are. I'm on my way to lunch, now. I'll be back in an hour. Takecarenowbyebyethenburninhellhaveagreatnight. I took the co-worker to lunch. On my way out the door, I told one of the cashiers that if anyone called for me to tell them that I'd pulled my own tongue from my body and hung myself with it. The co-worker and I (we'll call her Chlomedia Champagne) went to Bennigan's and had a good laugh about the whole thing. Well, okay, she laughed; I was miserable, and tied to my notions of chivalry in rewarding what I still thought was a brave act. (Later on that week, I would get a call from Chlomedia Champagne's boyfriend saying he was going to come to Hastings and stomp a mudhole in my ass because I talked to his girl. I almost lost my job over that ridiculously innocent fiasco. Word to the wise, gents: If you're ever in Texas, don't talk to any women. They'll just get you into trouble. In fact, just stay away from the state, entirely.) I get back to work, and not five minutes later, Spishak is on the phone. I curtly dismiss her and get back to work. At ten-fifty-five, she calls again. I curtly dismiss her and close the store. At eleven-twenty, she calls again. She asks how the close is going. Not to be rude, but it'd go a lot faster if I weren't yapping away on the phone. See you soon!!! Any normal person on the other end of that "See you soon" would shit their pants and then harness their chi in an attempt to will themselves into unexistence. Spishak was probably turned on by it. I left work, but didn't go to her place. I drove to the bar in a mad dash and guzzled a beer. I called my roommate, Heath, over to table, who was, as typical, already at the bar. I'm going to meet this crazy chick- "Dude, what if she's totally hot?" At this point, I don't care if she's fucking [Insert your vote for hottest-woman-in-the-universe here], with thighs that could stop the earth's rotation and buxom breasts that could nurture God, himself, I fucking hate her. As a whole, without even having seen her, I know she's the ugliest person ever to crawl out of Hell and I plan on kicking her in her teeth and sending her reeling back into that pit of damnation very soon, now. Regardless, I'm going to meet her. I want you to call my cell-phone in twenty, no, make it fifteen minutes from right now. Don't fail me, or there will be a murder. He knew I wasn't joking and agreed. I hopped in my car and drove to see her, a blessed four blocks from the bar. She was sitting on her porch, smoking a cigarette, lounging on a wicker chair. I honestly don't remember what she looked like. All that I saw was Beezlebub, incarnate, and it took every fiber of my strength not to throttle her and save mankind as we know it. I never got any closer than six feet away from her. We shared small words of greeting and she launched off on a tirade about her druggie friends and the good times they would have beating each others' loved ones and playing in a house at the end of her street that was reputed to be haunted. Her friends, which she spoke of as if they were my friends, had stupid names like Rhee-rhee and Shitfuck and Bladesmack. She talked and talked and talked. I smoked cigarettes and heard none of it. Heath called, a little late, but still in time to prevent a catastrophe. I excused myself and turned away as I put the phone to my ear. "Dude, you got to get over here. Shit's blowing up!! There's blood and guts and spit and ass and burning tires everywhere!! The world as we know it is crumbling into a sea of fire and you're the only one who can save us." No shit; that's exactly what he said... more or less. On my end of the line, I put up a more feasible exit strategy. Oh, hey man... No, I'm not too far from the bar... How many of you are there?... Did Ward take his car?... He's drunk, too?... Jesus, none of you guys can drive yourselves?... Oh shit, man... No, no... All right, I'll be there in five... Don't do anything stupid... Well, don't let him fall asleep in there; you'll get kicked out... I'll be there in a second... I don't know... prop his head up with his hand, I'll be right there. Bye. I turned around and saw that she understood. "You're friends all fucked up?" Yeah, I got to go take care of them. It was great meeting you, though. "Yeah. Thanks for coming by. You're a busy guy, and a good friend." I shrugged my shoulders stupidly. I always do the right thing. "See you around." Yeah. I turned around and RAN! I hopped in my car, parked a block away so she couldn't see it, and went back to the bar and drank myself stupid. Even though she knew the phone numbers to both the restaurant and the music store that I worked at all the time, she never called me again. And I couldn't be happier. The moral of the story is: Just because someone goes out on a limb and puts faith in human nature once in a while doesn't mean they should be rewarded. After all, they may not be optimistic, or courageous, or even brave; they might just be crazy, tactless, and horny. Something to think about... 9:22 p.m. - 2004-09-14 ----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- |
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