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Thursday, September 28, 2006

"White man, black woman...black baby!"
- Public Enemy


THE SUBWAY CHRONICLES

Chapter Six:

"...and three white-chip cookies, please..."


i thought i'd never have a run-in at this place. for some reason i thought they were above all that. maybe it's because of all their vegetables instead of those rolling clouds of grease, maybe it's the confusing name of the joint. i don't know. but i feel i should call it "The Subway Incident" instead, since i thought it was the only episode of its kind, but you know what? you rewind the tape far enough, you'll see that there's enough little crimes commited under those baseball caps throughout my visits (stale bread, rotten tomatoes, closing early) to warrant a place under the title "Chronicles." apologies to the people that got an earful of this story already at the grad school party. so here's what happened:

i had been eating the same Wendy's turkey-and-swiss sandwich every day for about two weeks before i bit into one of those and there was so much mayonaise that it burst from a crack in the bun and filled my mouth like i was in a gay porn. that was so gag-worthy that i still shudder when i think about it, so i had to go further down the road on my lunch break for some new food. and i don't like doing that. i like expending as little thought and time as possible on my lunch so that i can try to get some reading or writing done before i have to go back to typing. and it's tough finding something decent within a reasonable distance. it's like that episode of "Magnum P.I." when they're in T.C.'s helicopter and they keep watching the gas gauge to allow them enough time to fly back or else they'd crashland in the jungle and turn on each other like "Lord of the Flies" in nine minutes, 7 seconds like people in movies usually do.

but there it was! connected to a drive-thu beer outlet (warning sign?) a Subway sub shop happily waiting for my money. not too much time left, so i'm almost running through the door and, shit, there's a line. but wait, i look and it's not really a line. it's like five kids somewhere around 9, 10, or 11 years old, just kind of wandering around the counter chattering to each other like kids do. two are getting food, the rest are just fucking around and wasting time. i start to get annoyed with them because i'm in a hurry, but i'm fighting the urge. not because these children are black (that detail is very important later, however) but because i have found that if i make an effort to only get angry at people who get angry at people in situations like that (like the inevitable "tssk"ing, pinch-faced old bitches who wish to Christ they could discipline someone else's crying child) i discover that i'm much more tolerant of kids jackassing around.

or, at the very least, i've found that by only getting mad at people who get mad at people, i cut down on the people that irritate me by at least half.

so i'm watching these kids change their minds twelve times about their sandwiches and inching forward at starfish's pace. but no one's there to be mad at these kids but me, so my impatience starts to focus on them. i finally get to order my food, way later than i'd hoped, and just as i'm gritting my teeth because of this constant swirl of giggling and activity around me at the register, something happens that changes everything. i'm asking for a cup to get some ice water, and the guy behind the counter says (kind of laughing because he just said the exact same words to one of those kids): "you get your ice at the machine, and we'll get your water back here." i'm like, "oh, okay. whatever," and right as i turn around, one of the little girls in the mob says to me,

"you want me to get your ice for you?"

i'm shocked and pleased by this. when i thought about it later, i figured that the "you get the ice, we'll get your water" policy was probably created because people kept getting whatever drink they wanted for free. so maybe she's used to the indignity of not being trusted at a frigging faucet, or maybe she felt bad about how long they took to get their food in front of me. point is, i'll never know why she did it because i was like, "yeah, okay." and she's quickly filling my cup up with ice and handing it back with a smile and then she's gone. suddenly i'm in a great mood, all my anger at these little punks has vanished completly.

"thanks!" i say. and i really meant "thanks." that's one of those random acts of kindness, goddammit. i'm in such a good mood that i decide to get some cookies, too. what the hell, why not? i can eat all this food on the frantic drive back to work. when i need to be, i'm like an octopus eating and driving and changing cds at the same time.

"and give me three of those cookies," i declare, pointing to the case.

"you mean the chocolate chip ones?" the dude asks.

"no, the white chip ones. the ones with the nuts in them." i say proudly.

and even though i don't know these guys, i want to laugh and share the irony of the contrast of my earlier irritation with the kids to my racially-charged choice of cookies. but, of course, none of that shit sounds rational out loud, and my mood's gonna change real fast. all the kids are now outside, and the bell on the top of the door has finally quieted down, and suddenly there's a charge in the air behind the counter. there's one guy in a red shirt behind the two in the green shirts, and i can see the wheels turning in his head as he debates whether to make some smartass comment about those kids. looking at me, somehow he must be trying to guess whether i'd appreciate a joke, and i can see him getting up the courage to open his mouth. oh shit, i'm thinking. please don't let one of these assholes make some racist comment about those kids. i keep forgetting that this state is ass-backwards a lot of the time when it comes to that subject. and i know it's coming. it's like an audible turbine whine building in the air around us. i just want to get my change back fast so i can get my food out of there before someone says something racist while smiling at me like i'm in on it. that would ruin my lunch. seriously. especially after that little girl got my ice for me.

i've finally got my change in my hand and turning around when the fucker says it.

red shirt: "the funny thing is, they all probably have kids of their own!"

i glance back and he smiles at me. of course he does.

motherfucker. i barely have time to eat this sandwich in my car on the way back because of how much time it took to get it, and now i'll be bothered by this for the rest of the day. is it because i'm some civil rights crusader? no. it's because that kid got me ice cubes.

i sit down and unwrap the sandwich at one of the tiny wobbly tables. you ever eat in a Subway? it's like eating on a real subway. i don't really think you're supposed to eat inside the place. it's way to small. you're all scrunched up on a square the size of a postage stamp, staring directly at the staff the entire time. i force myself to do this while i eat my turkey sandwhich because i figure by the time i get to the cookies, i'll be angry enough to actually say something to the guy in the red shirt. i figure if i don't say something by the time my sandwhich is finished, i'm a complete pussy who is afraid of three idiots in matching baseball caps. and what's up with those caps anyway? i stare at them while i eat. they look like the sorriest baseball team in history. all soft and pasty, covered in food stains. what kind of team is covered in fuckin' food stains? i'm trying to imagine the Subway baseball team running onto the field and it's making me laugh. i have to concentrate to get angry again. and i can hear that they got a TV in the back. every so often the dude in the red shirt goes back to watch some game and comes back and comment on it. i'm thinking, "look at you with your mustard stains on your shirt and your stupid fast-food cap. you never played a sport in your life. why are you watching one?"

and what's up with that red shirt? does that mean he's a manager? was there such confusion telling the manager apart in the Wall Street pandamonium of a typical Subway afternoon? is it so hard to slowly make a sandwich on a conveyor belt without color-coding the three employees? maybe if you get three whole orders going at once, they bump into each other too much and start getting confused about whose sandwich they're on. maybe if there's four subs going, they need to call for backup and have two red shirts, two green shirts, and then they alternate the sandwiches, assigning them odd and even numbers so that all hell doesn't break loose back there.

wait. nope. he's the manager. one of them just asked him if he had to count something. "red shirt" does mean manager. anyone remember what it meant on Star Trek?

i'm down to my white-chip cookies, but i'm thinking that's way too symbolic to eat any of these cookies without saying anything. what kind of story would that make? the only food more metaphorical that i could be eating would be black olives. which, it turns out, were on the turkey sub i just ate. anyone remember that riff Eddie Murphy did on black olives? "why are the green olives in a jar and the black olives in a can? why they got to lock up the black olives?!"

i'm way past when i was supposed to be heading back to work, so i force myself up to finally say something. but they're all back in the back somwhere, watching whatever game they got on. i imagine it's a game of horseshoes. or checkers. no, probably not. probably some major league sport that's 80% black.

i stand there for a minute feeling stupid because there's no one at the counter. i jingle my keys. nothing. another minute. cough a little. nothing. eventually i go to the front door and open it and close it real quick so that the bell goes off. one of the green shirts wanders out thinking i'm a new customer.

me: "where's the other guy?"

green shirt: "who?"

me: "your boss. the one in the red shirt."

green shirt: "oh, scott? he's not the manager." he turns to yell, "hey, Scott!"

i actually can't remember his name. but we'll call him Scott for now because it's funny. it was one syllable name like that. that i do remember. but wait. now i'm utterly confused. how is the guy in the red shirt not the manager? i forget all the devastating things i was going to say by the time he comes out because of my confusion about their shirts. the green shirt goes back to the TV.

red shirt: "can i help you?"

me: "yeah. you remember those kids that were in here?"

red shirt: "yeah."

me: "you remember what you said?"

red shirt (confused): "uh, no."

me: "those kids, those little black kids that were just in here. two of which were only half-black, by the way."

i'm not sure what kind of proof i was offering with that fact. i frowned as soon as i said it.

red shirt (real confused): "what?"

me: "those kids. they were fucking around and making noise and you make some fucking comment when they left."

red shirt (face changing): "uh, nooo, i didn't say anything."

me: "yes, you did. you don't remember what you said like 10 seconds ago?"

red shirt: "it wasn't me. hold on..." turns to yell back to the missing green shirts. "Hey, did either of you -"

me: "whoa. dude. i'm talking about YOU. You're the one who said it."

a green shirt comes up to join him.

red shirt: "did you say anything to those kids that were in here when -"

me: "hey, Scott. listen to me. it was YOU who said it. how can you not remember this? you thought it was fucking funny like 10 minutes ago. you said, 'i'll bet they got kids,' or 'i'll bet their kids have kids' or something like that."

red shirt: "no, i didn't say anything."

i realize at this point that Scotty is fucking gutless. he's denying this in front of one of his boys that had laughed when he said it. how's he going to bring this up later when they're both alone? i'll never understand people that don't back their shit up. and the other green shirt must be listening, too. but he doesn't even come out of the back. gutless all. i now realize they're either scared of losing their jobs or of me, so i get up in Scotty's face. at least as close as i can over the wilting farmer's market of grey vegetables. the sweaty little bastard smells like a combination of onions and ass. now, i know they work with onions all day, but i don't see an "ass sandwich" on the menu anywhere. because i probably would have ordered one at some point. back to the story:

me: "you're going to deny that you said that shit? you make me laugh. you know, if a bunch of kids are fucking around, then get mad at them, but why do you think you can say that racial bullshit to a roomful of people (what "roomful?" okay, i was exaggerating) and it's okay?! i mean, i know we're close to the bible belt down here, but you need to join the fucking 20th century. keep that shit to yourself next time."

red shirt: (all twitchy) "i'm sorry if you thought you heard something. i would never make a racial comment -"

i violently throw my cookies away in the trash behind me in what is quite possibly the weakest civil rights prostest in the history of our country.

me: "you're going to keep telling me you didn't say anything?"

Scotty just stares at me. probably trying to figure out if i'm half black. i almost shout, "what are you looking at?! i'm German/Native American/Irish, motherfucker!" but, of course, besides that making me sound like a mental patient, it really misses the point, you know?

the three of us stand there for about a minute. Scotty starts to twitch and stutter and sweat onion rings again.

red shirt: "hey, i'm sorry that you thought you heard -"

me: "fuck that. deny it all you want. you're all scared about your job, like i'm going to tell your manager or something (as if i could ever find the fucking manager with the shirt confusion! what does the real manager wear anyway? black and white stripes? and a football helmet?!) but i could give a fuck about your job. i'm just saying something to YOU because you said that shit, and you're such a pussy, you make a joke and can't back it up."

red shirt: "i don't know what you're talking about."

this is all so completely unsatisfying, i can't believe it. i can't believe that i actually put my new glasses in my pocket because i thought i was going to end up grabbing someone, or someone grabbing me, over a counter. i guess that's why they always say, "deny, deny, deny." gutless as it is, it really gives the other person no room to maneuver.

i turn around to leave.

me: "watch your fucking mouth next time."

weak, i know. but that's all i could say. nothing in the bag. out of ideas. late for work. nothing left in the tank. but, at least the kids weren't there when i said all that, i think to myself as i drive back. saying everything after they left makes it more noble, i tell myself. because it wasn't some kind of grandstanding, you know? but, of course, i'm talking about it right here, right now, so i'm a complete hypocrate. anyway. while i'm admitting to you how unsatisfying that encounter was, i'll add three more points to make my motivations even more suspect.

first: i keep saying i wanted to say something to that guy because that little girl got me ice cubes. i honestly think it had more to do with the fact that i was in the middle of typing the captions for "The Tuskeegee Airmen" that day at work.

second: halfway through the turkey sandwich i knew that no matter what happened, of course i was going to say something, simply because it would make a good story. and that shit's easier than actually standing up for something.

and third: i didn't throw away all three cookies. i quickly ate one before i got up from the table.

::: david - 3:07 PM [+] :::
...

"He picks up a bus and he throws it back down."
- "Godzilla" - Blue Oyster Cult


Drunk as fuck. how drunk? let me ask you this: how the fuck can i drive home this drunk and pass like 9 cops and they don't do shit? what do i have to do for someone to get me off the fucking street. pull me over, goddamnit. i'm so fucking drunk that i drove past my apartment about 20 miles, jumped a curb, turned around and got home about 3 hours after i left the bar. this bar is only about 30 miles from my house. the sun shouldn't be coming up as i get home. why have i been driving all night? because i'm drunk and fucking lost. do your fucking job you piece of shit. stop my ass and get me off the street. i dare you. i wonder if i might be the most skilled drunk driver of all time. i've gone how many years without a DUI? ever? this is a real problem i think. because this can't be healthy. the only thing worse than me typing this up while i'm fucking hammered is how i'm now grabbing one of my cats that's sniffing my leg and i'm agressively petting it as it waits to be released. this is what would happen to one of my kids. if i had one. i would stumble in the door all loud and drunk, wake up the entire household, then loudly explain to my child (or cat) all about life and hipocracy and pat him on the back too hard and send his ass to bed full of drunken wisdom. you know, there should be a place where i can pull over, like a pitstop or something, when i'm this drunk so that i can buy a family to abuse and frighten and keep awake until dawn. it would be like a toolbooth with a person sitting there ready to sell me a weary family unit all ready for my rants about religion and whatever grad student i want to bounce on my dick. why doesn't someone get on that shit? you know, i'm out tonight, drinking with these people, and i'm thinking how funny it would be if every female in the place was sitting on my fucking face. i really wasn't thinking that. i just want to give these new people something to read if they stumble across this page. is this wrong? then i don't want to be right! about everyone sitting on my face i mean. see, earlier, i stopped it this bar between classes (when i was sober) and this waitress started talking all about it being her first day and how she's just started school at Pitt and blah blah blah. and then she noticed this huge stack of papers half in my hamburger and said, "wow, what's that?" and i said it was my short story and she said, "did you write all that?!" pointing at the huge stack of papers, and i said "no, this is 7 copies of the same story, that's why the stack is so big" see, i'm cutting her slack at this point because she's real cute. and she's like "wow." so i say, "do you read a lot?" knowing the answer before she opens her mouth. and, of course, she says, "no." and, to me, it sounds like she just said the words, "no, i don't like to wipe my ass much." so fuck her. tired of these cute dumb fucks. no more of that. too much shit to do these days. that's the new rule: if you don't read then stay the fuck away from me. that's all there is to it. and one more thing, if you're a cop, you make me laugh because i just drove Mach 3 through residential neighborhoods drunk off my fucking ass and you never pulled me over. what do i have to do to get your attention? that cop at the four-way stop about 15 minutes ago? dude, you didn't think there was anything suspicious about the asshole singing Neil Diamond at the top of his lungs and taking that sharp turn on two wheels? weren't you thinking it was weird that i was slowly putting on some gloves and a motocycle helmet like i was preparing to race you? get your fucking head out of you ass. it's probably best though. if some cop did pull me over and gave me a drunk test, i would do everything precisely as he'd want (because the best drunk (driver) in history must also be the best drunk tester) then i would write "i was drunk, shithead" somewhere in the back seat of his car when he was handing by my license and apologizing for the inconveniece. later i'd send him a videotape of my microwave coughing up black smoke behind me (nope, you can't make popcorn when you're fucking drunk!) here's the thing, officer. i got like 8 drunk uncles, so it's hereditary that i can drive so well while intoxicated. that's why, even though it took two hours to drive 30 miles, i still drive like Steve McQueen in fucking "Bullitt." i may be lost, but i can still drive dammit! so fuck you. it's for your own good though. i think that i could probably take a cops gun away from him and smack him in the head with it. i mean, what's his training again? they aren't fucking ninjas. just some asshole with a gun. just like i said about that guy in the band. take away his guitar, what do you got? just some asshole. officer, i will take your gun from you and put it upside your head. you would deserve it for not stopping me from driving home after like 14 beers and 4 shots of Tequila. keep our roads safe, goddamnit. i must now eat everything in my apartment. hold on. okay. i am now out of food. cookies and pickles are the best 4:00 am combo in history. i'm happy to be a part of that discovery. i'm like those British fuckers from "Mountains of the Moon" except instead of finding the source of the Nile, i combined chocolate and pickles to make the greatest snack ever. one more thing, officer: what's it like sucking cock behind a Burger King billboard while i drive by drunk out of my fucking mind? didn't that radar come back reading "90 mph, Drunk as Fuck!" in bright red digital letters? jesus fucking christ. who do i have to blow in this shit town to get pulled over? here's a tip you rent-a-fucks: if you're at a red light and the guy next to you quickly puts his seatbelt on, cracks his knuckles, tries to start the song "Sweet Caroline" over again three times (even though it's on the radio) just to sing the intro once more while staring intensely into your eyes like one of those acoustic guitar crooners that annoy people at parties...he's fucking drunk. i'm just trying to help you here. and please taser my ass because, if my heart doesn't explode, i think it would be funny to make Godzilla noises and stomp toward the cop in slow motion while he frantically squeezed the button on his stun gun. i'd pick up a toy train and throw it back down, just like the song said. wait, that was bus, right? i'll go get the cd right now. i need more food. hold on.

::: david - 3:43 AM [+] :::
...

"The dog barks but still the caravan passes by."
-old Arab saying


whoa. it's been awhile hasn't it? i finally feel like staying up late enough to type something on here. been busy as shit lately. grad school started up, and here's proof that i walked my ass off the first week trying to figure out where everything was. luckily, i'd watched enough of a certain television show back in the day to know just what to do in that situation. only missed one or two steps.

classes are good so far. trying to talk one professor into letting me turn in a story twice as long as the page limit for a writing workshop. i don't have anything shorter and i hate having to wait for my turn to come around again for my classmates to read the second half of something. this always happened in undergrad, too. everyone would be stretching their fonts and widening their margins to try to get enough pages, while i was always doing the opposite. whatever i turned in was on both sides of the paper, tiny single-spaced text, with a margin about the width of a mosquito. and it would be about 10 pages too many anyway, and i could tell that no one read the damn thing because they were mad that it was so long. anyhow, i'll turn in half if i half to, but i get the feeling that this group might actually like the story and wouldn't mind the extra reading. it's a new story that i'll post here after i clean it up. about a 50 pager. lots of driving and fake movie quotes and fake action movie titles. Name of the story (and also of a nonexistent buddy/cop thriller in the story) is "Calling All Eunichs!" it's a direct sequel to "Flies on Shit," and even though no one will believe me because i said this about "Flies on Shit"...it's the best thing i've done.

oh yeah! speaking of, i actually felt like a real writer, i mean, "author" for a whole evening! i had to do a reading in front of a bar load of people as part of my graduate school requirments (aka "hazing") and, in spite of dreading it for a week, and trying to think of ways to get out of it, it went extremely well. i read my story Swatter (simply because it was the shortest, recent thing i had) and the crowd really seemed to like it. i got lots of applause and laughs, and when it was done, there were even some strangers coming up to me and introducing themselves and saying how much they enjoyed it. they seemed to think i was this established literary type. suckers! little did they know that about five hours earlier i was crushing 10 fig bars into a ball to munch on while watching "Big Trouble in Little China."

and, you know what? i was all worried that this particular story wouldn't go over well at all. hell, if i'd have known this story was so entertaining to a crowd of strangers, i'd have tried to write more stories where a guy punches a girl in the face through a screen door in the last scene!

and one really good thing from it all is, because i read that story out loud for the first time, i found all sorts of things to change and fix, and now it's a little longer, of course! actually, during the reading, i changed stuff as i went along because i could tell, right before i would read a sentence into the microphone, that the line wasn't going to work, and i'd quickly change it. now, if i could read all my crap out loud to an audience and quickly revise that stuff at the same time, i might have stumbled on to the most quick and effective form of revising yet. so, yeah. that went great. i was in a really good mood for like 72 hours. i'd even do it again without dreading it so much...if i had another short story short enough.

also met this Chuck Kinder guy at Pitt that everyone gets all excited about. apparently he's the guy that Chabon based the "Grady Tripp" character in "Wonder Boys" on. this is the book that supposedly gets thrown in the river at the end of that movie. i'm still partial to the scene when Garp fights Bonkers for the pages of his story. i've also been told that Kinder's book is actually about him and Raymond Carver's shenanigans throughout the 70s. i wasn't sure i'd cross paths with him so quickly, but first i had a lively western discussion with him on the email, and then i went to a party last weekend at his house. at about 3am i ended up in his living room where he was holding court with about 10 swooning female grad students and he jumped up and started drunkenly pulling an invisible gun and telling me he was "ready for me this time!" and we talked westerns again. and the guy knows his westerns. appreciates "Dead Man" and "Pat Garrett and Billy the Kid" and "Once Upon a Time in the West." i ended up giving him a copy of the soundtrack to the western script i'm working on (almost done) and he seemed genuinely excited about it (most people just brought alcohol to the party) but i'm really looking forward to his class next semester, and a meeting with him Sunday about working on Pitts' literary journal, Nidus. that'll do for now, even if i don't get to drive around with him and a dead dog in his trunk.

oh yeah, i also have a "women in film" class that is going to be very easy and a lot of fun. and there's about five little old ladies that sit in the corner and chatter away all excited to be in school, and i like listening to them. and i can't wait to hear what they say about some of the crazier movies on our list. we already watched "Strange Days," that cheesy James Cameron-lite movie from the 80s (because it's supposed to have strong women leads? uh, right), and even though it's a hard-R rating, the little old ladies were joking around about it when it was over. i'm honestly more interested in what these little old ladies are going to say about "Alien" (sweet!) or "Marnie" than what the cute young idiots in the back row are thinking. and the professor was assigning everyone a movie to do a presentation on the other day, and i ended up with......"Alien!" how about that shit?! i had to hide my Alien keychain under my desk as i faked a sigh and was like, "yeah, i guess i can do that movie for my presentation. sure hope i can rent it somewhere." meanwhile i can't decide which of the THREE version i own to actually do the presentation on. if anyone around here knows me just a little (fingers about an inch apart) they'd realize that assigning me the movie "Alien" is kind of like "forcing" a dog to bark at a passing car.

last two radio shows went well. thanks to whoever listened online. the locals don't seem to be calling as much. maybe it's goes with the phases of the moon. that reminds me, sorry the days got screwed up Aza. i definitley could have used some more sober listeners. i mean more, sober listeners.

i had an incident at Subway two days ago, and i was going to sum it up here real fast. But since i almost had another one today, i guess i'll have to start "The Subway Chronicles" instead. coming soon. i'll post it this weekend. it's a good story, and a true story. full of anger and racial tension and white-chip macadamia nut cookies.

what else? oh yeah. i finally got a new car. two transmissions later, i finally got rid of the Cavalier that had been mercilessly beaten into submission by these lovely green hills. i always wanted a black car and now that i have one, i have to wash it all the time, dammit. and, as you can see, it sure doesn't help when, every time i go to Toledo, i keep driving through massive clouds of mayflies twice as big as my car and only slightly smaller than my balls.

::: david - 3:10 AM [+] :::
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