..:S...P...I...D...E...R...B...I...T...E...S:..

Sunday, October 21, 2007

“I gots pennies for my thoughts."
- 50 Cent - “Patiently Waiting”


FICTION:



spiderbites...a 79% true story



chapter V: quarterback





-Was there a sign on the machine?

All I wanted was a stamp. One goddamn stamp. For the love of Christ, can I get a stamp? Well, to be honest, all I wanted another quarter. But it must have been those new patriotic stamps with the stars and the stripes that got everyone so worked up because I quickly forgot why I was there, too.

To rationalize getting more change to put in a change machine, I imagine that I have a deadline more important the fact that in 15 minutes I’ll be late for work. One more quarter in that slot would, for no reason, make me feel like I’ve accomplished something before I wasted my entire day behind a cash register. Mistakenly, I confindently think that’s 14 minutes more than I need to put a dollar in the stamp machine, take the tiny American flag it gives me, snatch the 50 cents change, and out the door. Wrong. I slip in my dollar in the mouth, feel the machine start chewing, hit the button for a single stamp...and nothing happens. A quick glance at my watch:

13 minutes...

I hit the button a couple more times, cock my head not unlike a cat trying in vain to shit. Still nothing. I try to get my dollar with the coin release. Nothing. Another glance at my watch, nostrils now flaring, to see how much time I got left to still get to work on time.

...12 minutes...

I look inside to divide the clerks by the number of people times twelve, and I see a line of about eight old ladies waiting to mail unsealed packages. I’m inching forward, feet shuffling like a drunk test on the highway, and I’m thinking this is one of those times when I could legitimately cut in front and say, "I’m sorry. I just need my change back real quick." But I can't do it. I hate it when other people do it, so I just can't bring myself to drawn attention to myself in a roomful of strangers. I look at the watch, quickly subtracting the three minutes I set every clock ahead in order to keep trying (unsuccessfully) to be on time.

...10 minutes...

I’m creeping forward slower than fucking snails fucking, trying to gauge the amount of time spent on each grandma at the counter so I can predict which clerk I’m going to get when I finally get up there. Hmmm. Looks like that smiling little old dude will be my clerk if each grandma keeps maintaining this three minute average. I watch him help each customer with the grace and efficiency of that magical cookie-making machine that eventually became the boy robot in the adult classic "Edmond Scissorfuck." Two minutes on the last two. This man is a miracle of evolution. Don’t believe anyone who denies evolution, especially when they cite that tired “blind watchmaker” example. Shit, my watch.

...5 minutes...

Now we’re under the average length of a car wash. That’s when the grandma on the end starts shopping for a certain stamp book they can't find, holding them all up to the light like they might have all the answers inside, and now everything’s screwed blue and tattooed. You know how it is when you're counting your steps and you realize ten feet away that you're not going to take that first step on the stairway smooth so you have to stumble over a little half step to avoid looking foolish? Well, it’s just like that when I realize the line and clerks weren’t going to pair off at the right pace to make eye contact and get called over by the wonderful little clerk. So I trip over my feet with that stutter step stand at the counter facing a big, snarling asshole instead! The guy looks like my brother, if my brother hadn’t gotten his football scholarship and gotten stuck working for the post office for the rest of his life instead. And if he grew three feet. But it's all good! This will be easy, right? One question, one answer. I’m in, I’m out.

-Hey, dude, that machine just took my money. I need one stamp.

See what I’m saying?! This is the easiest transaction in the history of the postal service. Not since the days of the Pony Express when some cowboy handed a wooden letter with a one-digit address branded into it to another guy on a horse has there been a request that has been a postal-related request that has been this easy to deal with. I calmly wait for my stamp and my change, smiling because of this gift I've brought to his workday.

-The machine's broken.

Awkward pause. Me still smiling.

-Yeah, I know. I just need my money back. Or, you know, a stamp.

-Was there a sign on the machine?

My smile is now gone forever.

-Uhhh...no. So what are you saying?

-There was a sign on it saying it was “Out Of Order” earlier.

-Okay, but there isn't a sign on there now. It ate my dollar, and I just need one stamp. Can't you just give me the stamp from here?

I didn’t even want the stamp before, but now it’s all I can think about. The clerk ignores my question and yells back over his shoulder. A vein in my head rises.

-Hey Joe! was there a sign on that machine?

...4 minutes...

-Hold on, brother. Let's say Joe says, “Yeah, there was a sign on it.” I mean, so what? There isn't one now. What does that have to do with this?

-Huh?

...3 minutes...

-I’m saying this, okay, the machine was broken, then the sign fell off. So what? Why do you need to ask Joe anything?

-Because the machine is broken and it had a sign on it.

-You see that machine from here? I ask this through teeth I fear will splinter.

-Yes.

-And you see that there's no sign? Just get me a stamp so I can go. Please.

I really say please because at this point I’m honestly confused and trying to understand his train of thought. I’m thinking maybe he's just not aware that it was my last dollar and maybe, in his mind, this one stamp combined with such a small amount of money can't be the reason I waited in line? Maybe he thinks I just wanted to have this long, unsatisfying conversation about the machine? I just don't get it. I’m not about to explain everything that brought me here and what I really want. It’s got to be about the stamp or it makes no sense to anyone out loud. I realize that there might be very few people who plan their days around getting two more quarters, but on that day, I was. So I repeat that I need a stamp to hopefully clear this up.

-I just need a stamp.

-You said that.

-Sooooo...can I have one?

...zero...

And now we have complete insanity coming at us in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1...

-Sorry, I can't do that.

I didn’t know I had this many veins to pulse in my head.

-Why not?

-The machine and us are separate.

-What?!

-The machine and this post office are separate. I can't give you a stamp.

-Wait a minute. What do you mean you're “separate?” You sell stamps, right?

-Yeah. And...

-And that machine sells stamps, right? I mean, it's not like the machine sells fishing lures and it has nothing to do with you, right? You sell the same stamps, right? How’s that separate?

...T minus 1 minute and counting...

The clerk sighs and actually looks to the next person in line for sympathy. I don’t know if he gets any. I wish I would have looked.

-It’s separate because the guy who fills the machines has a different inventory than...

-Whoa. Wait. When the guy comes to fill up the machine, does he give you your stamps, too? Of course he does. So it's the same thing. It's all coming from
the same government, right? They all have the same flag on them, right? Red, white, and blue? Looks like someone drew it with crayons? That’s our flag, right? So give me one of your stamps, keep the change and I’m out the door. Actually, I’ll need the change, too.

...T minus 2 minutes and counting...

-I can't.

-Jesus Fucking Christ. Then just give me my quarters back.

-I thought you said you put a dollar bill in there.

-No. It was four quarters. But so what if it wasn’t?

The clerk doesn’t understand why, but he rightly sense the deceptive tone in my voice. There’s no way he’ll ever know why.

-Hold on.

More insanity in 5, 4, 3, 2, 1...

This prick suddenly hands me fucking paperwork to fill out. I stare at the paper then him then the paper in complete disbelief.

-I have to fill this out to get my buck?

...T minus 3 minutes and counting...

Maximum insanity in 3, 2, 1...

-Yes. And then they'll mail you a check.

-You’ve got to be joking. Just give me my fucking money back, dude.

The clerk yells over his shoulder again.

-Joe!

Joe walks up behind him. Joe is a woman. Welcome to crazy world. I’m sort of laughing again. The fact that Joe is a woman makes perfect sense right now. Hell, I wouldn't have batted an eye if Joe was riding a unicycle and juggling skulls.

-Sir, he's right. You have to fill this out to get your refund.

-You can't just give me a stamp.

-Sorry. The machines are filled with...

-With the same stamps you sell. Seriously, this is hysterical. It's not like I lost money in a pop machine outside and demand a drink from your lunchbox. I mean, you sell stamps here!

-I’m sorry but you'll have to fill this out.

...T minus 5 minutes and counting...

Even with the five minute grace period that they invented just for me, I am now officially late for work.

-Can you just give me one quarter back?

Trying to get a quarter back reminds me of the fact that I can’t throw a football without a thumb. In spite of staying after football for an extra hour all week, in spite of enduring my mom getting tired of waiting for me in the parking lot and actually walking onto the field in the waning sunset on Friday just in time to see me lose the coach’s lazy toss in the darkness and take the ball full in the nose, in spite of her smile in the last sliver of daylight, in spite of earning it more than anyone on the team, I never threw a spiral pass.

Joe smiles as she knows that was me admitting defeat.

-No. I’m sorry.

-Fine.

I proceed to fill out this form to get back my dollars, but I just draw a giant cock in the comment section with ‘Joe’ written on the shaft instead. Then I write, “I quit” right next to it even though I don’t work there. But it feels good to do it. If I wasn’t later for work, none of this would matter. Nothing would. All pressure is lifted. No more of that “late again” eye rolling when I clock in and slam my locker door. I decide right then to never go back to work again. I figure I got enough money to keep me floating until the next job. The calm look in my eye when I hand back the paperwork is the only thing that seems to alarm Joe, and she takes a step back. I swear I will be living in a new city in less than 7 hours and 45 minutes, the length of my longest workday.

::: david - 1:18 AM [+] :::
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