Part II. Soldiers of God

Ten minutes of silence was broken by the sounds of his return. If you didn’t know better you would have thought a mob of rioters with bullhorns were walking up the street. But it was just Joe and two friends who had happened by. When I saw who he brought back with him, my heart began to race. I had to swallow a deep chill in order to put my game face on. Those spidey senses were ringing off the chart.

Joe introduced Mick and Monk (I’m not joking) Mick was a skinny bald guy who looked like he had dressed up as GG Allen for halloween. He was decked out in leather biker jacket and spiked bracelets. He didn’t have eyebrows and had a long thin catfish whiskers hanging from the sides of his chin. His spindly little hands were covered with tattoos of finger bones and he had a small swastika tattoo right under his right eye and a black tear drop under the left. He had just finished a 3 year stint for possession. Monk was even bigger than Joe with a long braided ponytail and a mountain man’s beard. He didn’t have the swastika tattoo, but trumped Mick with a row of three black tear drops. Monk had just gotten out of prison after serving 12 years. They said the guy he killed was a priest who had tried to fondle him, hense the name. (I know, it doesn’t make much sense) The two of them had been released at the same time and had been on the town for three days straight. Joe had spotted them stumbling by the bar and chased them down.

The three of them looked completely mismatched sitting together. All three achieving a perfect stereotype for the look they were going for. But as is often the brutal truth about so many stereotypes, they were whole heartedly the real deal.

Mick sat tiny and mute in between the hulking Joe and Monk, both of whom bellowed a mile a minute at each other like two pro wrestlers giving pre match speeches. Monk felt compelled to repeatedly shake my hand and didn’t want to let go, like he wanted to have an arm wrestle on the bar but wouldn’t come out and say it. “DO YOU LOVE JESUS, BROTHER?” Monk asked again for the third time as I tried to wiggle my hand from his grip.
“YOU GOTTA BE DOWN WITH JESUS ROB, WE HATE THOSE GODLESS FUCKS” Joe interjected, slamming his fist on the bar and pointing at the fading Celtic cross tattoo on his arm.
“BROTHER, WE ARE SOLDIERS OF GOD.” Monk proclaimed.
I didn’t even try to give them an answer, they weren’t looking for one.
“I worship Satan” Mick mumbled and pulled out a rolled up plastic baggy.
“OH SHIT IS THAT WEED?” Joe asked apparently oblivious to Mick’s religious affiliation. “ROLL UP A FATTY”
Mick started to roll a joint.
“Seriously, you know you can’t…”
My protest was drowned out.
“YO, ROB, NOT FOR FUCKING NOTHIN’ THERE’S NO ONE HERE. YOU DON’T WANT TO PISS US OFF.”
Joe was right. I was totally trapped, out matched, and what? I was going to do what? Call the cops on the owners friend and dealer? I couldn’t leave, I couldn’t kick them out. As I had done a hundred times before, I reminded myself that this was their neighborhood, their bar, their world. I was just a tourist.
Mick finished the joint and pointed towards the back door.
“NO FUCK THAT, I’M FRIENDS WITH THE OWNER. ROB’S COOL, WE CAN SMOKE HERE.”
This time I tried to stand my ground.
“YOU A NARCO, BROTHER?” Monk asked and jumped to his feet and flexed his arms like the hulk. I wanted to giggle but fought the urge.
“LOOK, ROB, THERE IS NO ONE HERE. JUST US. JUST US ALONE IN THIS BAR WITH YOU. YOU KNOW NO ONE IS GOING TO COME IN THIS BAR IN THE NEXT 10 MINUTES AND 10 MINUTES IS A LONG TIME TO BE ALONE WITH US.”
He was right. I didn’t care anymore and told them to do it. But to my surprise Mick handed the joint to me first. “I’m not really into smoking pot” (which I’m not)
“BROTHER, YOU ARE A NARCO” accused Monk and he started his body builder flexing routine again.
They hounded and argued, getting more and more agitated. Being stoned while trapped with them seemed like hell in hell, but I knew I was just dragging things out.

I lit it, took a hit, passed it to Joe. Something wasn’t right. Joe took a hit, passed it to Mick. My mouth tasted like gasoline. Mick took a hit, passed it to Monk. “JESUS FUCKING CHRIST, THIS IS SHITTY WEED” Joe complained. Monk took a hit and passed it to me. I exhaled what felt more like chemical fumes than smoke. I took another hit, passed it to Joe. Something was defiantly not right. Joe took another hit, passed it to Mick. “WHERE THE FUCK DID YOU GET THIS SHIT, IT’S FUCKING AWFUL” he moaned. I remembered the taste from a party in college years back. This wasn’t weed. “SERIOUSLY, I’M FUCKING INSULTED BY YOUR SHITTY WEED.” Joe continued to complain with a sour look on his face. “GOD IT SMELLS AWEFUL.”
“This is the best stuff on the market.” Mick mumbled in a slightly offended tone.
“YEAH, IT’S GOOD STUFF BROTHER” Interjected Monk.
My body was starting to tingle.
“YO, YOU’VE BEEN LOCKED UP FOR TOO LONG, THAT IS NOT GOOD WEED.”
“it’s not weed” I said. My whole body felt light, like I was going to start floating.
“I GOTTA HOOK YOU UP WITH MY GUY CAUSE THAT SHIT TASTED LIKE A CAR BATTERY.”
“It’s not WEED!” I screamed shocking Joe into a brief moment of silence.
“WELL, WHAT IS IT?”
“It’s pure wet.” responded Mick with a “duh” tone of voice.
I was floating.
“…EXCUSE ME?” Joe stood up.
“You know, dusted.” he shrugged.
I was a balloon with just enough helium.
Their voices started to echo, like there was reverb attached to their mic. You could see in Joe’s face, a look of realization while fading at the same time. LIke he was looking up at you as he was falling off a cliff.
“YOU TWO… JUST SLIPPED… ME PCP… YOU TWO… JUST SLIPPED ME… A FUCKING… DIRTY GHETTO DRUG…”

The altercation escalated but I couldn’t hear what they were saying anymore. They seemed really far away. Like I was watching a movie through dirty glass with static cutting through the audio. I remember Joe grabbing Mick and shaking him like a rag doll. Monk jumped in and the two hulks grappled each other. But this distant film that I was watching was edited and cut strangely. I only saw a couple of short clips and then suddenly they were all gone. I was standing (floating) alone in the morgue silent bar. I had 7 more hours left in my shift.

I ran through the bar and locked the doors, shut the windows. After sitting for a moment, I called a cab and went home. I was off for three days after that. I came back and no one mentioned the bar closing at 8 pm or the money sitting uncounted in the register. I never saw Monk or Mick again and when Joe finally returned a month later, neither of us said a word about that night. Shit just happens

(originally written circa 2006-2008)
———

Part I. Everyone’s Pal

There are different levels of criminal. By level, I don’t mean category like, shoplifter or hit man. I mean level of intensity, level of energy they subconsciously put off. If you’ve floated around the underbelly enough you feel it. I think it has to do with how much time they spend in the system, their experiences start to permeate their being. A hard con’s mere presence lets you know how dangerous he is. You can tell the difference between a tough guy suburbanite and a city ghetto thug. Sometimes the guy asking for change is a harmless drug addict, sometimes you know he’ s a true crack head and you shouldn’t turn your back as you walk by. It’s like spidey senses. At the 2 street bar those senses were honed. All of the neighborhood guys wanted me to believe they were bad ass, they spent a lot of time trying to convince me of it. But that subconscious spidey sense would tell me most of what I needed to know within the first minute. Generally the more they tried, the less threatening they were.

There was no trying with Joe. With Joe, you just knew. With Joe, the hair stood up on the back of your neck the second you heard his voice booming and thundering. He was so loud that you could hear him from a full block away if the windows to the bar were open. But Joe spent most of his time trying to convince you he was a great guy, a lovable guy, “HEY, YO, I’M EVERYONE’S PAL” which of course he was not. Joe was an aging neighborhood coke dealer and debt collector who tipped in 20 bags and personally supplied the owner. On sight, you knew Joe hurt people. He played his part from a text book, his pudgy fingers covered in jewelry and the obligatory gold chain around the neck. He was always smiling but it was a tense cocaine twitching smile, like there were invisible fishhooks attached to the corner of his mouth and the plastic fishing line had stretched ready to snap. Joe was huge, 300 pounds plus of mostly muscle. You could tell his growing gut was a new development. His aging metabolism matched with the quarts of heavy cream white russians had finally started overpowering the speed in his system. The veins were always popping out of his head and I was convinced that he was going to drop from a coronary at any given moment. There was a nervous feeling that permeated the bar when he was there, like the herd knew there was a predator watching. He would shout engage nervous customers across the bar in conversation that almost always led to the petrified patrons excusing themselves the second he closed the restroom door to do another bump.

Generally the racism in the bar was relegated to quiet disappointed musings about the days when “they” knew their place or discussions about who “the good ones” were and what made them different from “bad niggers.” Joe took a different nerve wracking route in coping with his life long lily white Irish tavern being desegregated. He would engage anyone of color with a patronizing, threatening ebonics. All smiles with tense violence behind the eyes. “YO MAH NIGGAS” he would shout while waving at confused black patrons who didn’t know him. “GET MAH NIGGAS A ROUND OF COVASIA OR APPLETENI OR WHAT EVER SNOOP AND DRE OVER THERE ARE KEEPIN IT REAL WIT” the menace behind the courtesy was glaring. “YO MAH BROTHAS, WHO’S YO NUMBER ONE NIGGA?” He was daring them to address this blaring social faux pas on his turf. As always, there was nothing I could do, it always seemed that only the worst customers were on the owners “do not flag” VIP list. And like Cookie, I knew that I would have probably died if I had been able to try.

It was another slow summer Sunday shift. A couple Italian girls in waitress uniforms, off shift from the dinner down the block looking bored over their beers and an older black couple hunched over heavy in conversation. It was hot and bright and the last person I wanted to see walk in was Joe. Within minutes it started. “HEY LADIES, YOU ARE LOOKING SO FUCKING GOOD DOWN THERE. WHY DON’T YOU SLIDE THIS WAY AND WE CAN HAVE A PARTY.” The girls ignored him.
“YO, SERIOUSLY GIRLS, COME ON DOWN HERE, I ONLY BITE WHEN YOU ASK NICE.”
The girl closest to him gave him a silent, palm out hand gesture without turning her head. Her intent was to give him the Jerry Springer talk to the hand, but her bright red nails were so long and pointy, it looked to me more like she was letting him know she was armed.
“YO, JUST BECAUSE YOU HAVE NICE TITS DON’T MEAN YOU CAN ACT LIKE A FUCKIN’ CUNT.”
I braced for the fight, but to my amazement the girls just got up and left.
Two down.
After a minute it started again.
“YO MAH NIGGAS” he shouted at the old black couple “MAH NIGGAS, YOU DOWN WITH T.O. AIN’T CHO? FUCK THE EAGLES, A NIGGAAAAAA GOTS TA GET PAAAAAID RIGHT?”
And they were gone. Just me and Joe at the start of a summer Sunday shift that was too hot and too bright.

“THIS WAS THE LINE, THIS STREET RIGHT HERE, ANYTHING SOUTH OF HERE, WAS A FUCKIN’ SHANTY TOWN, JUST SHACKS IN THE MUD WITH NO ELECTRICITY, THIS WAS LIKE BACK IN THE 30′S, THEY WERE STILL BRINGIN’ DRINKIN’ WATER IN ON HORSE DRAWN CARTS. INDIAN’S LIVED BETTER THAN THE IRISH BACK THEN, SHIT NIGGERS LIVED BETTER. PEOPLE KNEW NOT TO COME DOWN HERE…” I had heard this story a hundred times, Joe loved to discuss his humble roots. Then suddenly he stopped and his eyes started scanning out the window like a cat who might have seen movement. He jumped up and was out the door with out saying a word. I was saved.

(I thought)

(originally written circa 2006-2008)
———

The young girl is the metaphorical idealization of my artistic muse that I have carried with me since a teenager. The abstraction of who, when and where I first realized that my own creative expression was something I would spend my life needing to pursue.
-She is blindfolded so that I will not be distracted.
-In her left hand she holds a pistol so that I will not be stopped.
-In her right hand she holds a spread of tarot cards because I know my destiny.
-her ankle is shackled to a weighted ball so that I stay grounded.
-She lounges surrounded in an opulent cornucopia of fruits, flowers and plants, because life is a feast
-Next to her is a severed (sniveling) goats head. To remind me to always try and temper my considerable darker urges
-Behind her is a classical temple to remind me that all great creation stems from a knowledge of the past.
-It is on fire with people fleeing to the hills because in order to advance forward, you often have to destroy those traditions.
-The banner reads NEUTIQUAM ERRO which means I AM NOT LOST in Latin. Some people spend their whole lives trying to find out what road their on. I know where I am and where I’m going, for better or for worse, I’m staying on that path.

This tattoo has grown and grown. Initially it was going to just be the banner over my shoulders, and the girl was to be small in my upper back. Obviously the scope increased. Initially the whole plate was to be black & white, but as we were wrapping up, we decided to add some color to the girl to make her pop. But now that it’s done, we’ve come to the conclusion that by doing this, it’s become a color piece and we need to add more color.

But the back has been a serious trouble spot for me. My skin balloons up and swells horribly and I haven’t been able to sit for very long (especially along the spin) So we have decided to move on to the second sleeve of circus freaks & clowns which we start next week. Then I’ll be back to my muse.

Trish Sanchez does great work and I’m humbled that she agreed to do two sleeves and a huge back plate for a couple of my prints.

http://valortattoo.com/

1448 Brownsville Road
Trevose PA 19053
215-322-4455
fax:215-322-4457

(originally written circa 2006-2008)
———

I started using the term Street Zombie when I was living in Northern Liberties. For those of you not from Philadelphia, Northern Liberties is now a very posh, hip, artsy neighborhood. But it wasn’t always like that. The D.I.N.K. gentrification (duel income no kids) really swept the area fast because it was all but abandoned. There were no old working class families holding out against the dog parks and B.Y.O. bistros. You didn’t see the cloistered blue collar culture clash by those who felt like their multi generational neighborhood was being invaded by outsiders, like you do now in South Philly or Fishtown. Only huge, beautiful abandoned houses and warehouses just waiting for art school ex suburbanites to roll in on their quest for more space, cheap rent and a new scene. When it was finally my turn to be pushed out of center city, I arrived at that peak. That period before the developers start putting up condos and the yuppies start pushing the hipsters and artsy fartsies even farther north or south.

But I lived on “the line,” the east side of 7th street. The west side of 7th street was not part of Northern Liberties. Across the street, there was no urban renewal. In front of my house was a run down public elementary school, next to a homeless shelter, surrounded by a massive fenced in public housing project. Two blocks down on the corner of Spring Garden were two huge hip hop clubs that induced so much dread in the police that every weekend they shut down the street. Every Friday and Saturday night there were enough cops to compose a small riot squad spread up and down the block.

If I stood on my corner and looked east I would see hipster D.I.N.K.s walking their dogs with lattes in hand, sitting at cafes while staring into laptops. If I turned and looked west, I could see the homeboys on their stoop, drinking 40′s and slinging dope on the opposite corner. The two cultures had virtually no interaction. No one crossed to the other side.

Now when I first started dating my wife, I fell into a routine. She was managing an upscale wine bar in Center City and would usually get done around 3 in the morning. I would work on my prints until around 2 am and then walk from Northern Liberties to Ritenhouse square. It was an hour urban hike at a fast clip. Now to get there I would walk west along Spring Garden, then south on Broad. I figured since they were well lit large streets, I was safer. Most people from Philly, especially around that time, though I was insane. The stretch of Spring Garden ran through the sprawling projects, warehouses and large commercial structures that looped quiet and empty at that time of night.

If you were in a car, you would have thought that there was no one out at all. The road would seem completely quiet, the streets utterly abandoned. But my journey on foot didn’t move me fast enough to keep the night denizens out of sight. I moved slow enough to know better. I could sense people in the shadows, some how camouflaged into the buildings. But if I slowed down or stopped to tie my shoe, they would start to move in. The Street Zombies. They were beat up hookers, homeless intent on hustling change, dope slingers ready to offer a deal, potential muggers. It was as if stopping put me in sync so I could see them, or perhaps it gave them a bead on me. But It was always a slow process. They always aimlessly wandered out of the shadows. I would be aware of them and they would be aware of me. As if by having stopped moving, my scent began to rouse them. No one ever called out or tried directly to approach me. If I stopped for long enough, several street zombies would be visible, Meandering towards me like some George Romero undead. Casually emerging out of the shadows and starting to cross the street. But all it took to loose them was to start moving again at a faster pace. When I would move down the street, the zombies never followed, they would just fade back into the shadows. As long as I was walking fast, I was out of sync with their world.

I would get to Beth’s job and her coworkers would ask me “How was your evening?”
“It’s scary out there. The zombies rule the night. Some day they’re going to get me.”
Her coworkers would laugh.
I wouldn’t.

(originally written circa 2006-2008)
———

So I’m sitting in my little office the other day, home alone. No tv on, no music playing. Suddenly I hear in this low, deep voice, barely addible someone say “yo”
Now this isn’t odd since I live in south philly, but it’s usually someone standing on the side walk outside our living room window. Usually something more like “Yo Mikey, not for nuthin’ but when yah gonna move yer fuckin’ car?”
This was a little different. My office is on the second floor of my house. The windows sealed tight to protect my prints from my own absent mindedness when it rains.
Then I hear it again. “yo”
What the fuck. that was really someone’s voice.
I turn in my chair.
“yo”
I walk out into the hall.
Dead silence.
“Hello?”
No one is in the house.
I sit back down.
“yo.”
Am I loosing my mind? Have the voices finally started?
I cross my leg.
“yo, yo, yo, yo, yo, yo.”
Where is that coming from????
It’s coming from my pants.
my Ipod had turned on in my pocket and is pressing up against my phone.
It seems my sanity is intact for another day.

“Can’t forget Digi if I did I’d feel gypped,
like my sandwich ain’t a sandwich with out miracle whip.”

(originally written circa 2006-2008)
———

No matter what city you live in, people complain about drivers. There seems to be a true cliched belief that every city can proudly claim the most reckless and incompetent. So I’m not going to say Philly has the worst drivers, but my experience with them has always been tense. Especially since I don’t drive any more. My feet are my main mode of transportation and being a pedestrian, I feel like I am literally at war with those who sit behind a wheel. The main battle ground- stop signs. The drivers in Philly seem to resent the idea of a stop sign. It’s a suggestion, or a warning that they may have to slow down, just a little. But I’m stubborn and always in a rush. Constantly screaming, “Pedestrians have the right of way” at people who see the ton of metal backing them up as proof otherwise. The result has been my being clipped by cars rolling through the streets on a near regular basis. I have learned not to jay walk after cutting through gridlocked traffic once, only to get laid out by a bicyclist zipping along the jam of cars. But walking to the corner doesn’t guarantee anything. After a dozen grazings, my reconditioning from polite south westerner (polite only by east coast standards) to transplanted south Philly resident has escalated me into a walking public altercation, always ready to scream obscenities, kick fenders and punch doors as I limp away from the car that’s rolled me onto it’s hood.

Now one would say that my irrational, even violent knee jerk responses are inappropriate, certainly one could say that I should just stop and wait and let the cars blast through the stop signs and stop playing a game of chicken that only has my life at steak. But at this point it’s almost a vendetta against the drivers of this city. I think the grudge stems from the fact that out of the ten times I’ve been clipped at a stop sign, never once has anyone stopped and politely said, “I’m sorry.” Now I freak out and menace the cars who hit me with mixed and comic results.

There was the suit in center city who was talking on his cell phone and literally bent me over his hood as he was rolling along. I slammed my fist and screamed, “What the fuck??” He looked up with a terrified expression on his face, then dove down into the passenger side. I mean, he just disappeared. I brushed myself off and walked around the car. He was gone. I peered into the window and he was hiding like some urban possum who thought that if he just crouched down, I would think he was gone. He looked at me with a panicked expression. Then sat up and threw the car in reverse and tore down the block backwards, leaving me shocked with laughter.

Then there was the mini van that turned a corner and grazed me, bouncing me back on the sidewalk, popping the lid off my fresh cup of coffee and half the contents onto my jacket. Two fat South Philly house wives screamed out a warning, preventing a far worse impact. The mini van stopped a few feet past me. The women were off their stoop bellowing insults at him and waving their fists in my defense. Two Asian toddlers were in the back seat with their hands and faces pressed against the glass, staring with wonder at the spectacle outside. The car sat there for a moment, and at the women’s behest, I winged my coffee against the window. The children didn’t flinch at the impact but the van tore off while the women continued to scream. I think they just needed an excuse.

Strangely, the meat heads and tough guys never seem to respond with more than a “fuck off” or giving me the finger. Chest beating is a way of life and everyone does it. They’re more likely to fuck with you if you don’t respond like they would. The one altercation that nearly went violent was from an old woman. She was rolling through a sign with her head turned away from me to look for traffic down a one way street. She rolled so close to me that I literally fell into her open window. I screamed “Jesus Christ” inches from her face and she looked up terrified like her car was being invaded. She never let off the gas. As she coasted across the intersection I screamed “moron” at the top of my lungs. She screeched to halt as I started to walk down the street. I turned back and the 65 year old woman was our of her car, banging a baseball bat on the street and waving it over her head. She was screaming the most amazing string of obscenities at me and challenging me to come over and get some. I thought it best to keep walking.

My wife says I’m going to get shot someday. Maybe I will. I should probably buy a bus pass.

(originally written circa 2006-2008)
———

Part III. Work will set you free

And so, the sales madness began. Or perhaps, the lack of madness began. Employees of the Small Accounts Division made their bonus’ based on the size of the phone bills of the accounts they got. But since you have to wait for the bills to come in, they offered large starting bonus’ to get employees through the first couple of months. But I knew I was only going to be there for two more months. Being the smartest man working for the Sprint Corporation, I came to the logical conclusion that there just wasn’t any profit in making new sales. And seriously, everyone hates telemarketers. People are fucking mean. Every beaten down secretary and soul crushed administrative assistant relished the chance to finally tell someone to go fuck themselves on the phone. I was just passing through, a tourist looking for a fast paycheck and no headaches.

So I mastered the art of wasting time. It wasn’t that hard to do. There was a half hour meeting at the beginning of the day, a half hour meeting at the end, an hour after lunch. Two hours dedicated to maintaining accounts in the morning, an hour in the afternoon. That only left me with three hours to get hung up on and fake calls. I would photocopy chapters of Bukowski novels and shuffle them in with my paper work so I could read without being obvious, I would disconnect my brain and flip through folders or endlessly scroll through billing records while in a blank meditative state. Eventually I just openly fucked off, drawing cartoons of my team members or making paper airplanes that didn’t fly.
“I’ve given everyone new names. You are no longer Jo Jo Jackson. You are now “the Captain” because you have pirates in your pants” I said to the old black dude in the cubical next to me as I pinned a scribbled sign to his grey wall over his name tag.
“What the fuck?” he said laughing and shaking his head. “You know, eventually they’re going to expect you to do some work around here.”
“Don’t question my genius” I laughed.

For a full month June didn’t question my genius at all. After all, I was practically super human in her book, a superior to everyone around me, including her. The fact that my name on the board had a zero next to it was not of consequence because it was only a matter of time before I overwhelmed the center with my greatness. By the end of my second month she was starting to get a little nervous and started calling me into her office for pep-talks.

“Robert, I know you are super success, but I worry about your slow progress.”
“I made this for you June” I said changing the subject. “It’s an origami of a storm cloud.” I placed a crumpled, balled up sheet of paper on her desk.”
“Uh, I am honored” she said looking nervous. “It is a magnificent origami. I cherish your gift.” she said, delicately placing the paper wad on her book shelf. “But your progress…”
“Don’t worry June. I’ve got like, 6 accounts almost in the bag. Huge accounts. You know you can’t rush these guys. I’m working them slow so that I don’t chase them away.”
“I apologize for questioning your strategy Robert. I know you are going to be great winner.”

But there were no big accounts and I started hiding, literally. Because the managers made so much noise with their whistles and noise makers, the sales reps had developed a technique to get some quiet while talking to their clients. Sitting under the desks. I however, just laid under there and read. Then I started a new project. I laid on my back and made a collage mural on the bottom underside of my desk, cutting out photos and text from the Sprint Corporate newsletter. I defaced photos of Sprint executives and placed slogans next to them. Slogans like “Work will set you free” and “Down with Capitalist Stooges” spliced together with tape like a ransom note. A Shrine to Robert number 1 left behind for the next beaten down sales rep to find after I split for the east coast.

By the end of the third month June was very worried about her star recruit. It was clear she had failed to motivate me and unlock the genius that my test score showed. Sprint bussed the whole office to the mountains for a day of team building and barbecue. The day was spent at a camp ground and June latched on to me, forcing me to stand on picnic benches and recite positive self affirmations. She was convinced that my self esteem was the issue. I just needed the confidence to utilize my super human IQ.
“You are a winner!”
“I am a winner!”
“You are the greatest sales rep at Sprint!”
“I am the greatest sales rep at Sprint!
“You are the greatest sales rep in the world!”
“I am the greatest sales rep in the world!”

I put in my notice the next day. June was almost in tears. “No, no, you won’t give up. I will not let you quit Robert, you are number 1.” I didn’t have the heart to tell her that I had planned to move to Philly long before I started the job. I told her Christianne’s mother had just been diagnosed with colon cancer and we had to move there to care for her. “I understand Robert, you are a good man” she said. She picked up the wadded up piece of paper she had on display on her bookshelf. I will always keep your unusual origami and think fondly of the great Robert Brown, super success.

(originally written circa 2006-2008)
———

Part II. The greatest prize

The Sales division was a surreal environment. While it had all the trappings a stale corporate office, they also had a mandate to keep the staff motivated and in a state of “high energy.” There were balloons everywhere. Managers with bull horns and silly hats wandered through the building screaming out encouragement. Whistles and noise makers were constantly going off around the building as people made sales. A never ending stream of announcements of incentives were being called out. The team that has the best customer revenue stats for the week gets a free lunch at the steak house down the street. The team who gets the most sales for the day gets to dress down on Friday. Whoever gets the next sale wins a diskman. Monday is Hawaiian shirt day.

There was always cake.

After lunch, they held a building wide hour long meeting to announce who had the biggest accounts, the most accounts and what teams were on top. It was like a mix between a game show and an award ceremony. Hundreds of dollars in cash and prizes as well as plaques and trophies were handed out each day. But the enthusiasm was managerial policy. On close examination, the managers and team leaders were the only ones blowing the whistles, the only ones running around with balloons. The tie clad grunts were always expressionless and grim in the mist of confetti and free clock radios being thrown at them.

After my “graduation” June led me up to the cluster of cubicles that she insisted would be my new home and family. “Team, this is Robert Brown. He is number 1 who will be insuring Team Success will stay on top. Welcome him to his new family.” A few disinterested faces looked up. There was a couple of slow sarcastic claps and someone weakly blew a whistle. I waved with a big grin on my face. Not because I was happy to be a part of the team, but because towards the end of training I had gotten the low down on Team Success, June, and why Robert was number 1.

June was a company zealot. She was from a super wealthy Taiwanese family and had disavowed a life of luxury and opulence to come to America and prove here ambition and drive as a self made woman. She was the top sales woman for several years who insisted that she be assigned to the top team when she received her promotion. She had only recently taken over and renamed Steven’s Slaughter House as Team Success. Steven’s Slaughter House, named after the previous manager Steven Glendale was in trouble. Glendale had been fired after it had come to light that numbers were being fudged and many of the sales were fraudulent. Team success was still on top, but just barley. June was undaunted by the soiled rep of Team Success and saw a challenge to prove herself a winner yet again. Her first step, find a ringer. She was under the impression that I was that star.

Now I’m not sure if I’m really that good, or if the rest of the people employed by the Sprint Corporation are that bad. I know what my past IQ test scores have been and they’re very high. I don’t know what I scored that first day, but I do know that apparently I had scored higher than any employee in the entire corporation. According to their records, the Albuquerque Business Accounts Division found themselves in the possession of the smartest man in company history. Whether it was a million to one testing fluke, a grading error or I’m really a super genius, it didn’t really matter. June associated that test score to great salesmanship. I was her greatest prize. Robert Brown Number 1.

I sat down at my desk and pulled out a pen. I wrote on a piece of paper, PHILADELPHIA 53 and put a tick mark underneath. Only 52 tick marks to go.

(originally written circa 2006-2008)
———

Part I. Surreal world

My last job in New Mexico was my first real foray into “the real world” and how it did terrify me. I had all but finished school and knew the exact day set for the move. Christianne was bouncing back and forth between Philly and Albuquerque making all of the arrangements, doing the packing. My only chore was to sludge to a day job for three months and save us some money. There is something so freeing about knowing exactly when you are going to get out.

I got hired as a small business accounts rep for Sprint. The job was part good old fashioned telemarketing, part maintaining and servicing the accounts already acquired. When I applied they gave us a full battery of IQ tests. I thought it a little odd for a corporation to do this but I’ve taken plenty before and I buzzed through them. Did they need written proof to see if someone was a fucktard?

I was called back in and offered the position and the HR rep explained job. This was at the time right before cell phones really took over. Sprint PCS had a building there too, but didn’t even have service in New Mexico yet. The long distance wars were in full effect and the sprawling office of grey cubicles were laid out in clusters of sales teams. While I dreaded the idea of working there, they had a huge system of incentives and bonuses. I was getting a shit load of money and they didn’t even expect me to make a sale for the first month. A lot of the money was up front just for even starting. When I walked out of the office, a tiny Chinese lady was waiting for me. “My name is June” she said “I am team manager and you Robert Brown, are going to work on my team because you are number 1.”
“Uh, Okay.”
She showed me to the grey cubical cluster like it was a wonder to behold. “We are Team Success” June announced waving her hand over my future desk like a game show girl displaying a prize. “Team Success is number 1 sales team in all of Sprint. We would be honored if you chose us, Robert Number 1.”
“Uh, sure. I guess.” (what the fuck?)
A frazzled balding suit came running up to us. ”Damn it, I guess June got to you first” he said to me.
I just stared at him. June Grinned.
“Well either way, it’s good to have you on board” he said shaking my hand.
“This was Tim” June said after he left. “His team number 3 sales team. That’s no good for you.”

My training class lasted three weeks. Three weeks of intensive training. The answer was yes, they needed written proof that someone was a fucktard. “This is a mouse. We use it to move the cursor around the screen like so…” the instructor demonstrated as I quietly banged my head on the table.

June would periodically check in on me to make sure the class was going well, that I didn’t have any issues or concerns and generally to make sure I was happy and comfortable.
“The team is eager to have you join us Robert number 1″ she would beam. “Soon you will be with your new family.”
I had no idea what was going on. There were 30 people in my training class. None of them had their managers doting on them or even checking on them for that matter. I was nervous and uncomfortable with the attention, convinced there had been some error they would discover or my star status was due to some mistaken identity.

One day June interrupted the class to bring me a slice of cake.
“What makes you so special?” the bitter middle aged woman next to me quipped under her breath.
“I have a huge cock.” I said out loud and took another bite.

It was as good an explanation as any other.

(originally written circa 2006-2008)
———

If you haven’t been to Philly, you might not know that it is one of the dirtiest cities in the United States. I reside in South Philly where the trash collectors give a shit even less than the residents and there is no street cleaning service. There are third world cities that have less garbage on the streets. Now wading through piles of trash, I mean walking on the sidewalk can be pretty sick, but today was a new experience.

You see today we had mad crazy March winds. My wife and I were out running errands on foot and the winds were shoving so hard one had a difficult time standing upright. But there was that extra element that made life truly grand. The South Philly street waste. Suddenly God had turned into an evil Jedi with a mean sense of humor. Not only did one have to fight the frigid winds, but also had to dodge the constant onslaught of McDonalds wrappers, dirty paper plates and empty cigarette packs. I was actually hit in the head by a flying plastic gallon milk container. It was as if some distant land fill had risen up and rioted through the streets of Philadelphia.

But then I saw something I will never forget. We walked around a corner and straight into a garbage whirlwind. Remember that kid in American beauty? He saw God in that spinning plastic grocery bag. Well I wonder if he would have felt the same if it was six bags,
and five dirty napkins,
and a cheese steak wrapper,
and two paper cups,
and an empty toilet paper roll
and a chocolate bar wrapper
and a used tampon dispenser
and
and
and
and…

(originally written circa 2006-2008)
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