2014 WAS A BANNER FUCKING YEAR

2014 was a banner fucking year

As a highly educated artist (I have an MFA), I have never flinched when confronted with the idea that I would need some sort of part time employment to supplement the income that I fail to gather from the sales of my fantastic works of art. If you are a frequent visitor to my blog, you will know that I have worked part time as a dish washer at Hooters, been employed for a short time as a gas station cashier and even fell far enough to teach art as an adjunct art professor at a number of community colleges in the area. Regardless of the source of the supplemental income, as an educated artist, I knew that non-art related jobs were part of the larger picture. Not everyone can afford to buy eight foot by four foot engraved day-glo Plexiglas drawings for display in their home or office.

As the year drew to a close and the days began to get shorter and much colder it became very clear that, if I did not find some sort of 'job', my studio would not have any heat. To be completely honest though, even though it started to get chilly way back in September, I didn't really try to start looking for part time income until December first. I know the early bird gets the worm, but I really thought some art collector would come through and write me a fat check for all of my art and I could retire. I really did.

Well, I needed a job and I knew that seasonal work was not something that could be frowned upon. Easy money is nothing to be ignored in my book and seasonal work is some of  the easiest money to be had. Let's face it, no one really has any firm expectations of someone who you know will be gone a day or two after X-mas; and when it comes to low expectations, I am all over that shit in a flash. I mean, show up for a month or two and do a really half assed job with the firm expectation that no matter how crappy of a job it may be you would not have to cry about it for too long. I am on that like a fat girl on a sale at Lane Bryant.

If I knew how easy finding a seasonal job was in December, I would have started looking in September. No fooling. I literally opened the Muskegon Chronicle, applied for the first good job I saw and in two days I was having a phone interview with some human resources lackey. I was a smooth as warm butter on a stack of flap jacks. Two days later I was accepting my new offer to be the new part time Merchandise Arrival Associate at that swanky Younkers at the Lakes Mall. It was a cake job, unloading trucks of merchandise and prepping  it for the sales floor. I know it sounds like a schmuck job for someone as highly educated as myself (I have a Masters Degree). But, it's easy and it would keep the heat on in my studio for a little while.

It was a Tuesday and I showed up for my first day 10 minutes late, I mean fuck them, I work on my time bitch. Right!? Well, that was immediately frowned upon by Jason who was supposed to be my new 'superior'. The first thing out of his fucking mouth to me was that two more late arrivals was grounds for instant termination. Jesus, how stupid is it that coming in on time for a part time minimum wage job should be right at the top of the list of things that they are looking for in new seasonal workers. I can think of at least seven things that would be more important. Showing up wearing  pants and sober is numbers two and three at least. Ten fucking minutes never fucking killed anyone. That first day, I vowed to show up 30 fucking minutes early every fucking work day and just hang around the back room off the clock just to be a big pain in the ass to Jason and his goddam time-clock. Well that plan worked pretty well until I showed up to work late on Wednesday for my second day of work and was promptly chewed out by Jason and his goddam three strikes rule.

The first and second day were full of paperwork, W2 forms, training videos and instruction on how to properly accept new merchandise from a semi-truck trailer. The third day was when the real work started. I was one of eight 'new hires' and one of the only two men. Of the two men, I think I was the only straight man in the crew. My 'gay-dar' pretty much sucks anyways, but I would have wagered that the other guy was gay. Well, that really isn't important is it. We all must coexist, right! I mean, if some dude next to me likes the taste of semen, who am I to call him a goddam freak. To each his own, right?  I have never faulted another man for wanting to turn away from pussy, more for me I figured. Besides, Brandon was kinda cool. He liked to comment on all the women's clothing that would come out of the trucks on these huge rolling  steel racks.

"Fat girl prom dress"

"Mom jeans"

"Sperm dumpster slut wear"

"WHORE-ISH"

"FAAA-BU-LOUS"

I thought his comments were pretty spot on and kinda funny. How would a rack of size 16 pink sparkly cocktail dresses NOT be fat girl prom dresses? Brandon was a riot when we started getting the racks of jumbo sized lingerie. He would, take a sample right of the rack, put it on and dance around in the truck trailer snapping his fingers. Well I thought it was funny. The two women working in our team, Margery and Joan, always seemed to have huge sticks up their asses when it came to Brandon's colorful high jinks.

"Come on Brandon, you shouldn't be doing that with the clothes", they would huff from beneath stern frowns.

"Brandon, stop fooling around...come oooooooon"

Yes, the work was simple, boring and did not pay alot. But, it was honest work and the first couple paychecks were a nice change of pace to my payless Fridays. As a highly educated artist, (I have a Masters Degree) I looked at my small job as a creative endeavor. You know, kind of like how Van Gogh lived among the simple working folk while he honed his craft. I was drinking up every minute spent in the back room of this Younkers with the full expectation that it would drive a complete series of new paintings.

...or maybe it was a huge waste of time. Sometimes you really can't tell.

 The first month or so fucking flew by and the next few weeks were looking promising until some shit happened. Younkers provided a small clock radio for the back room and had a firm policy that the first person from the shipping and receiving team clocked in had choice of the radio station for that shift. Brandon always managed to be that person every goddam day. He was always there way before anyone else and as bright and bushy tailed as anyone could be. He told me that his mother works at the Chucky Cheese as a cleaning woman. Her job was to clean the entire place before 10 AM. That meant she got to work around 4:30 in the morning and she was Brandon's ride. That fucker waited in her car in the freezing cold ever morning until the Younkers employee entrance opened at 5:45 am. That's why that cock sucker always had first dibs on the radio station.

Brandon's choice of music was what you may call a 'Top 40' station and was probably a good choice based upon his unorthodox 'personality'. Muskegon only has a handful of stations, Brandon's 'Top 40' one, public 'hippy' radio, country, four religious stations and one talk radio news station. Based upon his choice of nail polish, I sure as hell would not have wagered that Brandon was a country music fan. Anyways, Brandon loved his music. Certain songs would come on and he would start dancing and singing. Other times, songs would come on and he would yell back at the radio.

"Oh no he di-int"

"Shut your mouth you whore"

"Do me, Do me"

Before I got this job, I knew nothing of contemporary American Popular music. So the pops and whistles emanating from the clock radio was so fascinating to me. The thought that the songs being played were the most popular songs in America, was amazing. For almost two months, the top two songs in America were played every ninety minutes. The number two song was a bouncy tune that insisted that men enjoy the sexual company of overweight women and that women need to embrace their fatness. The number one song in America was sung by a blonde millionaire part-time lingerie model and consisted of her informing the great unwashed masses of America that they need to 'Shake off' any harsh criticism and be proud of whatever they think they are. Oh boy did Brandon love these two songs, whenever they came on he would dance and sing around Younker's back room like a crazy man. I grew to appreciate the songs as unofficial anthem of the oppressed.

I don't think Margery and Joan felt the same way about Brandon's choice in music as I did. They always seemed so goddam serious about this crappy job we all had. Whenever Brandon started dancing, Margery would always give him a huge stink eye and Joan would remind him to get back to work.

Then one morning, Margery got to pick the radio station.

It was a Wednesday. Margery and Joan had arrived right at 6:30 am and set the clock radio to Muskegon's only news-talk station. I arrived to work hearing the chatter of weather and traffic reports filling the receiving bays. It was the first and only morning that everyone had beat Brandon into work. When he did come in a half hour late, you could tell he had been crying. From what he could sob out, his mother had been fired from Chucky Cheese on Monday and he had to take the bus to work. He said the state came in Monday afternoon for the monthly health inspection and found that the entire place was a shit hole and infested with lice. They demanded that it had to be shut down immediately. I guess Brandon's mom had been cutting some corners because when they emptied the ball pit, they found almost a half inch layer of coagulated urine and vomit. Brandon's mom took the fall for it all and Chucky's decided to outsource the daily cleaning to some big company when they reopened on Friday. He was really upset about it and said that he was supporting his whole family now.

For the next few hours we all worked quietly while the news and traffic reports were repeated every fifteen minutes. It wasn't until around noon that Brandon even realized that we all were listening to Margery's radio station choice.

From the radio came a familiar beat. It was the Pretenders 'My City Was Gone'. The heavy bass line beat out a slow chain of 'bumps' and for a few seconds I felt like dancing in the half empty semi-trailer. But the sound was not what I was expecting, the same bass line repeated three more times like a scratched record. On the fourth loop I heard the voice on Mr. Rush Limbaugh welcoming us to his daily radio show.

Margery and Joan's eyes lit up and they became gitty like young school girls at the sound of Mr. Limbaugh's rich tenor voice. It was the first time in months I had seen them smile. They were really happy to be hearing this radio show.

"OH NO, I AINT LISTENING TO THIS SHIT", Brandon's lispy voice wailed from the half empty semi trailer.

I was over near the pricing table when I saw Brandon came charging out of the trailer towards the clock radio, his arm extended ready to turn the tuning knob away from Mr. Limbaugh's show. Joan beat him to the radio and stood guard while Margery reminded him of Younkers back room radio policy.

"We were here first, so we get to pick", Margery burped.

"I AINT LISTENING TO THIS SHIT", Brandon reminded them.

What happened next was surreal. Margery was hugging the radio while Joan stood blocking Brandon from getting to her and it. Brandon was dancing and spinning trying to out flank Joan and take the radio out of Margery's hands. All the time, all three of them were yelling at each other.

"PEOPLE, IS THERE A PROBLEM?"....

It was our boss yelling from the employee break room. Instantly we all turned and answered 'NO' in unison. Margery placed the radio back upon the receiving desk. Joan turned and went back to pricing polyester sweaters and Brandon ducked back into the empty truck trailer. After about twenty minutes things simmered down, Joan and Margery were both working side by side at the pricing table muttering quietly to each other while Mr. Limbaugh spoke about our dear President and Brandon and I were rolling garment carts off of a truck. Brandon looked as if he was going to cry. He was not having a good day.

With every story told by Mr. Limbaugh, Brandon was becoming more and more agitated. Then he cracked. Brandon walked over to Joan and Margery at the pricing table and calmly stated,

"Rush Limbaugh is a racist. That's why I can't listen to him"

Joan demanded that Brandon was wrong and that Rush Limbaugh was not a racist. Margery asked if Brandon had ever even listened to Mr. Limbaugh.

Brandon confirmed that he had never listened to Mr. Limbaugh's radio show...

"NO, The man is a racist. Only RETARDED people listen to him"

With Brandon's statement, a look of sadness came over Margery...

"Retarded is not a nice word and you should not use it"

"FUCKING GODDAM RETARDS", Brandon unloaded right in Margery's face.

With that, Margery bowed her head in defeat and Joan placed a consoling arm around her.

"Brandon dammit, her son is a 'special needs' person", Joan quietly stated.

Brandon became erect as he blurted...

"WELL THEN THE LITTLE FUCKING RETARD TAKES AFTER HIS MOTHER"

With that, a look came over Margery that reminded me of the time I told some little kid at the mall that the Easter Bunny was just some guy in a suit. Margery's world began to collapse upon itself as her eyes began to well up with tears. She turned and ran wailing. Joan followed after her but not before giving Brandon a look that would have frozen any 'straight' male.

"Goddam bitches", Brandon spoke.

Then Brandon turned and entered the truck trailer as if nothing had happened. I followed in shocked disbelief and we proceeded to roll the next apparel cart out. When we exited the trailer, a member of store security was standing on the platform.

"Brandon, Jason needs to talk to you"

Brandon shot me a look that he knew what was going to happen. The security guard and Brandon walked towards the store offices. In about thirty minutes, the security guard returned and asked if the coat hanging near the pricing table was Brandon's. I said that it was and he took it.

No one ever returned and turned the radio to WBLV, Muskegon's classical music radio station.

I worked quietly alone for the rest of the day.

My shift was about over when Jason, my 'superior' met me near the pricing table. He wanted to know if I would be interested in staying on as a full time employee. I thought about it for a second then told him that I would need to stay part time because my job as an artist was my full time job. Jason looked at me like I was swinging a dead cat over my head.

"I'm offering you a full time job here"

I reiterated that I already had a full time job and that I would be happy to stay on as part time.

"I'm sorry we only need a full time person. Are you sure?", Jason returned.

I told him that I did would not consider full time employment  and he told me that my services would no longer be needed. We shook hands and I clocked out for the last time.

I am an artist. I am a highly educated artist (I have a Masters Degree). Working full time as a shipping and receiving clerk would degrade my creativity. Do not get blinded by the sparkle of silver and stand firm to what you believe and who you are. Besides, it's spring time and I can turn the heat off in my studio.