A skewed perspective from the side of the interstate.
This is fiction.
When I was 7, my father died. Shortly before this event, he told me to take pride in, and make something of, myself. For a 7 year old, these words were difficult to understand. I began to dress as my dad did (a suit and tie everyday), but, where my dad was considered smart and savvy by most, I was his idiot offspring. The taking pride of myself took care of itself, but making something of myself, well, that was going to take some work...
It's 10:30 on a Sunday, and I'm standing here in the middle of nowhere polishing this counter for no one. I've tucked my black tie (one of seven) into the crease where my white shirt (one of seven) and black pants (one pair of seven) meet. I've already taken three vicodins today. I slipped one of them in while the area manager wasn't looking, and for the past three hours he's been off fucking Suzy a few miles up the road. I never understood my addictions until I became addicted in the physical sense. The pain of smiling, being nice to all the spoiled people who come traipsing through here on their way to the big city, standing on my feet for hours... god the smiling was the hardest part. It wasn't that I loathed them, though I did; it was that I envied them and their families, the smile that wasn't forced, the ability to decide one day to go the city. I could have killed for that or because of that. I'd had a few girlfriends, but eventually they all told me to decide between making something of us and making something of myself. I couldn't trust them as I had trusted my father, and even he had left.
Now the road weary travelers that came in, I could identify with them. Their greasy hair, drowsy eyes, the way they ran to the bathroom and then often ran back out to the car. There were people who I could understand. Come sun, rain, snow, or moon, these people were hustling from one place to another. These were the people with one thing in mind: to make something of themselves.
I had scrubbed the counters clean when a little kid came up and asked for an ice cream cone. The little shit. Sneaking in like that, wearing a Yankees hat to boot. I had ten minutes left before close, and was hoping to get everything done a little early. Now I'd have to rescrub the counter (for the ninetieth time today). His father, a fat man who would give Parcells (in his Dallas era) a run for his money in terms of weight, waddled over, asked for a large cone, and paid. My smile was plastered on. "Tough day?" For you sir, no. This day is like the last 520. It is not tough. It is an addiction, aided and fueled by other addictions. And someday, sir, I will make something of myself, and you shall know my name and remember me as the man who served you ice cream. And maybe on that day, I'll finally find peace with my demons.
When I was 7, my father died. Shortly before this event, he told me to take pride in, and make something of, myself. For a 7 year old, these words were difficult to understand. I began to dress as my dad did (a suit and tie everyday), but, where my dad was considered smart and savvy by most, I was his idiot offspring. The taking pride of myself took care of itself, but making something of myself, well, that was going to take some work...
It's 10:30 on a Sunday, and I'm standing here in the middle of nowhere polishing this counter for no one. I've tucked my black tie (one of seven) into the crease where my white shirt (one of seven) and black pants (one pair of seven) meet. I've already taken three vicodins today. I slipped one of them in while the area manager wasn't looking, and for the past three hours he's been off fucking Suzy a few miles up the road. I never understood my addictions until I became addicted in the physical sense. The pain of smiling, being nice to all the spoiled people who come traipsing through here on their way to the big city, standing on my feet for hours... god the smiling was the hardest part. It wasn't that I loathed them, though I did; it was that I envied them and their families, the smile that wasn't forced, the ability to decide one day to go the city. I could have killed for that or because of that. I'd had a few girlfriends, but eventually they all told me to decide between making something of us and making something of myself. I couldn't trust them as I had trusted my father, and even he had left.
Now the road weary travelers that came in, I could identify with them. Their greasy hair, drowsy eyes, the way they ran to the bathroom and then often ran back out to the car. There were people who I could understand. Come sun, rain, snow, or moon, these people were hustling from one place to another. These were the people with one thing in mind: to make something of themselves.
I had scrubbed the counters clean when a little kid came up and asked for an ice cream cone. The little shit. Sneaking in like that, wearing a Yankees hat to boot. I had ten minutes left before close, and was hoping to get everything done a little early. Now I'd have to rescrub the counter (for the ninetieth time today). His father, a fat man who would give Parcells (in his Dallas era) a run for his money in terms of weight, waddled over, asked for a large cone, and paid. My smile was plastered on. "Tough day?" For you sir, no. This day is like the last 520. It is not tough. It is an addiction, aided and fueled by other addictions. And someday, sir, I will make something of myself, and you shall know my name and remember me as the man who served you ice cream. And maybe on that day, I'll finally find peace with my demons.
posted by Tweedledopey @ 01:13
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