Letter to Max Larcen.
How does that even work? I've already given my two weeks and he's going to throw away a week's worth of doubles out of the lowest paid, most acclimated cook?! That guy's an idiot.
Maybe it's all the beer he drinks while he waits for Scott to close. Or maybe it's the hour long break he takes, you know, to drive home and suck on a bong with his fiance troll. Seriously, the guy berates me for taking smoke breaks or taking too many shits, but this guy leaves me on the line to do shift meals and prep almost daily.
So I'm having a bad week, what with bike problems and catching a contagious respiratory infection from my roommate(which I foolishly worked with yesterday and Wednesday), and he's going to tell me "don't bother coming back." How is he capable of being such an asshole? How small is he really?
Anyway, Max, if you guys need anything, give me a ring.
804.908.2004
Oh and be sure Steph gets my number, I told her I would volunteer to help with the program.
I really liked working with everyone. Seriously, even Jesse. See ya 'round man,
Hunter.
If more people were like me, they would probably be a victim of some sort of abuse. Not talking about the time when my boss, the owner of the Positive Vibe Cafe, goon-handed me. I speak of a particular event totally unrelated to the assault I experienced ALONE on the line at PVC.
So I sit here after a fun night at a local bar with some fun people. They're all great but they don't matter to this story. I sit here on Graham's computer watching inane youtube videos. I hear some arguing at the end of the block and pause the video. I foolishly ignore(foolishly because the last time I ignored arguing, someone got shot two houses down from my previous residence[like if I had been paying attention I would have stopped it, hah]) the arguing and unpause my video.
The arguing escalates and I see a woman push another woman, both dark-skinned in the unlit street. The pushee has a six year old kid in her arms. I begin walking in their direction, leaving Graham's computer behind. It is less important than this violence.
Let me explain:
When I am intoxicated, I actually care about people I do not know. Were I stone-cold sober, I would have gone inside. I mean, "What is wrong with you?" doesn't even begin to affiliate itself, as a question of morals, with whatever problem this is. Whatever flaw.
When we(and you know who you are) were all on the roof of 1100, that time we got yelled at by the Moors to get off the roof and Lee(that thieving fuck) told the "Muslim bastard" to fuck himself. What did my five-beers-deep-self do when I got to the bottom of the fourty foot ladder? I broke up the fight--with help from Ben-- and got punched in the face. So, of course, this history repeats itself.
I walk toward the women and yell, "Whoa, hey, what's the problem" as one attacks the other. A girl by the side of the car rushes in and tries to bear hug the attacker, says "c'mon [name I forgot], they're gonna call the cops!"
"Get the FUCK OFF ME," she breaks free and rushes in, her overgrown vines for hair, her huge stature. I step in her way and grab her. Our eyes meet. Well, my two eyes meet one open eye and one shut with bruises and blood. She tells me in wet, pungent words that I am not her target, to get out of her way. She pushes me back and I chase after her. The mother drops her kid and takes a hit. I ask the kid her name as I pick her up and take her to the sidewalk.
"Ariana? That's a beautiful name. Let's go over here so you're safe." She begins crying, telling me her mother is going to die. I tell her she'll be fine and set her down on the sidewalk. Some feeble fifty-year old resident shambles up to me, his thin hair flopping from side to side as he walks. He pleads for a cigarette for several minutes as I tell him more important things are going on. I eventually give him one and then he starts yelling at the women who are, at this point, safely separated by the asphalt.
"YOU STUPID BITCH, GO BACK HOME, YA NIGGARZ!" He berates them for like 5 minutes while smoking MY cigarette. I calmly ask him to tone down the language around the kid. It is already hard enough for her having to see this, I tell him. He just puffs away, looks past me. The car drives off, leaving the mother with this crazy racist old man and myself. Both of us are intoxicated. I turn to the mother and ask her if I can help her get home. She says I've done enough, whatever that means.
The drunk, thin-haired man scoffs, squinty in the low light. He looks at Ariana with something in his eyes. Some kind of hate. He takes a step forward and I put my arm out to stop him. The mother has her kid by this point and says she "Don't want him near [her] baby." I look back and nod, tell him to go home.
"THIS IS MAH FUCKIN HOME, AND IF IT WANT FER YEW FUCKERS, NO ONE WOULD BE YELLIN! STUPID BITCH AND DON'T FUCKIN' TOUCH ME."
He doesn't want me to touch him. Fair enough, but, I reply, "Why don't you just go home, man, you're the only one yelling, you're making this situation worse, a situation which I am trying to diffuse." He stops and looks at me everywhere but in the eyes.
"You know what would diffoose the sitiation?" He pauses, baiting me, but continues before I say anything. "Another cigarette."
"Are you serious? No. Absolutely no. Go home."
He stumbles back where he came. I turn to the mother. She is now several yards away, walking out onto the highway. I stand there for a few minutes, alone on the sidewalk. The next night I save a cicada from marauding ants. Graham and a neighbor tell me not to. That it's natural. I claim I am nature, so what does it matter. "It's supposed to die," our neighbor says. I save it anyway. But here it is, half in half out of its husk, surrounded by others who succeeded.
