Bang Your Head

Although this particular topic has been blogged about and commented on ad absurdum, I thought I would give a stab at arguing with a few of you who seem to have nothing better to do than complain about a few of us.

I was sitting in a coffee shop yesterday with a few friends of mine, when the subject of getting together for a “Rock Band” night was discussed. For those of you who don’t know what “Rock Band” is, you might want to consider yanking your ill informed head out of the sand for a few minutes to glance around at the culture surrounding you. For those of you who know the game, and maybe, have played it a few times, can relate to someone posing the statement that was posed to me.

“I’m opposed to that game! I play the guitar, and it doesn’t make sense to me, why won’t people just pick up an instrument and play?”

For those of you who have posed this argument in Internet forums and amongst your friends, I suggest that you not only find more interesting things to argue about, but let it go. The game isn’t going away any time soon, you aren’t going to convince anyone not to buy the game in lieu of an actual guitar, drum set, or microphone. Besides, you are missing the point of video gaming entirely.

Gaming, like any form of entertainment, is a mode of escapism. It is a way for us normal, everyday plebes, to experience things that we normally wouldn’t experience. In other words, entertainment, in all of its forms, is a channel to live out our own personal nerdish fantasies, without the messiness of things like shark bites or prison sentences.

In the case of “Rock Band”, we get to pick up and play a guitar, drums, or microphone without the complete embarrassment or frustration of incompetence though six months of practice, lessons, DVD’s of Esteban, and sour versions of “Three Blind Mice”. It’s simply a grown up version of ‘let’s pretend’, especially for some of us who might just be musically retarded (me), to the point where even watching colored bars scroll down the screen and banging on a fake drum set is an impossible task. (I have had the game since launch, and as of yet, am still unable to complete any tracks on the drums - on easy). I’m not a musician, I know this, I’ll never be a musician, I have no inclination to put the time and money into something that I will suck at for years, and I’m totally ok with this fact.

Neglecting the fact that the game is, in fact, inspiring people to go out and pick up real instruments, the argument doesn’t make any sense when held up as analogous to other examples. Military shooters such as “Call of Duty 4” and “Rainbow Six: Vegas” are as popular, if not more so, than games like “Rock Band”. These games are reality-based simulations, situations that are more plausible and easier to experience in the real world than starting a successful band from scratch. I play and enjoy the hell out of these games often, but I have yet to hear anyone suggest that I should join the military and ‘experience what it’s like first hand’.

Simply put, these games we play are experiences, but not necessarily things to which we want to devote a good portion of our time or lives. We want to see, feel and enjoy the exciting and fun things we see in them, without having to make certain sacrifices. This is the fundamental reason we play games, watch movies, TV, and read pieces of fiction.*

One thing that I find as troubling as the statement in whole is the choice of wordage used. I understand ‘not liking’ a fictional piece of entertainment, I even understand ‘hating’ a movie, but being ‘opposed’ makes no sense, especially in this particular context. Being in opposition of something implies that it makes a statement or takes a position that you are adamantly against or find offensive. Unless there is another cut of the game with cut scenes that make political or moral statements that I am not aware of, there’s nothing in the game to oppose. Saying that you are opposed to a video game that makes no statements, implicit or implied, is akin to saying that you are opposed to a color. You may think that hot pink is horrific (and you should), but no one is going to protest.

For those of you who think that people who play “Rock Band” or “Guitar Hero” should just go out and get an instrument and learn to play it if we want to know what it’s like, I suggest taking a look at your shelf. Gloss over your DVD’s, books and games to see which experiences you simulate or passively watch from the comfort of your living rooms. Count the number of these things that you can do in real life, but are extremely difficult to accomplish.

For those of you who enjoy these games, I only have three words…























*Exceptions, of course, would include bowling and fishing games, which are just plain stupid.

'I Don't Carry Cash'

Culturally, there are quite a few things, both good and bad, that one will notice when they move from a town barely large enough to have its own university to one whose university is the size of their hometown. Some are beneficial, museums, restaurants, and 24-hour stores-a-plenty tend to litter larger towns. Not having to go on wild goose chases every time you are looking for something specific makes life simpler. The ethnic diversity found in larger places is enlightening.

Some things, however, are disturbing. Increased crime rates, pandemic idiocy, the sound of gunfire and police helicopters will keep new residents up at night. Nothing seems quite as disturbing as the rampant homelessness and panhandling that seems to take place more in the city than in a town.

My first experience with Tucson upon moving from the village that is Flagstaff came in the form of a quick walk to a Circle K that was conveniently located within walking range of the dorm in which I was moving. When approaching the front door of the building, a gentleman of unknown ethnic origin asked me for a small amount of change. Like the naïve schmuck that is every 18 year-old, I gave him a handful of change I happened to have cluttering my right pants pocket.

Don’t get me wrong; I am a fairly sympathetic person to the blight of the truly unfortunate ones who are trying to get themselves back on their feet, but there is only so many times you can watch a sympathetic mother of three, trying to buy food for her brood, get harassed by a beggar for some change, only to come out of the store ten minutes later to find the same man concealing a new bottle of ‘Premium’ vodka and sucking it down when he thinks no one is looking. My sympathies only go so far.

The fact is, that if you are truly looking for help, you can’t walk into a state, local, or federal government facility without tripping over an agency whose sole purpose is to feed, clothe, and shelter hardworking people who have hit a string of bad luck. Not to say that these agencies aren’t abused as well, but that’s a subject for another blog altogether. The fact is that my good, hard earned, money is already going into social programs and non-profit organizations to help these people. Call me heartless, but the last thing I feel a compulsion to do is to give my money to a stranger so that he could use it to vomit in an alley behind a convenience store.

Compassion only goes so far. I’m certain that mine turned into annoyance over a period of a couple weeks, shortly after moving to Tucson. Amidst meandering back and fourth on campus, going from dorm to dorm a gentleman in his late thirties approached a friend of mine and asked him for a few dollars to get a bus ticket home. A good friend of mine, who shall remain nameless, drunkenly felt sorry for the man and gave him a $20 bill. The man appeared to be grateful, and left us to go about our business.

Over the next few weeks, walking about with different friends, I repeatedly passed over the same part of campus to find the same man with the same story, simply trying to get a bus ticket to Texas. Considering how long he had been perched at the same location, I am willing to bet that he had garnished more than enough cash from loose-pocketed college students to get a plane ticket to Tahiti, had he felt like traveling. More than 6 times, he approached my friends and I, every single time, my friends gave him money. It’s not too much of a stretch to say that the man was more likely than not simply a fraud.

A few months later, as a sociology experiment, a group of U of A students bought a handful of clothes from Goodwill, messed up their hair, threw some dirt on their faces, and sat on the medians of busy intersections across Tucson, begging for money. To the surprise of the students, they were able to collect more, on average, than they were earning in their real part and full-time jobs. Some of the students actually considered quitting their real jobs in favor of panhandling. Shortly after the experiment was publicized, Tucson Police Department heard of the results, and panhandling on the median of busy intersections was outlawed.

Aside from the one or two occasions when I was on a date and wanted to make myself look like I was the sappy caring type, I learned to simply give the panhandlers nothing more than a, ‘sorry, I don’t carry cash’ and go about my business.

Being polite and turning these people down worked wonderfully, that is until I dragged my crap back to my hometown of Flagstaff to find some of the most aggressive, blatantly intoxicated, assholes I have ever met in my life. These aren’t the ‘politely asking you for change as you walk in or out of a store’ types that I encountered while living in Tucson. I have, on more than one occasion, been followed into and out of stores, to my car, approached getting out of my car, and out of all places, in front of a restaurant that is literally across the street from a soup kitchen. In not once instance, was there any reason to believe that they were simply trying to get enough money for a meal. Every single one who has approached me in Flagstaff was staggering, slurring, and had alcohol on their breath.

For anyone who is looking for an at home version of this experience, and plays games such as I do, rent or buy the game Assassin’s Creed for the XBOX 360 or the PS3. Start walking around the poor district of Damascus and try to get anything done without being constantly assailed by beggar women asking for money. This is the only comparable experience I can imagine, except in real life, there are consequences for throwing a panhandler in a wall, or shanking them and leaving them for dead.

My personal tolerance for the situation reached critical mass one morning last week. I was minding my own business when a visibly drunk man (marked by his inability to stand up straight and a brown jug in his right hand, labeled with three X’s) proceeded to place himself directly on a path between my intended location and myself. The man probably wasn’t privy to the fact that I was already 10 minutes late to work, and already in a mood. I can’t fault him for that. Something that he should have picked up on however, was that the path he was standing on was in fact, a street, and I was in my car as I tear-assed down the icy road trying to get to work.

The light was green, and as I approached, I honked and waved in an attempt to get him out of the way. He refused to move out of the crosswalk, so I eventually had to slow down. I waited for him to approach my door then drove off again. Not particularly attached to a random stranger, I had no intention of seeing him injured, no matter what I thought of him. Plus, aggravated vehicular manslaughter tends to raise your insurance rates.

I may be cold at times, but I’m not cold hearted. The thing that disturbs me most about people who would rather drink their lives away than becoming a functional member of society is the lack self respect. No thoughts as to the family and friends that worry about them, no desire for greatness or even so much as a name for themselves. Nothing but lost potential, and a parent’s lost dream of their child having a better life than their own.

...'Cause I Wrote Something and Thought Someone Besides My Prof Should Read It...

For as long as I can remember, I have heard varied opinions from teachers and professors regarding the subject of what literature is. I always understood their points of view, but never quite agreed with them. Although I agreed with most readings that they considered being literature, I rarely agreed to why they were. To me, there always was far too much emphasis in analyzing nuances between the lines, and trying to determine if the author was making a political or social statement. To me, what makes a book a piece of literary work is much more subjective, and much simpler.

In the morning, when we get into our cars and turn on our radios to begin our commutes, we often hear meaningless songs. They might have a catchy tune, but they are superficial in nature, meant for no more than monetary gain. Less often, we happen across a song that reminds us of a family member who has passed, a girlfriend who cheated on you, or a missed opportunity. We feel a connection to the musician, we can relate to things they are singing about. We feel emotions, not as a society, but as a person. Some might argue that literature discusses politics, society, religion, or the human condition. In my eyes, literature is about the condition of being human.

For me to consider something a piece of literature there is no need for iambic pentameter, no need for rhyme or structure. Quite simply put, I want to feel. I want a book that will make me forego much needed sleep to finish a chapter. Not just because I want to know what happens next, but because I can sympathize with the main character, and I want to see him or her thrive. I want to be excited when I know that the protagonist is going to pull through, and I want to be depressed when he or she doesn’t. I want to resent the antagonist, but still relate to them in some way.

Literature doesn’t need to be analyzed. It gratifies instantly. I can’t put it down, because it makes me laugh out loud. It makes me sad on a personal level. Literature isn’t limited to stories, or people and places. When reading scientific texts, I often find myself in awe of discoveries being made, and imagining the possibilities.

The difference between literature and any other text is the difference between a blues song and a pop song. When listening to a blues song, you know that the artist feels his music. When reading literature, you know that the writer feels his words. Literature creates a deep and emotional connection between the reader and the writer, using the printed page as the medium.

What I read isn’t a political statement. It has no moral or societal implications, nor should it be a judgment of my character or who I think should be in charge. What I consider literature is a reflection of the way I believe that most people see the world, not as nations, cultures, societies, or any other types of groups. We see the world as a large place that’s hostile and often isolates us. It is a foreboding place, where humans, despite our best efforts, repeatedly make the same mistakes. When I read, I want to know that others feel the same way I do. It makes life easier, and makes me feel less alone.

Small Talk

Anyone who has ever spent more than a few minutes in my presence is well aware of two things. The first and foremost is my unadulterated hatred for those bubble lids that come on some specialty drinks from Starbuck’s. As inexplicable as it is, this device throws me into a tizzy every time I see it covering my beverage. I have come to the conclusion that this reaction stems from some sort of childhood trauma involving a backseat, a quick brake by my mother or father, whoever happened to be driving at the time, and a 16-ounce Icee covering the face, chest, and crotchial regions of an eight-year-old boy.

Besides my parents vividly teaching me that 16-ounces is too much of anything for a eight year old, every five minutes or so they told me, just as your parents told you, never, ever, ever to talk to strangers. Like the bubble lid, this is something that I carry with me to this day. Well aware that in the adult world, a few exceptions must be made, I keep my conversations with the random Joe as short and sweet as possible. Anyone and everyone who has spent any time with me are aware of my distaste for small talk.

For anyone who I might run into in public, who I have not known for more than a few months, let me quickly fill in my part of the conversations you so want me to be a part of:

I don’t care about your sports teams. I will never care about your sports teams, even if they are my sports teams. I watch sports for the joy of watching sports, sitting back in front of the TV or at the ballpark and relaxing for the day, not to argue with you yahoos about who has the best pitching or quarterback.

I have a phone that makes it rather easy for me to look up the weather for the next few days. If I am waiting for my food and you are a cashier, I do not need to speak to you of the forecast. If I want the current conditions, I will glance out the window.

Finally, and most importantly, if you are not a friend or a member of my family, I do not give a damn about your political or religious affiliations. If you want to vote for whomever or pray to a geode, that’s fine and dandy, but you have no business imposing your views onto anyone else.

All this being said, whenever I am in a public situation that requires a fair amount of waiting, such as a doctor’s office, I do my best to bury myself in a magazine, a book, or if readily available, a gaming apparatus such as my GBA or PSP.

Most women, although more outgoing and social creatures will by their natural distrust of anything with a penis, are kind enough to leave men to our own devices when in a waiting room. This arraignment works to the benefit of both the female and the male in any given situation. First, the female can rest assured that she is not going to be psycho-killed by a loner who she happened to be nice to. The man, on the other hand, can get a few minutes of respite from women. When it comes to doctor’s offices, the chances of being left alone are increased considerably, due to the fact that (and I am saying this as a warning to everyone out there) doctor’s offices are the worst place to pick up a date. This goes doubly for the waiting room of an urologist. Common sense should suggest that there is a good possibility that the potential date has some sort of disease that you should avoid.

Most men, when coming into contact with other men at a medical facility, will keep their space such as the women will. They will pick up a magazine, sit in a corner, and wait for their turn like all of the other infested people in the office. Although the threat of disease still exists, a man is much more likely to open a conversation with another man in this situation. First of all, men do not feel as threatened by men as they do when trying to converse with women. Second, chances are that the first man that walked in the door took the only copy of Time or Sports Illustrated off of the magazine rack, which is full of Conde’ Nast and Oprah magazines, and now the second man has nothing to do.

Such was the situation early last week when I stumbled into my doctor’s office. As I usually do, I showed up at the requested time, fifteen minutes before my scheduled appointment, so that my doctor could see me forty-five minutes after my scheduled appointment. I grabbed the only aviation mag’ left on the rack, checked myself in, and took a seat.

At the front desk, there appeared to be a gentleman in his mid to late forties, complaining and causing a scene because he was on his lunch hour and couldn’t be seen immediately. After the receptionists finally got him to shut the hell up, he took a seat next to me.

“Man, these doctors always take their fucking sweet time…” He said as he took a chair next to mine.

“Don’t you think?”

I could see by the look in his eyes that he was waiting eagerly from a response from me, and knowing that people pester me more when I ignore them than they do when I give them short answers, I mumbled out a, “yeah…whatever…” Which was much more polite than the, “I think you should leave me the hell alone…” that was sitting at the tip of my tongue.

My strategy, when dealing with these social butterflies, is to keep the answers as short and as sweet as I possibly can, without sounding rude, in the hope that the guy will lose interest in the conversation and fade into oblivion.

“Whatcha reading about?”

“Planes…”

“No shit! I was a pilot a few years back… lost my license because of a back injury I had in a crash. It was nothing serious, no one was killed, but I broke my back in six places and my son broke his arm. It was a damned miracle that we walked out of that heap in one piece! Such a shame I can’t fly anymore, I used to take my family everywhere. What’s your interest in planes? You a pilot?”

I should have just said ‘no,’ but instead “I am studying to be an aerospace engineer.”

“Is that right?! Well, I just keep seeing the darndest things on Discovery and TLC, you know, like Seconds From Disaster, where they show how engineers screw up the plane and hundreds of people die-“

Needing to change the subject on him before I punch him in the teeth, I interrupted.
“I never got your name…”

“I’m Rick! And you?”

“Jake.”

Rick stuck his right hand out in hopes that I would shake it.

“Sorry man, I never shake hands in a doctor’s office, you know how it is.”

Seemingly dejected, “Yeah, I guess…”

I found a crossword puzzle in the back of the magazine and started to fill it in. Seeing the puzzle, Rick took it upon himself to look over my shoulder and start giving me answers.

“Aileron!”

Confused, “What?”

“Six across is aileron!”

Well aware of what the answer was, and annoyed to all hell that the man refused to leave me alone, I decided that it was time to end this conversation.

“So Rick, what are ya in here for?”

“Oh ya know, routine checkup type thing. How about yourself?”

“Do you know what a stressed induced psychotic episode is?”

Stunned, Rick leaned back. “Uh… kinda…”

“Well let’s just say I am recovering from one, and need to refill my meds.”

“Meds?”

“Between you and me, Rick, I don’t think I need the meds, it was an isolated incident, but if I don’t take them they revoke my parole.”

Hook.

“Do you mind if I ask what happened?”

“Well, towards the end of last semester, I was sitting at a dinner downtown studying for a math final. If I were to do poorly on the final, I would have to retake the class. A guy sat down next to me and started making small talk, asking me what was good there, what kind of math I was doing, and interrupting the work I was trying to accomplish. Finally, I snapped.”

Line.

“What did you do?”

“I took my pen and stabbed him in the leg with it.”

For added affect, I clicked the top of the pen I was using for the crossword.

Sinker.

“I…I…I’m gonna grab a magazine…”

“That will shut him up…” I said to myself as I smirked. My turn to see the doctor was only a few seconds later.

Poor Career Decisions

I have always found it curious as to the type of jobs not only that people choose as either part time or for a profession, but the jobs in which are actually in demand in the real world. Take the next few cases for example:

The real estate sign holder dude

I suppose if you were a teenager and were looking to make a few quick bucks over the summer to pay for your dating expenses, or to save up for college, this wouldn't be a bad gig. But the fact is that most of the people I see around town holding up and waving these balsa wood signs are in thier 20's and 30's. This leads me to believe that these unfortunate people were either born with a very dehabilitating learning disability, or they are complete morons. Considering thier function, you know that these people must make squat fo pay, I mean, for God's sake, thier employer had to have done a cost-benefit analysis between a dude and a stick, and decided that the dude was the cheaper option.

The Porta-Potty Cleaner

I'm not sure what paths these poor souls took in thier lives, but I know one thing: you could never pay me enough to do this job. There are homeless people desperate enough to eat thier meals out of a garbage can who look down on this job. Even if it paid a half-million a year, it wouldn't be worth it. If you think about it, you would have no chance at having a wife or kids. The foot-thick stench of shit, piss, and whatever that green stuff is, is enough to repel any potential mate for up to a year after leaving the job. Forget about having anyone else who wants to hang out with you, including long time friends or family. The only chance you would have for companionship would be from others who carry the foul odors you do. Even then, you would be limited to hanging out at someone's house. Even if you and your work buddies can handle it, the patrons at Chili's would start puking when you were within 30 feet.

Deodorant Research Scientist

Imagine, if you will, going through 4-5 years of college, then into Grad school. Taking loans out, working your ass off day and night throughout your late teens and early twenties to become a researcher for Old Spice or Gillette. It is one thing to get stuck in a shitty job because you were never able to go to college or weren't intelligent enough, but these people have educations and chose to sniff armpits for a living. I bet their parents are proud.

Elephant Fecal Collector

Imagine being the ever supporting parent when your son or daughter came to you with their dream in hand.

kid: mommy! daddy! I know what I want to do when I grow up!

Dad smiles at the child and all of the child's innocence.

dad: what would you want to do?

kid: I want to run away to the circus!

Dad and Mom are now laughing.

mom: what do you want to do in the circus, honey? tightrope walker? trapeeze artist?

kid: I wanna hold a bag at the end of an elephant and catch its shit before it hits the ground!

-Jake

My Obsession

Most people will never know.

In fact, unless your brain works like mine, there is no way for you to relate. I know a few people who are like me, we are all around you, just pay attention to the people you see. We walk around work, pacing with our arms crossed. When you tap us on the shoulder, we jump. When you ask us a question, we kind of stare at you blankly and then say, ‘I’m sorry, did you say something?’

At times, it sounds as if we stop in the middle of our sentences and then start again. If you aren’t one of us, you will never understand. You will never know what it is like to have your brain run faster, and with more thoughts than it can handle. You will never know what it is to obsess constantly over everything and nothing at all.

Some of us go even further than obsessing. We have taken pessimism to a whole new level. We will, invariably turn a casual meeting that someone couldn’t make into an attempt to stab us in the back. We will, without a doubt, start imagining car accidents and funerals for friends that are ten minutes late. Mark my words, we can, and we will find a way to take anything and quite literally turn it into the end of the world.

The things we think about don’t make any sense. Quite literally, and quite often, they don’t make any sense to us. We are intelligent people who have overactive imaginations, and for some reason, a way of looking at the world that turns everything negative.

We spend a good majority of our time second-guessing what we want to say, what we need to say or what we are trying to say. We do this before, during and after we say it. Sometimes, we obsess about something we said a few YEARS after we originally said it.

Quite honestly, if I ever had a chance to THINK what anyone thought about these blogs, I would probably stop writing them. Things I have such a hard time saying in person flow so freely from my fingertips that you would never imagine that Jake the Writer and Jake the Person were one in the same.

I spend most conversations with people thinking, ‘well, if I say that, they will think…’ Over time, it has just become easier for me to assume that no one reads what I write. It takes a lot for me to open up either mentally or emotionally to most people. I have spent a good majority of my lifetime assuming that I am being indicted for the things that I feel or think. When people tell you that you are weird or crazy for thinking the way you do, or liking the things you do, or worrying the way you do, you stop telling them these things. It’s only human nature to try to fit in to the way of everyone else’s thinking.

As much as I have tried, I can’t help it any more than a cripple can help walking with a limp. The only thing I can do is to start thinking about other things, besides the thing I’m obsessing about. By this time, I am trying to stop thoughts by thinking about them, which literally makes no sense. It is for all intents and purposes, throwing gasoline on the fire.

There have been numerous instances when I have been in the middle of a few thoughts when someone asked me a question, and it has taken a few seconds of contemplation before I understood what was being said. There has been more than one occasion when I have had so many thoughts running through my head that I have forgotten to breathe.

At any given moment, I have so many thoughts running through my head, that I wish I could hide from them. I think about things, then wonder why I think about things, THEN think that I am crazy for wondering about thinking about things. My brain can develop scenarios that no one has ever experienced before. It is a melting pot of ideas, and they flow from me faster than I can handle them.

Reading about it can ill express what it feels like, but here is an example of some things that pass through my brain in an average second:

“What did I do this time, why wont they tell me about the job, god, I’m hungry, my head hurts, I’m tired, my brother needs to stop drinking so much, well at least the expensive shit, when are they going to realize how little actual physical work I do all day, why do all my black shirts fade when no one else’s do, dammit they shorted me on my check, they better fix it or I’m gonna raise hell, shrinks suck, every one I have called has the same office hours I have, they are going to fire me, my eye itches, my head hurts, why am I so damn hungry, I want a GT, I cant afford a GT, my cell phone sucks, I need to stop buying crap that I don’t need, how am I ever going to afford that car, god, I cant believe I said ‘I cant let you drink alone’ in that dorm room in ’98 what the hell was I thinking that was stupid it just made me sound like I was trying to be cool, I cant believe that I am obsessing about something that happened in ’98, at least I’m not obsessing about something that happened in HS, god I hate myself for yelling at Matt that one time, crap, I’m obsessing over something that happened in HS, why is my mom calling over and over again, oh god, oh god, my brother must have gotten in a car accident, that’s the only reason she would try so hard to get a hold of me, get a hold of yourself Jake, she would call you at work if it was an emergency, I need to stop worrying so much, commas slow me down too much what the hell are those little rubber things for we have them all over but they don’t seem to serve any purpose why wont she believe me why do I obsess so much about things I cant control my knee itches F5 F5 F5 F5 F5 Alt+F4 how come everyone else seems at peace and I feel like I am at war why do I assume only the worst out of people how come I can identify what is wrong with me but I cant fix it I don’t want to go to a shrink I’m not crazy I just need to reason myself out of this like I reason myself out of every other problem I can fix myself I can fix myself son of a bitch why do I feel this way do I tell people the way I feel or the way I want to feel I hate myself I love myself people don’t understand self loathing they understand narcissism everyone hates me why do I have to fight everyone to get what I want why do people lean on me when they need to talk about things and I cant get the same courtesy in return why does everyone feel the need to try to make me feel worse when I talk about my problems no one knows no one knows I am ashamed to have emotions my father says it is a weakness my mom starts crying over Folgers’ commercials I cant relate to anyone why am I so damn hungry I cant eat I feel like a pig when I eat I have to be perfect I have to be perfect no one wants me around it seems like I always have to be the one to make the effort to spend time with anyone maybe I am trying to hard maybe I’m trying too much billions of people on this planet how come I feel like they are against me maybe I am being to selfish what are you talking about you aren’t being to selfish asking to be appreciated once in a while how come I bend over backwards for people and I don’t get the same in return god those machines are perfectly symmetrical this pen sucks ass I need to know I need to know why am I so afraid and ashamed to be myself where did they get a red swingline stapler I cant fall asleep I cant fall asleep I am so bored I want to cry this is my own hell I feel like I am being stifled I am so afraid that I am going to say the wrong thing and she is going to hate me I need to try she doesn’t understand how much she has changed me and my life she is everything I have to show her I have to tell her I have to keep her I cant let her go not now not ever I have to make our lives better I have to be everything to everyone I cant wear glasses I look like a dork I know I am a dork but it doesn’t mean I have to look the part I wish I was never a kid and had to deal with some things how can she not know what she means to me I need to be more open with her is that a gun to my back I cant get fat I cant get fat these walls feel like they are caving in I just want to be normal I just want to be normal I don’t want to think anymore this is torment who names fonts anyway I feel so inferior that I need to paint myself as a narcissist to hide why hasn’t my brother called oh god he got in a car accident stop looking over my shoulder I should be designing aircraft not databases I’m a fucking loser why do I keep looking at my cell phone cant stop moving cant stop moving that doctor is a liar why aren’t I fixed I wish I could forget everything and not be this person any more I misspelled classes why do I always have to fight for people to understand why do I always have to yell for them to listen no one knows no one knows no one knows what its like to…”

If any of you are still there and you could read that in a second or two, you now know a little more about what it is like to be me.

Fall of the House (Fiction)

It was during a monthly ritual, a Saturday evening affair when I heard the news. As a standing rule, the last Saturday of the month was saved explicitly for what I affectionately refer to as ‘Game Night.’ The guys from work bring over their girls, their steaks and their drinks. I fire up the grill and the hot tub. Everyone eats, drinks, and soaks, then we break off into separate rooms based by gender. The girls run off into the living room to watch which ever sappy Sandra Bullock movie Dave’s girlfriend happened to pick up on the way. The boys take off into the pool house to smoke cigars and play poker.
I could tell something was amiss by the way Trish looked when she walked through the door, before she even said a word. For the first time in the year and a half since her and Dave started dating she actually looked happy to be at my place on Game Night, she floated into the kitchen with a smile on her face. She waited until the nine of us were all in exactly the positions she had imagined we would be for her announcement. It seemed as if she had been planning out every detail of her moment, even as far as orchestrating what Dave would be wearing.

I was preparing my famous shrimp kebobs when I turned towards Dave. “So… What’s up with the suit, kid?”

Dave turned to me, somewhat in a daze, and before he could utter a single syllable, Trish piped in.

“Everyone! We have an announcement to make! Dave and I are engaged!”

In shock, I stopped mid-skewering to turn and see Trish holding her left hand out with what appeared to be a three karat stone perched on her ring finger. I glanced towards Dave and saw a look of what could only be described as a mix of pride and shame.

The general discomfort of the situation seemed to be shared between the men in my kitchen. Cameron began to choke on a jalapeno pepper he had just fished out of a jar. Tim, standing beside him, looked as if someone had just informed him that his mother had passed. Dale looked like a deer, caught in the headlights of an 18-wheeler, waiting for the driver to brake.

The women, on the other hand, broke out into unbridled joy. Shelly, Cameron’s girlfriend, was the first to hug Trish and start to cry. The other girls fallowed suit, apparently unaware of the disapproving stares that the boys in the room were giving Dave, who leaned against the kitchen counter, speechless. We all kept the looks in our eyes as we gave Dave our half hearted handshakes and congratulations, then feigned elation as we hugged Trish.
As everyone finished dinner, I excused myself to setup the pool house for our weekly game. I set out the usual fare, chips and dip, and an open bar. A green felt table served as our playing surface. I was setting up the table when I happened to glance at the wall, laden with pictures. The five of us had spent the past seven years working together and being there for each other, in good times and in bad. There are pictures of baseball games, business trips, office parties and road trips. There are moments that I will never forget, emblazoned for all time, framed, matted and nailed to the drywall.

We had all, myself included, passed in and out of different relationships. There are scattered pictures of each one of us with our arms around different women. It started to appear to me that the girls that they were with now might actually stick around. Shelly and Cameron had just moved in together, Tim and Leslie were shopping around for a place, Dale and Ashley had just celebrated their first year together.

The light of the setting sun shone on the far corner of the wall, highlighting a picture that I had forgotten even existed. It was three years since it was taken, and it made me a little uneasy.

As the five of us sat down, and the shock was beginning to wear off, everyone anted up and I dealt the first hand. Being the ever supporting, nurturing friend that I am, I said what every man says when one of his best friends gets married.

“What the hell are you- Wait a second, did you knock her up?” I interrupted myself mid sentence.

“No.”

“Do her parents have money?” I said, only half kidding.

“No.”

“A rich uncle?”

“No.”

“Does she have money?”

“Uh, no.”

“What the hell are you thinking, Dave?” I finally finished the sentence.

“I love her, I love her a lot.”

“That’s no reason to marry her!” I didn’t actually think about the sentence until a couple of seconds after I blurted it out.

“You just don’t want us to get married because you don’t like her. Not one of you have given her a chance since we got together!”

“That’s not true at all!” Tim spoke up, always the one who followed the letter of the law rather than the spirit. It’s not that we didn’t like Trish, the fact is, we hated her.

Since the guys started seeing their respective girlfriends, we had all started seeing less and less of each other outside of the office. But the situation seemed a little different for Dave and Trish. Since they met, it was as if we had to plan things a month or two in advance, and the concept of guys-night-out seemed to have flown out the window. It seemed as if the situation was getting worse, being that the last two outings he attended were Game Nights.

“Alright Davey, when was the last time we went to a Mariners game?” Cameron fired his first volley.

“May.”

“May was the last time you went to a game with us. We have been to seven games this season, the last one being last weekend.” Dale spoke, for the first time since he heard the announcement.

“So what? I missed a couple of games.”

“You missed six you moron, in a matter of three months. And it’s always been the same excuse, some half-baked story about Trish being sick.” It was my turn again.

“I didn’t want to leave her alone when she wasn’t feeling well.”

Tim started laughing uncontrollably. “She’s 31, not 12 for Christ sake! Throw a pillow under her head and get her some medicine. Besides, no one goes on for three months being sick unless they have something they should be in the hospital for!”

“Guys, I know she seems a little controlling to you, but she makes me happy, shouldn’t that be all that matters to you?”

Completely dodging the question, I changed the subject. “I’ve gotta ask you kid, does it bother her that the ring you gave her is a fake?”

“It’s no fake.”

“Bull. I know how much you make, and I know for a fact that you could never afford a ring that big, unless..”

And that’s when it hit me. Dave had owned, since his 18th birthday, a silver and black 1968 Mustang fastback. It was given to him by his father as a collectors item, hoping that Dave would pass it down to his own children. Dave had spent the years I had known him treating the car as if it was his first born, at times, talking about it more than he talked about any woman he was seeing. It continuously caused fights between Dave and Trish. She hated the fact that he loved the car.

“You sold the Mustang, didn’t you?”

“It was sitting in storage, collecting dust. I wasn’t doing anything with it. Besides, it wasn’t my idea.”

“It was hers, wasn’t it Davey?” Cameron piped in again.

“Well, yeah.”

“Do ya get it now, Dave? You aren’t rich, but you make decent money, enough to afford a decent ring. Instead, she twisted your arm to get her a ring she doesn’t need and to get rid of the car she didn’t like.” Tim spoke for us all.

“Can we just get off the subject and play some poker, please?”
The five of us finished the night off, not breathing another word of the situation.

Monday morning came around, and I had thought a lot about the situation, feeling guilty for the way we treated Dave. Even though we saw sides of Trish that he was apparently oblivious to, we, as his friends, should have been more supportive of his decision. Each one of us felt remorse for the way we acted. It was his funeral, after all.
I called Dave into my office to apologize.

“I wanted to say sorry, for all of us. Our reaction was… unbecoming. If she makes you happy, then we are happy for you.”

“Thanks Javi.”

“We just want you to be careful, and occasionally take time to look at the situation objectively.”

“Understood.”

Tim, Cameron, and Dale walked in only a second later. We were preparing a contract negation that would bring millions into the business. My company, Soliton Dynamics is young, but growing fast. Within five years, we became one of the few independent aerospace contractors that sells avionics suites to the military, civilian, and private sectors. Dave, who had just started a couple of years ago, had been an intern for us in college. He is an electrical engineer, and works as Tim’s right hand, designing the avionics components. Cameron is the top program manager in my company. Dale is the second best software engineer in the company, second only to me. Besides the owner, I am an aerospace and software engineer, it was my job to put everything together.

“Tim, how is the hardware holding up?”

“There were a few problems with overheating, but we just slapped in a more powerful cooling system and it seemed to clear them up.”

“Cam, are we on track?”

“We are actually ahead a couple of weeks, under budget.”

“Dale, is our suite ready?”

“Assuming there are no changes to the airfoil, everything has been tested and is up to spec.”

“Good deal. Now, guys, I cannot overestimate how important this contract is to us. We need to knock this meeting out of the park. Bring your best, got it?”

Everyone nodded in agreement, just in time for the reps from Airbus to show. My receptionist came over the intercom with the announcement.

“Grab your presentations guys, I’ll meet you in the conference room in twenty minutes.”

The guys walked out and I sat alone in my office for a couple seconds, trying to center myself. In the corner of my eye, sitting on an end table was the same picture that had caught my eye two days ago in the pool house. I had walked by it day in and day out, always knowing that it was there, but never really noticing it. It bothered me more this time than it did the last, giving me a sense of impending gloom.

Six months later, having settled the $40,000,000 contract with Airbus to build the software suites for their next line of passenger jets, I decided to reward the guys. With Dave’s wedding only a few weeks away, I decided we could kill two birds with one stone and throw him a bachelor party at the same time. Normally, it was policy only to give managers trips as bonuses’, but I decided just to let this one slide.

Dave had recently made me his best man. And although my own home would have been more than adequate to host a gathering of this type, I had remembered the last bachelor party thrown at my place. Tim was playing the role of best man for a friend of his from high school a couple of years back, but his apartment at the time was, in a word, laughable. Dale once described it as ‘a shoebox with a toilet.’ It was not large enough for the fifteen people we originally invited, let alone the 150 that showed up. Dale happened to invite the wrong person, someone who not only couldn’t keep his mouth shut, but doesn’t know what the meaning of “small gathering” is. I awoke the next morning to find a random 19 year-old girl next to me. There were people passed out in my bathrooms, my bedrooms, my closets and my kitchen. There were pairs of women’s underwear in the most inauspicious of places. My living room looked like Beirut, couches were overturned and broken bottles were strewn about. Fifteen hundred dollars worth of booze was gone, and I won’t even begin to describe what clogged my hot tub and pool filters.

It was the greatest party ever. But the aftermath took two weeks and a biohazard team to mend. It was a situation that I would never like to face again. So Las Vegas, a place far, far away from my house, seemed to be the best place to throw the party.

I put up everyone in suites at the Luxor. Cameron and I shared a room; Dave, Tim and Dale shared the other. Despite my best efforts, I was unable to get rooms next to each other, and the two suites ended up in opposite towers.

The night of the bachelor party, I readied myself before Cameron, so I took a seat on the couch and started to watch whatever movie happened to be on at the time.

Cameron’s voice came from the bathroom. “Did you hear what Trish is making Dave do now?”

“No.”

“According to Tim, she’s making him toss out most of his old magazines.”

“What? Like Playboys?”

“All his old magazines. Playboy, Maxim… anything that has anything to do with girls that aren’t her. She’s also making him give up his season tickets. She says that baseball is distracting from their relationship.”

“You’ve got to be kidding me. He was finally starting to make a few games.”

“I’ve been thinking about getting rid of mine, too.”

Cameron’s laptop, on the desk in the corner happened to be in screensaver mode, flashing random pictures, and the picture that had been haunting me for the past few months happened to show.

“Cam, why do you have that pic on your computer?”

Cameron, stuck his shaving-cream-laden face out for a moment and looked at the screen.

“Oh that? I’ve just always thought that was a cool picture of you. You remember that trip?”

“All I remember was Dave getting the call from his father and how broken up he was about his mom dying. To tell you the truth, the picture kinda bothers me.”

“That was three years ago, Javi. I think he’s pretty much over it by now.”

“It’s not that, it’s just…” I had a moment of hesitation.

“What is it then?”

“We have to stop this wedding. I think I have a plan.”

“What is it?”

Just then, the phone rang. Tim suggested that we should meet them in the lounge in 10 minutes. Cameron finished shaving, as I explained the plan to him. Ready to put our idea into motion we headed down stairs and walked through the lobby. It was so simple, yet so brilliant, that I thought I was the smartest man alive. As we headed toward the lounge, I was hoping for a song like “Seven Nation Army” to play on the casino P.A. system. Instead, “I’m Just a Girl” started. It completely ruined my moment. When everyone finally arrived at the lounge, I bought five shots of Jack Daniels’ and we briefly took a seat.

“Guys, I want to make a toast! To Dave, and to everyone. Dave, you are one of my best friends, and putting my misgivings aside, I hope for nothing but the best for you and Trish.”

Looking at me rather surprised, Dave managed to eek out, “Thank you.”

“And you three… Dale, Cam… You have been there for this company since before it had a name, Soliton wouldn’t exist without you. Tim, you may not have been with us as long as Cam or Dale, but you are as responsible for its success as anyone at this table. I want to thank you all, for your work and your friendship.”
We raised our shot glasses, and as is tradition, tapped them together.

“Salud.”

As we downed our shots, the lounge act, a local cover band, began to play “Tom Sawyer” by Rush. At that time, I knew it was our cue to leave, we got into a cab and headed to the middle of the strip. After six hours of boozing, carousing, and general debauchery, the five of us returned to the hotel, and I put my plan into action. I called a number on a flier that a rather generous Hispanic gentleman happened to hand me as we were walking down Vegas boulevard, and had an entertainer sent up to the other suite. Sometime in the middle of her third dance, Dave passed out, and I happened to catch a few provocative pictures of her straddling him.

Tim gave me a disapproving glance, and said, “Dude! Pictures?”

“Blackmail, Tim!” I had to yell across the room for him to hear me over the stereo. “Who wants another drink?”
Dale, standing in the corner, put his hands up like a receiver waiting for a football. I grabbed a beer out of the cooler and threw it his way. Not realizing how much he had to drink, he completely missed the glass bottle flying at him, that is until it hit his forehead and knocked him out.

“Cam, you’re over there, is he still breathing?”

Cameron looked down briefly, and spat out, “Yep.”

That is the last thing I remember from that night.

It was three days later, and we were back home in Seattle. Tim, completely unaware of what I planned in Vegas, walked into my office rather livid.

“What the hell, Javi? Why did you post those pictures online?”

“What pictures?” I said, knowing full well what he was referring to.

“Dave and the stripper, they are all over your blog!”

“You know full well that she controls the hell out of him. It’s not healthy, Cam and I thought those might break them up.”

“What the hell kinda friend are you?”

“I believe friends should be there for each other, even when you don’t see the error of your ways.”

“Man, I just don’t know… I can’t fathom, what was going on in your head when you did this. You can’t just leave well enough alone, can you? I’m not sure I want people around who do this to each other. God knows when you’re gonna try to get Leslie out the picture.”

“Oh, come on now Tim! That’s not fair, the situation with you and Leslie is different.”

“Yeah? How so?”

“Well, I can handle Leslie…”

“You cannot go around imposing your will onto the lives of the people around you, it doesn’t work that way! Dave’s looking for another job, in Georgia out of all places! Trish saw the pics, had kittens, and decided that his friends here were a bad influence.”

“He’s leaving?”

“Right after the wedding, as soon one of them gets a job.”

Tim left Dave’s resignation on my desk and stormed off, leaving me in shock. Cameron walked in a second later.

“Did you hear about Dave?” Cameron seemed in shock as well.

“Yep.”

“I kinda thought the stripper thing was a bad idea.”

“Cam, then why the hell didn’t you say that in the first place?”

“Well, cause at first I thought you were just joking, and by the time I figured out that you weren’t, it was a little late. Besides, I know why you tried. I mean, I really know why you tried, and although it blew up in your face, I know what you were trying to do. It’s kinda…” Cameron stopped for a second, it seemed like he was looking for
the right words.

“It’s kinda what?”

“I want to say that it’s kind of… nice, but you did embarrass one of your best friends in a very public medium.”

“You don’t like that word do you, Cam?”

“I couldn’t think of something more fitting.”

“You know, I was just trying to help him. I was just trying to do something good.”

“You have a fucked up sense of propriety.”

“I think it’s time we cut our losses, keep our traps shut, wish them the best, and not make things any worse for him than they already are. I have been telling him since they got together that the whole situation was unhealthy. He’ll just have to learn his lessons on his own, agreed?”

“Agreed.”

As soon as Cameron left I decided to meander over to Dave’s office to discuss the situation, fearing that it was already too late to change his, or Trish’s mind. Instead of Dave, I found an empty office, and decided to have a seat at his desk. Restless, I happened to glance about and came upon something interesting. It was a post-it note tucked away under a pile of paperwork with a hastily written message on it:

Josh Wade… stang… has money and is ready to buy. 206-555-8394

For Dave to have a telephone message in his office for a matter of 6-8 months is par for the course. The fact was that on any given day, the place looked like an unkempt monkey cage. The janitorial staff refused to clean the place, and I couldn’t blame them. Dale once joked, “Ya know, I wouldn’t be surprised if they found Jimmy Hoffa in there.”

Sensing another bad, yet irresistible idea coming on, I took the note and left for my office.

Two weeks later, it was the afternoon of the rehearsal. Trish was still relatively upset with me, although I apologized profusely. Dave, not surprisingly, only showed signs of being angry with me when she was around. I Trish demoted me from best man down to usher, with Dale taking my place. It was a conversation that Dave didn’t take place in, even though he was in the room.

Nursing hangovers from the night before, Cam, Dale, and I staggered into the church. It was at this point that I realized how lucky I was not to be the best man. This was a catholic church, and when the priest stated that the wedding would last two hours, I sighed and Dale started to mouth obscenities.

Sitting in the pew, watching people walk up and down the aisle, I started milling over the situation. I looked at how happy Trish seemed, and how apprehensive Dave was. He feigned a smile every time she looked at him, and although I had suspicions of it before, something became painfully obvious to me.

“She made him go through with this, she had to…” I tried to talk to myself as quiet as possible, but Cameron still
heard. He leaned over and started whispering to me.

“What? How do you know?”

“Look at them, he doesn’t want to be here any more than I do…”

“I know, I wasn’t gonna say anything but-“

“But what?”

“Well, we have to say something to him, we have to talk about it.”

“I’m through trying to reason with him, it’s time we butt out.”

“Weren’t you the one gung-ho about them not being together?”

“Trust me, they won’t last. It’s time to let them fail.”

“You seem a little hostile about the situation.”

“And you aren’t?”

“It’s his life, Javi, not mine.”

“I’m sorry, but I have a little bit of a hard time sitting and watching a friend make the biggest mistake of his life. Out of all the people he chose to be with, why her?”

“Well, she’s hot…”

Although I already knew where he was going, this was a point of view I had not really considered before this moment. Trish’s one, solitary enduring feature was that she was ridiculously hot.

“Javi, look… I’m not trying to be mean here, but have you seen Dave? The guy’s a slob, pudgy, dorky…”
“Yeah, yeah, get to the point.”

“He hasn’t dated much, so when he found a girl that looks like that, he latched on to her like a drowning man to a life saver.”

“It just… every time I think about the situation, it makes my ulcer worse. I mean, he wants to spend the rest of
his life being controlled and tormented by her… he might as well have signed up to be a friggin indentured…”

I am not sure if it was my ulcer flaring up, the $2.99 breakfast I had at 5:00 that particular morning, or the 1.75 liter bottle of Captain Morgan’s that Cam and I put away the night before, but at precisely this moment, I started to get violently ill.

“Javi?”

“Move!”

I shot up as fast as I could, but it was too late to find a bathroom. I ran into the closest door I could find and started to throw up. There was no mistaking that it was loud and violent enough for all in the next room to hear.

A few minutes later, I stepped out of the confessional to find everyone staring at me with their jaws on the floor.
I glanced over the shocked faces, and as calmly as I could raise my right hand and said, “Don’t worry, I’m cool...”
Everyone continued to stare. I was obviously interrupting the rehearsal, so I closed the door of the confessional and took my leave.

“I’ll be outside if anyone needs me.”

Sitting on the curb, I called Josh, the new and former owner of Dave’s Mustang. After finding his number in Dave’s office I called him and explained the situation.

“Dude, I can relate, my brother just married some chick who is a real bitch. The car was supposed to be an investment, but it looks like you need it more than I do. Here’s the deal, you can have it for 20% more than what I paid for it…”

“Jeez, thanks…” I winced, hoping to spend a lot less on it.

Josh and a friend dropped the car off then sped off. Dave and Trish walked out of the church even more surprised than they were when I walked out of the confessional.

“Did… did you buy this back?” Dave stuttered.

“I wanted to apologize about the internet-stripper thing. I know how much the car meant to you, and I think you deserve it.” I tossed him the keys.

Trish looked at me and produced the worst fake smile I had ever seen. It turned into a grimace as soon as Dave began to hug me. Trish got in her car, Dave followed in his, and they took off for the rehearsal dinner.

“Javi, weren’t you the one just telling me that you were gonna butt out?”

“Did you see the look on her face, Cam? It was worth every cent…”

“You can’t leave well enough alone, can you?”

“I might not be able to burn the house down, but that doesn’t mean I wont throw gasoline on a flame.”

“Remind me never to make you my best man if I ever get married.”

Lately this place, my home, seems too quiet. The winds have picked up recently, and when the TV or stereo isn’t running, all I can hear are the tree branches rustle in my front yard. It is now six months after Dave’s wedding, another game night, and for the first time, no one showed. Instead of poker tonight, I’m in the pool house, practicing for a nine-ball tournament I am entering next week.

The wedding went as well as one would hope for. Although no fights broke out, I felt Trish’s disapproving eyes every time she looked down the table at the reception. According to Dale, the Mustang is a continued point of strife between Trish and Dave. It was just as I had expected.

We expanded our contract with Airbus, requiring a European office. We needed a Chief Electrical Engineer for our new European Division, and it was a position that Tim was all too eager to fill.

A little disturbed with the way things are going this evening, I decide to give Dale a call.

“Dale! Where are you? It’s Game Night, why didn’t you show.”

“Well, Cam and I thought it might be nice to take the girls out, you know, for something a little different.”

“You guys could have at least called!”

I recently had a picture from the wedding, probably the last one of us the five will ever take together, printed, framed and matted. I decide now is as good a time as ever to hang it up, on the same wall that holds so many others like it.

“Well, we’re at the Boxcar on Gillman, if you want to come by.”

I see a perfect place for the picture, right next to the one that has made me anxious for the past year. Looking at it now, I see it a little differently. It doesn’t bother me the way it did before, it seems as if I have come to peace with it.

“Actually Dale, I think it might be good if I get some time to myself tonight.”

“Cool. If you change your mind, we’ll be here. If not, we’ll see you Monday.”

“Have a good night, Dale.”

“You too.”

I hang up the phone, and head toward the wall. It is a shrine to the memories I have shared with my friends. The picture that has unnerved me is now to the immediate left of the picture that I just framed.

The picture was taken three and a half years ago, on a skiing trip we took in Canada. I am standing on a balcony, with a drink in my hand and the red sky above me. It may be the fact that it was a two-week trip, or the amount of partying we did in those two weeks, but I can’t remember whether the sun was rising or setting. Out of all the pictures on that wall, it is the only one I have where I am alone.

Giving Thanks

It is a tradition that is held in many various forms around the world. Thanksgiving is a time of year when Americans gather around a table with their families to reflect on the things in life that they are grateful for. It is a time of introspection and reflection, and a time to be with friends and family.

To some, it is one of the times of the year that Americans fly across the country to be with people that they don’t even like to talk to on the phone all that often. They gather around a smorgasbord that outweighs the collective group at the table, to eat more food than is reasonably healthy. They hold their hands, and bow their heads to pray to a god that they don’t believe in to thank him for things that they put absolutely no thought into.

Regardless of your religious beliefs, whether you thank Jesus, Buddha, Yahweh, or a Golden Calf, I believe that spiritual figures give points for originality. Every time I think about the “pregame prayer”, as I like to call it, I imagine how bored god must get listening to the same drivel, over and over again.

In my head, he is sitting at his desk, floating above the clouds. There is a nameplate in the front that says “Big Guy” on it. Angels are scurrying about with headsets and PDA’s like busy stockbrokers, this is a modern heaven, after all. God’s administrative assistant, Stacy, walks in with a report.

“Sir, the last of the day’s prayers just came in.”

God puts his conference call on hold, “Ok Stacy, what do we have? Anything new?”

“Well sir, it looks like more of the same as every other year.”

“Give me the numbers Stacy.”

“Well sir, it looks like at least 248 million Americans would like to thank you for the meal they are about to receive. 230 million want to thank you for the roofs over their heads and the clothing on their backs. 266 million thank you for their kin, brothers, sisters, parents and the like.”

“Any weird ones?” God asks, accustomed to the outliers that occasionally pop up.

“Well, at least a couple hundred thousand want to thank you for being paroled this year.”

“Hmm… The number was higher last year.” God’s brow furrows.” Can’t these people be more creative?”

“What do you think we should do sir?” Stacy is concerned.

“Stacy, send out a memo. We’ll make the place cold and windy for the next few months; maybe drop some snow on their heads. Hopefully after that they will at least be thankful for summer.”

“Yes sir.”

The meal is over and I am watching football. Nearly comatose, I sit down on a recliner and think about the things that I couldn’t get along without. My family members are trying to talk to me, but I developed the ability to drown them out with my thoughts years ago. Halftime finally starts, and it gives me a few minutes to have a little one-on-one time with the “Big Guy.” I close my eyes and pray.

“God?”

“Yeah?”

“It’s me, Jake.”

“Yeah, thanks, I got that…” Sarcasm is oozing out of every word.

“I just thought that I would thank you personally for a few things.”

“Is this gonna be like the rest of them? Did you actually put some thought into this?”

“Yes, I put some thought into it, but I have to warn you, this might be, well… a little unorthodox.”

“As long as it’s not the same old food, roof, family thing that everyone keeps spitting out, I’ll be fine with it.”

“I want to thank you for caffeine and sugar, which make it possible to stay awake and alert long enough to get through work and school. I want to thank you for sleeping pills that counteract the caffeine and sugar long enough to get a few hours of sleep. I want to thank you for caller ID and text messaging, which allow me to ignore people’s calls when I’m stressed and don’t want to talk to anyone. Thanks for not allowing me to snap like a twig, even though I have been a little burned out lately. Thanks for all the little things that get me through the day.”

God smiles, amused. “Is there anything else?”

“Well you know, family and friends. I guess they are kind of important.”

“No food or roof talk?”

“Those are gifts I give myself.”

“Agreed.”

I am about to open my eyes to watch the rest of the halftime show, and I remembered one more thing.

“Oh yeah, that dream that I had a few months ago…”

“What about it?”

“I want to thank you for that, too!”

I opened my eyes to rejoin the halftime festivities, already in progress. I turned to see my entire family asleep in the living room, so I sneaked out to get a little time at home to myself. Interestingly enough, although it has been snowing and cold all week, I have yet to see a snowflake hit my car or frost cover my windshield.

Guys' Night Out

I am looking sharp, wearing a black collared shirt and blue jeans. My face is shaved, my hair is cut and gelled, and I am ready for anything that happens tonight.

Out with my friends, a Coke in my left hand, a cue in my right, rested on my foot. I have owned the table for the past few games, and I am waiting for my next shot. Aside from myself, there are three of my friends circling the pool table, discussing the week’s events and the women scattered about the pool hall. A petite, early twenty-something blonde from across the floor comes up to me and speaks.

“Hi, I’m new in town, and my new roomies and I were looking for some cute guys to party with after we get outta here. (Giggle Giggle)”

I divert my eyes for a second to look over her left shoulder. One of her friends waves at us. There are five of them in total, three brunettes, and two blondes. They are all in their early twenties, and all extremely hot. I wave them over.

“Why don’t you and your friends come and play pool with us for a while?”

She smiles at me, “That sounds good to me! (Giggle)” she says. The nine of us play pool until closing time, and then go back to the girls’ rented house for a while.

Things like this never happen to me.

More likely is a scenario in which, in a last minute effort to get out of my apartment for a few hours, I call fifteen or sixteen of my friends. I do this knowing full well that out of the people that I call, only two or three of them will want to leave their homes for a game or two of pool.

We get to the dive bar that I hate, but my friends love. One of my friends is wearing a faded t-shirt, torn blue jeans, and a hat that looks as if it hadn’t been washed since he received it as a birthday present in junior high school. Another wears a brownish-bluish hoodie over a stained, formerly white, t-shirt. The hoodie is smattered with paint from art projects and grease from working on his car.

After a number of times trying to look decent for these outings, and seeing my friends look as if they were homeless, I have become complacent and given up. I am wearing a pair of camouflage shorts, decade old sneakers, and a black hat to cover my uncut, uncombed hair. My face hasn’t been shaved in four or five days, and my shirt has the words ‘This Is What Cool Looks Like’ printed across it.

After snatching defeat from the jaws of victory on the pool table, I take a seat on a bench a few feet away and await my next embarrassing game. My friends taunt me, and I blame the loss on the leaning, poorly maintained table.

After a few minutes of watching my friends play, I notice one of my friends actually talking to a woman. She isn’t the cute little blonde that I was hoping for. Instead, she is in her late thirties, her hair is gray and thinning. She is missing a few teeth, and bears a striking resemblance to someone I once saw on a Discovery Channel special about methamphetamines.

My turn to play finally comes up, so I stand and start walking to the table to put my quarters in. Joe stands next to me and bumps me with his elbow.

“Dude, she thinks you’re hot!” Joe says, laughing.

“Great…” I say in disgust. I take one of my rings and hurriedly move it over to my left ring finger.

“Alright Joe, let’s hurry up and play, I wouldn’t want to keep my wife waiting!” I say as loud as is reasonably possible, making sure she notices.

I sit down and wait for Joe to break, she comes and sits next to me. I pull my hat down and scoot away from her. She turns to me and tries to start a conversation.

“So, what’s your name?”

I try to keep the answers as short as possible. “Jake.”

“How come I don’t see you in here more often?” She asks, obviously flirting with me.

I hurry a response that I vaguely remember in an attempt to get her to leave me alone.

“(Blah blah blah) wife (blah blah blah) two kids (blah blah blah blah). (Blah blah blah blah, blah blah) happily married (blah blah). (Blah blah blah, blah blah blah) seven years.”

She inches closer to me, gives me a two-toothed grin, and puts her hand on my knee as she says, “Your wife isn’t here, is she?”

Trying to be as nice as possible, I get up and walk into the restroom, praying that she is gone by the time that I get out. Stalling for time, I splash water on my face in an attempt to get the circus-freak-attracting pheromone off.

Ten minutes later, I finally emerge from the restroom to find a friend from work had joined our party. Justin was an odd character that I had only hung out with once or twice. He said his hellos, and went about his business with the group of guys he came to meet.

I sit down again. Apparently not getting the clue, the crack head sits next to me again. She leans over and whispers in my ear, “You know what I like to do to guys?”

Before she could get another word out, I say, “Hey, you see my friend over there?” I point in Justin’s direction.
She looks at me, confused, “Yeah, what about him?”

“That dude thinks you’re hot! You should go talk to him!”

Finally getting the clue, she takes leave. The party animals that my friends are, they decide to head home.

“Guys, it’s only midnight!”

“I got things to do in the morning, man. I gotta run.”

“He’s my ride, sorry Jake.”

The next evening, I get a call from Justin.

“Jake, whatcha doin’ tonight?”

“I’m just gonna kick it at home tonight.”

“Dude, that chick that was hanging out with you guys was a freak!”

“You’re telling me!”

“Man, she didn’t get outta here ‘till noon today!”

Not fully grasping what he is saying, I continue the conversation. “She wouldn’t stop trying to hit on - wait, what did you say?”

“She didn’t leave here ‘till noon! She made me breakfast this morning and everything!”

In shock, I eek out, “Tell me you didn’t…”

He did.

He then proceeds to tell me the whole story. After ten or twelve too many drinks, he took the poster child for drug rehab centers back to his place for, what I will henceforth describe as, ‘relations’.

“Dude, she does this thing with her tongue-“

“Man, I don’t want to know! You should probably see a doctor and get tested, and then a shrink and get tested!”

I’m not sure what I find more disturbing, the fact that he actually had relations with the girl, or the fact that he is bragging about it.

“Jake ya gotta take what you can when you can. Anyway, we stayed up ‘till about four this morning and-“

“Justin, I think I’m gonna puke.”

I hang up the phone and run into the bathroom. I still get nauseous when I think about Justin, the side show, and their ‘relations’.

Days of Innocence

Summers spent at the local pool, playing Marco Polo. Celebrating with the team at the local pizza joint after winning the last game of the little league season. Ice cold lemonade and fresh baked cookies with friends after a water balloon fight. Many images can come to mind when one starts to reflect on their childhood.

For some reason, when I think of the times I had growing up, I tend to remember the pranks I played on my brothers. As long as I can remember, I have been somewhat mischievous. Strewn about my mother’s photo albums are pictures of me holding down one of my brothers, punching them or pouring some sort of liquid on their heads. In my defense, I saw it as toughening them up. I always saw myself as a very creative child, finding new and interesting ways to (as my parents described it) torture my family.

My brother, 4 years my junior, has always been terrified of Chucky from the “Child’s Play” movies. As a child, whenever a commercial for one of the films started, he would run to his room and shut the door. It would take my parents quite a bit of coaxing before he would come out again, requiring them to convince him that the ad had ended.

As what would be considered to most to be a thoughtful gesture, my grandmother once bought him a My Buddy doll for Christmas. The doll was intended as an educational toy, with buttons, zippers, Velcro fasteners and shoelaces. The popular toy, given to tens of thousands of children, also bore an uncanny resemblance to Chucky.

Upon opening the gift, my brother dropped it and ran to his room. He slammed the door, and was sheltered inside for half an hour before my parents were able to coax him out. The doll was stored in my closet, with my parents and my brother hoping that he would never see it again.

The My Buddy doll, which wrought terror into the heart of my little brother, was the best gift my grandmother ever gave me. Over the months following that Christmas it gave me unbridled joy. Somehow, the doll found its way to the most inexplicable of locations. My brother would often open his toy box to find it sitting atop a fire truck. He would awake early in the morning to find My Buddy lying beside him, smiling. Being woken at 3 A.M. by the screams of a three year old let me know that I had accomplished my mission. I would spend those nights giggling myself back to sleep.

After 3 months of not being able to sleep, and weekly trips to a local department store for replacement sheets, my parents curbed the activity by burying the doll in a box deep within the garage. It was never to be seen again.

At an early age, the youngest out of the three was my shadow. He tried to emulate or be involved with everything that our middle brother and I did. From swordfights in the front yard to chores around the house, he followed us every step of the way.

One summer afternoon, I had just pulled a jar from the refrigerator to snack when curiosity got the better of him. He approached me in the kitchen, wondering what I was eating.

“Whatcha eatin’?” He looked up and asked me.

I pulled the fork out of my mouth. With it still full, I garbled, “Pickles... Ya want some?”

His eyes lit up, and with enthusiasm, he said “Yeah!”

I took the fork and drove it to the bottom of the jar, making sure I could pile on as many of the small green disks as was physically possible. I handed him the fork, and with a swift bite, he cleaned off the tines. His eyes lit up again, when he came to the realization that the kosher dills that I had promised him were in fact, ultra-mega-wicked hot jalapenos. They were of the variety that had labels only written in Spanish. On the front of the jar was emblazoned a yellow triangle with an exclamation mark, and underneath, the word “Aviso!”

He opened wide and started to try fanning the flames, but it did him no good. Laughing, I grabbed a class from the cabinet, filling it with water from the tap. I did this, knowing full well that water has the effect of opening the taste buds on the tongue, intensifying the effect.

“Here! Drink this!” I handed him the full glass of water, and he sucked down every last drop.

My brother started to scream obscenities that were, under the given circumstances, appropriate. However, at his age, they might have gotten the both of us grounded for ten to twenty years. I gave him a few slices of bread to scarf down, and he never asked me for food again.

My mother hated the little pranks I played on my brothers. My father on the other hand, had the tendency of encouraging this type of behavior. He snickered every time I described pranks I would play on by friends. The encouragement ended however, one April Fool’s Day, when he found himself as the target of one of my jokes.

My parents’ room and my brothers’ room happened to lie right across the hall from each other. They both had doors that opened inwards. This makes it rather easy to forcibly prevent the doors from opening by tying the door knobs together. I woke at 4 A.M., tied the doors with a jump rope, and sat in the end of the hall, waiting.

6 o’clock came around, and after a few rattles on the handle, my younger brothers started pounding.

“Jake! I hafta pee!” The youngest one started to scream.

“April Fool’s!” I went into the living room to watch my cartoons, but promptly untied the jump rope as soon as my dad started to yell.

These are the kinds of things that I look back on with a smile. It makes me proud to know that I had a hand in raising my brothers. This is especially true when I see the youngest, now 18, being scolded by his girlfriend for unscrewing the cap of the salt shaker at the dinner table.

Having burgers at my mom’s house, he asks me “Dude, can you pass the pickles?”

I open the jar of jalapenos and slide them his way.

“Very funny…”

Travel Diary Study of '06

I, like many other residence of Flagstaff, was asked to participate in a household travel survey last week. This was to depict the experiences and patterns of the average person while driving around our town.

These are the results of my survey.

Thursday, 9:06 AM:
When driving to school this morning, cut off by yippee (my name for a person who owns a black Excursion with a bumper sticker that says ‘save the trees’). Yippee comes within approximately 2 feet of front bumper when cutting me off. I pass the Excursion to the left hand side, beep twice, and after obtaining driver’s attention, display my right middle finger for him to see.

Driver retaliates by rolling down window and throwing large peanut butter and banana smoothie at my passenger side window. Smoothie container is destroyed upon impact, dispersing its contents about the entire right side of my vehicle.

No comment on how the flavor of the smoothie was ascertained.

10:15 AM:
While traveling behind Subaru Outback, I was forced to slam on my brakes to avoid a collision with said vehicle when it suddenly stops for no apparent reason. I glance in rear view mirror to notice that six vehicles brake and swerve to avoid a collision with each other and myself. Two of the vehicles behind me veer into oncoming traffic, narrowly adverting an accident with a motorcycle and a 16-wheeler. Two others swerve to the right. One goes off the road, the other stops just in time to avoid hitting a rather large pine tree. In my estimation, at least 7 people are nearly killed or seriously wounded.

Two seconds later, the reason the driver ahead of me stopped suddenly becomes obvious. A squirrel appears from the front of the Outback, and attempts to cross the street. Squirrel is then hit by opposing traffic.

10:33 AM:
I receive text message from classmate who previously requested assistance with homework problem in calculus. Classmate previously tried to convince me that I was wrong about a certain point that I had showed her on the problem. She had sent me the text message to explain that I was right and to apologize.

I attempt to respond to the message, while driving and not paying attention to the words that I was typing. I attempt to type phrase “I told you!” but somehow, it comes out “I love you!” I do not become aware of the mistake until she types back “I love you too!” By this time, the damage has been done. I am now being stalked by a 19 year old obese woman with three children.

11:45 AM:
I make the mistake of jumping on the freeway to make a “quick” trip to Target. I-40 westbound is backed up like a clogged toilet for 120 minutes. I take advantage of the time, traveling at less than 5 mph the entire trip, to finish my homework, balance my checkbook and play Lumines. I finally reach my destination at 1:50 PM.

2:30 PM:
Waiting for a light to turn, a cute blonde girl around my age in a red Focus pulls along my left side. She looks over and waves, I wave back. She smiles, I smile back. She starts making kissy faces at me; I write down my number and hold it against the window. She takes down my number and waves again. The light finally turns green and we both drive away.

My girlfriend is less than impressed. She slaps the back of my head and calls me some rather vulgar names. I loose my handle on the fresh cup of coffee I had just purchased at the Starbucks inside of Target. All 24 ounces of the piping hot coffee spill into my lap, causing burns and blisters.

I cry, girlfriend laughs.

Friday, 7:33 AM:
Now at work, God punishes finger used to flip-off yippee by lacerating it. I am working on computer, replacing a burnt-out power supply. Upon attempting to remove the wires from the motherboard, I jerk the wires away, forcing finger into sharp edge of case. Finger is punctured, causing bleeding for 5-10 minutes, as well as tainting the 26-year-old perfect safety record of my IT department.

Lost Cause

Over the years, a few responsibilities have become intrinsic parts to any position that I hold in a company. Besides being ‘the dude who rants a lot,’ ‘the dude who always looks like he needs sleep’ and ‘the really irritable guy’, I have also spent a portion of the last few years as a trainer, in one extent or another. First, as the lead mentor at a call center that offered directory service for cell phone users, and as a pseudo technical trainer for end users in my building.

I started training, specifically mentoring, with admittedly inauspicious intent. I wasn’t looking to share my knowledge with those who were lacking, or make the team better as a whole. I started training because I absolutely hated answering phone calls all day.

The job consisted of sitting in front of a computer with a headset on and connecting people to phone numbers we found in a database. I was one of the faster operators in the building, with my call times averaging between 15-25 seconds apiece. Stretch that out over a few hours, and there was often a case where I would take 1000 or more calls in a day. Stretch it out over the year, and well, you get the point. For someone who gets bored with everything easily, all the calls that I had answered had taken their toll.

I also saw training as an opportunity to impress management with the wide variety of abilities in my skill set, and hopefully, an opportunity to meet girls. Unfortunately, after just a few weeks, most of the management learned that I was an impatient ball of nerves. Even though my trainees would walk away from the experience with a greater knowledge of the job, they might also walk away emotionally scarred. Management kept me on as a mentor, but never promoted me any higher.

The experience with the women at the job wasn’t much better. With the exception of one girl that I met in my tenure, the girls that were coming in were too old, too young, too dumb, too aggravating, too boring, too crazy or just flat out not my type.

Although I started with mixed motives, but ultimately I found the experience rewarding. As many times as I had to prevent myself from choking the trainees, the time I spent with them taught me patience and teaching techniques that have traveled with me to other positions. The biggest lesson that I learned was, no matter how hard you try, no matter how intelligent some people are, not everyone is capable of learning everything. Most everyone is naturally either right or left brained, favoring one over the other since birth.

After a certain amount of time trying to teach someone, a trainer must write some trainees of as a lost cause, wish them the best of luck, and show them the door. It’s not something that a trainer likes to do, but is necessary as part of the job. A new hire who isn’t keeping up with the rest of the class, slows the class down as a whole, becomes a liability to the manager they are going to report to, wastes the trainer’s time, and ultimately, wastes their own time. Giving them their walking papers just helps them to find something they are better suited at.

Take one trainee I had for example. For our purposes, we will call her Sharon (mostly because I can’t remember her real name). Sharon was a woman in her early to mid-thirties. She had spent a good majority of her adulthood as a stay at home mother, taking care of her two kids and the home. With her kids getting a little older, and not needing her at home during the day, she decided to get a job to occupy her time.

Sharon was a musician by nature, more comfortable with the keys on a piano than the ones on a keyboard. The only real experience she had with computers was checking her e-mail and browsing the web. Her typing skills were sub-par, compared to the other trainees in her class, she barely had enough speed to pass the typing test required to get the job.

After three weeks in classroom training, learning the ins-and-outs of the job, like everyone else, she was handed off to the mentors to refine the skills she would need to be successful. I was the first one to sit with her and watch her work.

“Sharon, is it?”

The only response I received was a slight nod, indicating that she was a little nervous.

“Ok, Sharon, I am going to plug my headset in and listen in to a few calls of yours to see what rough spots you might have, and how we can polish them out.”

“Ok…”

I plugged myself in, took a seat next to her and began listening to a couple of calls, noticing that her average call time was well over a minute. The expression on her face was looking more and more anxious by the second. I tried to ease her into the experience as simply as possible.

“Just relax, pretend that I’m not even here.”

Her first call came across the line. A friendly recording played, asking the customer what city and state to look for information in. The customer promptly responded.

“Phoenix Arizona, please.”

Sharon managed to finally put a sentence together.

“How can I help you, sir?”

“I need the number for a Dairy Queen on Bell and 29th.”

“That will be just one second sir.”

Completely in a daze, she sat there and stared at her terminal for about twenty or thirty seconds. No typing, no looking at her notes, just sitting there and staring. She looked as if she was about to type something, then turned and looked at me, completely at a loss as what she should do next.

Hoping that all she needed was a direction, I wrote down ‘type the word dairy in the first box’ then showed her my notepad. She read the note, followed the directions to a letter, sat and stared for another twenty seconds, then stared at me again, looking for another clue.

I wrote her another note, ‘Begin your search’. She read the note, stared at me again, and then wrote. ‘How?’ directly below the message I had just written.

At this point, I was starting to get a little irritated. Either she was too nervous to function properly in this job, or after three weeks of paid training, she had not yet learned what key to use to complete her primary function. I pointed to the proper key, and she did something that no one I had ever mentored had done. She slid the keyboard in my direction.

As a general rule, to prevent dependency on others, everyone in the mentoring program had decided collectively not to enter anything into the trainee’s keyboard. We were there as advisors only, not to do their jobs. We wrote notes, gave them pertinent information and spelling, and gave them pointers along the way, but never did their job.

I slid the keyboard back in front of her hands, and pointed at the key again, this time more explicitly identifying the key she needed to use. She gave me a dirty look, angrier than any other I had ever seen, then pressed the button. Thirty or so listings appeared on her screen, they were various businesses with the word ‘dairy’ in the name from around the valley. With the listings and their street names in front of her, she should be able to scroll the listings to find the proper one. Instead, she starred at the screen for another twenty seconds, and slid the keyboard in my direction again.

“Sharon, I’m not here to do the job for you, just to help you out. Scroll down until you find the listing.”

She did as I had instructed, scrolling down to the bottom of the list, where I saw, quite clearly, a listing for Dairy Queen at 2900 E. Bell. I promptly took the tip of my pen and pointed it at the entry displayed on the screen.

She pulled her hands away from the keyboard, leaned back, and tried to soak in what I was telling her. To help get my point across, I started tapping the listing with my pen. Either completely oblivious to what I was trying to say, or functionally illiterate, she informed the customer of the progress of her search.

“Uh, I’m not finding anything for that listing, sir.”

Now, fairly irate, I took my pen and started poking at the listing on the screen with the enthusiasm and fervor of a convict shanking a prison guard. My pen tip bounced off the screen 6-7 times, leaving ink marks on the glass. I did everything I could think of to point out the correct entry besides taking a Sharpie, circling the listing and writing, “This one, stupid!” on the glass.

“Just one moment, sir.”

A two minutes after she picked up the phone, Sharon’s flickering, 3-watt light bulb she calls a brain, finally turned on. She turned to me and smiled with a sense of relief.

“Here we go sir, I have…”

I put her calls on hold and explained what she did wrong, making sure to inform her of every minutia of her errors. Repeating them 3 or 4 times to make sure that she was aware of them.

I took her calls off hold and the pattern repeated itself. For two hours, she would get a call, slide me the keyboard a few times, and I would resist the urge to smash it against the desk in front of me. After fifteen days of training, she was unable to make sense of the system. I took some time to browse the average call times of the other students in her class. Each and every one of them had reduced their times well below the recommended 48 seconds they needed before being passed off to their managers.

Sharon’s average time was in the 120-second ballpark.
Afraid of having an aneurysm, and fearing I was taking the wrong approach, I backed off for the day to let her get some time to go it alone. I headed back to my desk, chanting, and finished my notes on that day’s progress.

“…Calmblueocean, calmblueocean, calmblueocean, calmblueocean….”

I usually keep my notes rather professional, but I was so wound up from the day’s events that I couldn’t help myself.

Notes on first mentoring session for new hire Sharon:
Despite my apparent inability to aid in Sharon’s development whatsoever, I continued to sit with her in the hopes that something, anything; that I was trying to tell her was sinking in. I was sorely disappointed.

Sharon is completely unable to figure out even the most simple of calls on her own, turning to me as a crutch, even for listings that were well known landmarks down the street from the building we are now in. She repeatedly makes the same mistakes, even after being told how to correct the mistakes a multitude of times.

Her inability to retain any knowledge that I have given her whatsoever shows either complete contempt for my experience as a CSR, or the attention span of a 5 year old.

A short list mistakes Sharon made repeatedly in my two hours sitting with her:
Using the word ‘The’ as a keyword for searches
Asking what state ‘New York City’ was in
Letting the air go dead for more than 3 minutes
Putting customers on hold to get a drink of water
Mistaking the ‘call termination key’ for the ‘begin search’ key
Repeating words such as ‘crap’ on the air when unable to find a listing
Not searching all available outlets when trying to find a difficult entry

In short, she is completely unable to perform even the most basic tasks required of her as a CSR. Furthermore, I am not an expert, but it is my recommendation that she be tested for a learning disability. Sharon, at times, exhibits signs of illiteracy.

I also think that HR should review the requisites for hiring, if only to save the time, money, and effort it takes to train someone such as her.

My recommendation:
TERMINATION!!!

I came into the office the next day after some introspection. After much thought, I gave her the benefit of the doubt, and figured that I might be the problem. I passed her off, along with my notes, to another mentor. I figured someone with a softer hand and more patience would have better luck.

Out of sight and out of mind, I was at my desk finishing up some notes on a rather successful session with another trainee in Sharon’s class. The training lead, Amy, took a seat next to me.

“Uh, we need to talk about your notes on Sharon…”

“What about them? I thought they were pretty concise.”

“Well, Jake, they’re rather…”

“Rather what?”

“Mean!”

“Mean?”

“Jake, listing mistakes she made is expected, but questioning her literacy? Don’t you think you are being just a bit rough on her?”

“Actually, I thought about it a lot last night, and came to the same conclusion.”

“So, what did you do?”

“I handed her off to Stacy.”

Stacy, was without a doubt, the best person I could think of to mentor Sharon. Calm, personable, patient, and persistent, she was always the best fit for someone who needed a seemingly insurmountable amount of improvement.

No sooner had I spoken her name, she walked up. Her face carried a look of shock, as if she had just witnessed a violent crime. This was completely out of the norm for someone who usually had a smile on her face, even when things were rough.

“How’s it going, kid?” I came to the conclusion that she had the same luck that I did, but she looked like she needed to vent.

“She typed the word ‘return’.”

“Say again…” Amy was confused, as was I.

Stacy started again. “I told her ‘now hit return’ after she typed the name of the listing. I looked down to write something, then looked back up, and the word ‘return’ was in the search box. I was with her for two hours and I still can’t drop her time below two minutes.”

I looked at Amy with a smirk that had ‘I told you so’ written all over it. “So Amy, you still think that I was being mean?”

“Well…”

Tired of the hemming and hawing, I looked over to Stacy. “Let’s just see what she has to say about it.”

“Can her!” Stacy is not known to be mean, but those words came out with so little hesitation that I think that she might have actually experienced some sort of joy saying them.

Amy looked at the both of us, shocked. “But she is so nice!”

“She sucks! She sucks a lot! She might be the dumbest person I have ever met in my life! We sat with her for four hours, Amy, four hours, and she hasn’t improved! You really think any manager is gonna take her with her times that high?” I’m never at a loss for words when frustrated.

“No… They won’t.”

“Nice is not competent, Amy, you know that as well as I do. She has had three weeks of training, two days on a fairly simple job, and shown no improvement at all.”

“Ok… I’ll take care of it…”

Amy reluctantly walked over to Sharon’s desk and started to talk to her. It was in inaudible conversation that I didn’t want to witness. I turned back to Stacy, still standing in front of me, aghast.

“Go to break, kid, you look like you need it.”

“I’m gonna go talk to HR.”

A few minutes later, after she had done the dirty deed, Amy came back with a look of relief on her face. Under the shadow of the muffled obscenities coming out of the HR office, we began to chat again.

“We both kind of decided that she was better off somewhere else.”

“So she wasn’t upset?”

“No, I actually think she was expecting it. Well it just goes to show you…”

“Goes to show you what?”

“Like my dad always said, you can’t expect a painter to fly.”

“What? What does that mean?”

“Never mind.”

To this day, I still have no idea what she was talking about.