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2: WORKING PAINS; Six Dollar Ice-Cream. May, 2023

Thursday and Friday fly by; a blur. Weekend feels long. Work's a pain all the next week. Problems pop up several times a day. That's normal. Instead of just solving the problem the supervisors and some co-workers get emotional, angry. The power went out. The IT Techs told us it would while they installed something. A supervisor, perhaps who didn't get the memo or just forgot, yells words that are not usual for polite company, especially in a business setting, "I've got effing work to do!" she screamed. I thought it was a one-time thing, for her, others. But it's happened several times with each one, not all, so I now see it as their pattern and practice of coping with problems, predictable, consistent, daily almost. I have to make eye contact with customers sitting in the waiting room, sometimes at my desk, and other workers' desks when these... outbursts happen.

Then I have to solve the problem if it's my customer or situation.

Eliminate the middle man! Don't waste psychic energy getting mad. Just fix the damned problem! I've learned not to wait for them to fix it, not to 'take the problem to them'.

'Don't you ever get mad?' one asked me loudly, in front of customers and staff.

I explained the waste of energy concept. I don't know if it affected anyone's way of thinking.

Their fixes only fix it as far as they're concerned as supervisors; not for the people who have to do the work, barely for the customer.

I haven't worked here long but I see other people keep problems to themselves, fix it themselves. They consult with me, each other. Most problems are solvable... without all the emotion, without the loss of dignity and foul-mouthed loudness.

I ran into a girl I work with... who works here... one evening at the grocery store. We don't exactly work together, just on the same floor; she called me, "The Quiet Man". I didn't know why. We had a brief conversation there in the produce section, without her explaining why she called me that. A supervisor's emotional outburst a few days later found her and I... our eyes meeting... just shaking out heads at the 'Unquiet Man'.

By Wednesday, the seventeenth, I'm wondering why the hell some of these people work here. They're not... cut out for... people problems, and that's what we do; solve people problems. By Thursday I'm wondering why some of them still work here. By Friday I'm wondering why I work here. Oh yeah. Now I remember. It's payday!

The next week, walking to Cubby's Hole, Wednesday, the 24th, I sing, "Saturday night and I ain't got nobody,", spontaneously.

"I got some money 'cause I just got paid."

Hey! I remembered another line! I think. Can't remember anything else.

The Open Mic is full of diners in the restaurant half. The other half's a bar. I get a slot for seven-forty-five. It's not even six-oh-five. I don't want to sit here for two hours! But I walked down again. I wonder if I should go get my car, drive around, hang out at the house, do anything but sit here for hours to play three songs. I'm exaggerating. Work frustration wears on me. I put it away. Ping!

Maybe my neighbor, Patreace, "pah-tree-cah", I pronounce in my head, the barmaid, would keep my guitar. No. I don't want to bother her. And I already sweated a bit walking down here, trying to get here for an early signup time. Did I put on deodorant? I can't remember. I got out of the shower and got in a hurry, thinking I'd get here early, do my bit and leave without listening to the other acts. Five other people had the same idea.

I like the barmaid. Patreace is my neighbor, pronounces it 'pah-tree-ca', two doors down from me, last apartment by the woods. She also works for the apartment complex, dealing with tenants, showing apartments, collecting rent, dealing with problems. I saw her when I came in through the other section, the long, antique bar, and now she's running meals to tables in this section, where they hold the Open Mic. She's busy, but not too busy to smile back here. She's just helping the waitress, goes back to the bar after serving. I see her make a couple runs like that, helping the waitress. The food looks good, smells good.

I go out in the other section and sit at the bar. Patreace smiles, without asking, gets me a Corona with a slice of lime sticking out the top, so I can squeeze it and more thoroughly flavor the beer. We talked about that the first time she served me, she having pushed the lime down the neck without squeezing it. Now she serves them my way, tells people why. She describes it as 'exotic' to serve them that way, carry the lime-decorated bottle out to a table or set it on the bar. Patreace is slim and pretty, dark haired. She always looks a little tired. She has a two-year old daughter, looks at her picture in a locket every chance she gets. I asked about it. Yeah, that's how old men flirt. She and 'Cookie', the chef, have a thing going. He's not at her apartment all the time, but a lot. Her mother's good-looking too; babysits.

I order a chicken pecan salad. When it comes it is huge! I pig out, trying to get my money's worth. Eat every piece of everything in the bowl, think about ordering a pizza! Just kidding. Six-forty-five. Damn! Time doesn't fly when you're not having fun. I move down the bar toward the front door, closer to the television. There's a tractor-trailer rig hanging off an overpass. The blonde telling the story looks like she's really enjoying telling it.

I don't have television at home. "Fifty-seven channels, and nothin' on!" I find myself paying attention to commercials. I'm watching and half the time I don't know what they're selling. I don't need any of whatever it is, but I sit, engaged, letting them pump light into my eyes, concepts into my brain. I realize my mouth is hanging open. I hope I wasn't drooling! LOL! They make food gigantic on television, and look so good. "We have the meats!" I went there a month ago and asked for three of the steak-burgers they advertised on the marquee. I thought I'd take my neighbor and her daughter one.

"I don't think we have three of them!" the guy said over the intercom. "Wait a minute. Let me check!"

I laugh, say, "We have the meats!" He came back and only had one.

"I'll take it," I said. A couple weeks later they had a fish something on the marquees at those restaurants. Roast beef is their specialty. I went into the drive through... it was a different restaurant... the one in New Boston... and ordered the fish thing.

"We're out," the kid said. 'We don't have the meats.'

I ordered their classic roast beef. They had it. ' I got home and there wasn't much meat on the sandwich. 'We have the meats!'

"Put them on the sandwich!" I said out loud. I ate some fried chicken, cold.

I look out the window. The music store across the street from Cubby's Hole is closing, turning off the lights, locking the door. People are coming out, customers I think, and coming across the street. They go out of sight, in the door to the restaurant section I figure. I thought about going over earlier and buying guitar picks. I don't need guitar picks. I keep buying them, just to make sure I've got plenty. I use the nylon .88 millimeter, Dunlop. After I play with it a while it gets thinner, perfect, on the contact point, stays thick in the handling end. They have a texture on that end, easy to hang on to with thumb and forefinger. I usually drop one in the sound holes of my guitars, by accident, but leave it there, so I'll always have one with the guitar. I'm always going out without a gig bag with spares, strings, picks, stuff. I didn't maintain the system a while back, got the pick out when I forgot to bring one, and didn't put it back. Next time I wanted to play I had to just fake it with my fingers. I did okay. The musicians in the crowd probably didn't think so. Audience didn't seem to mind. I just kept going when I flubbed the strum. I just play enough to let me sing... like... the fancy-smancy car girl said.

Some girl is singing a pretty good song. I can't understand the words, but she's hitting the notes. The melody is good, and she sings the notes well; just doesn't pronounce the words well. She favors the notes over the enunciation. She sustains notes I think would work better shorter, more in favor of enunciating the word. Good structure, reporting back to a hook that works melodically, if I only knew what the words were. She kind of hangs onto notes, slurs from one note to the next, obscuring what the words are. Her voice drops off in volume in the openings of some lines, the middle of others, at the ends of lines. I miss those words too. When she stops I realize I stopped paying attention at some point, was thinking about those horse's asses at work.

Seven-seventeen. I'm so tired. Maybe I'll just erase my name from the board, head on home. I'm too tired to do that. I sit there, wilting on my stool.

Finally I get to play. There's not much oomph in my performance. I run through my three songs. I think it's polite applause tonight, not the spontaneous feel I got last time. Oh well. Sometimes you get the bear; sometimes the bear gets you.

The sound guy says, "Play one more." I finish out that last couple minutes with a short song. The karaoke girl comes up and starts setting up.

I pack up, head home. When I get close to the strip mall, I see her. She's sitting in her car, parked where she was before. I cross the street, walk by the wooded area, stumbling in the darkness on weed clumps and brickbats. When I get across from where she's parked I can't see her for the streetlight glare on the windshield. I thought I'd wave but, not seeing her, I don't.

I go into the convenience store. White light, bright colors, big blocks of chocolate and vanilla fudge calling my name. Beer. I don't want anything from here. I pick up a pint of ice cream. Damn! The clerk asks if I have their card. I call them Mark-Of-The-Beast-Cards. If you have it you get the discount. $4.95. If you don't, and I don't, $6.66. I buy it anyway. I know I won't buy it again.

"Did you play up at Cubby's tonight?" the clerk asks. I tell her I did. She complains, "I'm always working now!" I ask her if she plays. "No. I just like to listen."

I come out and fancy-smancy car girl's not over there. Stores are dark. Parking lot's empty. Broken glass glitters on the ground. I go on up the hill, cross back over the street and go home.

June 14, 2023: "Another Saturday night and..." I don't feel like going to Cubby's. What's my goal? Hit it rich? Make friends? Get the girl? I'm in bed by 10:00. I'm dreaming. It's a winter day, snow blowing, hard, blustery wind. Then... the wind stops, the snowflakes fall, big snowflakes. I know this place! It's South Korea. Big snowflakes crash on tall dry grass, make a sound. I stand, on a hill, marvel at the quiet. It's... okay. Everything's... okay... going to be... okay.