The rains have begun again, the water’s soaking through my shoes and socks, and even when it stops raining for a while it starts up again, and every footstep sounds like someone squeezing a sponge.
Monday, Dec. 18, 1995
On Mondays I work at Black Sheets, the sex magazine, but have I told you about the titillating, kinky, sexually stimulating’ stuff we do there? It’s a rush, I tell ya. Today, for example, I swept and mopped the kitchen, both bathrooms, and vacuumed the hall. Then I shredded the week’s recycling, expertly separating the plain paper from the glossy. I took out the trash, which means dragging five barrels one-at-a-time through the basement, where the house has big parties almost nightly.
And by parties, I mean orgies — stockades, cages, chains, the rack, etc. Lots of spunky rubbers, because it’s a safe dungeon, of course, but it’s a classy joint so most of them are in trash cans, not on the floor. I wouldn’t have the balls (nor the erection, probably) to attend such events, but as an introvert, it warms my cockles to see the sign that says, “Please do not engage in idle chatter in the play space.”
And this week, when I arrived, editor-in-chief Bill told me, “We have a special project for you.” I was hoping it would be reading through the submissions, like one Monday a couple of months ago, but today’s assignment wasn’t quite that special. My skills were needed to scrub a year’s worth of accumulated birdshit off the front and side sidewalks, and the part of the patio that’s beyond the patio.
Not that I’m complaining. I very much like my Monday gig. Bill and his sidekick Steve are easy to talk to, and they don’t expect me to talk on days I don’t feel like talking. They’re always enjoyably bickering with each other, and sometimes I’m included, and they keep me informed of zine and porn scuttlebutt I’d never know otherwise. And at the end of they day, there’s usually a pile of porn for me to take home. There’s a fringe benefit you don’t get at most jobs.
♦ ♦ ♦
The rain had at least temporarily let up by the time I left, and I took the F into my old neighborhood downtown, to do my Christmas shopping.
Now, that definitely does not mean buying presents or spending money, as I have no money, and I resigned from Christmas about ten years ago. I abhor the holiday, with all its forced affection and obligation and all the gift-wrapped pressure and disappointment.
When I lived downtown, near the premium retail blocks of Macy’s and Nordstrom, Emporium and FAO Schwarz and all the rest of the glittering monuments to cash, it became an Xmas tradition for me to wander the throngs and sneer at the capitalism in overdose, so I had to be there today.
And it was grand. I walked through Woolworth’s, and turned off six VCRs scattered throughout the store that were bellowing infomercials demanding that shoppers — already there to spend money — spend more and more.
Mostly, though, I just walked wide — that is, I walked like a normal human would walk the aisles on a normal non-Christmas day, refusing to turn sideways to squeeze past all the extra merchandise stacked in the way. Is it even legal for stores to block the aisles like that? If it is it oughta not be, so I walked into everything that was in my way, except people. Toppled a towering pyramid of Planter’s nuts, a big stack of wind-up toys, and a box of faux crystal that made a delightful shattering sound as it hit the floor. Then, wanting to exit the premises before being escorted out, I took the connecting escalator down to the subway station. All the other stores — I’ll catch ya next year.
♦ ♦ ♦
Waiting for the homeward BART, a gaggle of yuppies came onto the platform in fluffy red and white Santa caps, and I quietly took the Lord’s name in vain.
If there’s one thing I hate about Christmas (there’s many more than one) it’s big-money people feigning the so-called spirit. From their very nice three-piece suits and long jackets, there’s was no reasonable doubt that those fluffy-hatters were the enemy. For all their ho-ho-hoing, they’re people who’d never reach into their pockets to give a bum a nickel. They’re the same jerks who are three months behind on child-support payments despite thousands in the bank.
If I could’ve imagined a way to fuck over their afternoons I sure would’ve, and it would’ve made my Christmas merry. But my train came and I got aboard, sneering at them through the window. They didn’t even look my way, or I would’ve at the very least flipped them a holiday bird.
This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.
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