The loudest motherfucker

Picking my teeth with a Bic pen, I snagged half a kernel of popcorn from one of the craters where a filling used to be. As always, I sniffed it, and it smelled exactly like shit. Gotta be science behind that stink, like — does as entire digestive process take place in the cracks in my teeth?

It also made me stop and think — popcorn? Last time I had popcorn was when I bought a 49¢ bag at a grocery store and snuck it in to the Roxie, for Waterloo Bridge, nine days ago. I've brushed my teeth, lemmesee, twice since then, and still that popcorn kernel remained nestled in its niche.

Man, The Discovery Channel ought to do a documentary on the delicate ecosystem that thrives in my mouth.

♦ ♦ ♦  

At Black Sheets, I did some data entry, mailed out a week's worth of orders, and scrubbed the toilets. Also had a brief conversation with my co-worker Candy, who continues to be far prettier than either Bill or Steve.

It's been my experience that all office jobs are basically the same — push buttons, make copies, send faxes, answer phones, etc. This is the first office where scrubbing the toilet is part of my job, but it's also the first where they encourage me to take tall piles of porn home.

♦ ♦ ♦  

After work, it was time for shopping, which involves lots of walking. There are a dozen little grocery stores scattered around my part of Mission Dolores, and none of them have good prices on everything, but most have good prices on some things. Hence the walking.

I started by not shopping at Jose's Produce, just wandering the aisles, waiting for the right moment to discreetly drop seven roaches from a baggie onto the floor, near the meat counter.

Then I walked to Walgreens for cheap, flavorless, textureless bread (69¢), to B&T for ramen (12 for $1), Hwa Lei Market for an unidentified but cheap Asian pastry (69¢) and generic mustard (69¢), and Casa Thai for affordable peanut butter ($2.29, damn it — it was $1.99 a week ago).

The liquor store up the street has the best price on pickles ($1.99 for a big jar, or three for $5), so I got three.

Outside the liquor store, I stopped to read headlines at the news boxes. With my hand in my pocket, I jiggled some coins, and instantly a bum appeared, asking for spare change.

I sighed, and as I turned to see who I was about to say no to, the homeless guy suddenly screamed, "Motherfucker!" at me. Guess the 'no' was obvious in my body language. 

He'd shouted it really loud, possibly the loudest motherfucker I've ever received. The word was still reverberating in my head after he'd walked off. And jeez, it had been such a peaceful evening until then.

♦ ♦ ♦  

Weighed down with groceries from five stores in my backpack, I was waiting for a 'walk' light at the last intersection before the half-block walk to my hotel-home, when a conversation from behind cut through to my consciousness.

"We've given notice to the hotel owners, that it's a $25,000 fine for every drug offense." I glanced over my shoulder; the man talking was a young policeman in uniform, talking to a well-dressed businessman or mobster (there's no difference).

The silk suit answered, "Very good," like a boss talking to an employee, which he probably was.

The cop said, "We held a meeting for the hotel owners, explaining the law, and they seemed worried, as they should be." 

"Very good," the mobster/businessman said again.

Of course, they had to be talking about rez hotels, like the place where I live in, not real hotels. Real hotels are owned by corporations, and cops would never want to worry that kind of people and that kind of money.

Residential hotels, though — bum palaces, fleabags, SROs — are owned by people like Mr Patel, people barely scratching a living out of renting to poor people like me. 

So the cops are finally going to win the war on drugs, by coming after the city's Mr Patels. Shall I write another rant about the stupidity and futility of a so-called free country imprisoning people because they get high instead of getting drunk? Oh yes I shall write that rant, I'll write it a thousand times — but not today. 

Today I'll only say that I would've enjoyed saying something there at the curb, but it's unwise to argue with cops or gangsters. My fear of beatings, arrest, and being the next 'mysterious' death at the county jail usually keeps me quiet, and I was quiet tonight.

When the light finally flashed 'walk', I almost jogged across the street, slowing only when I heard the pickle jars in my backpack banging against each other.

From Pathetic Life #24
Monday, May 27, 1996

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.

Pathetic Life
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