[i]☼ ○ ▬
Scanning a crowded gymnasium. Picking out a semi-familiar
girl from the mass and approaching her. I compliment her attractive appearance.
She’s not convinced that I think she’s pretty and adds that she has a
boyfriend.
Me: “That’s okay. It doesn’t matter.”
Wesley Bunch appears. Apparently he’s her boyfriend. He’s
wearing some grey and black colored woolen sweater. I’m half aware that I’m
dreaming and decide to have my way considering there are no consequences. So I
pick the girl up and carry her to a classroom where it’s understood to be a sex
room. You can rent a bed for 30 minutes at a time in here but there’s no
curtains or anything. Everything’s out in the open. No beds are available so I
revert to a desk with a chair attached to it. The girl seems to be
semi-unconscious. I lay her out missionary style. A woman that’s supposed to be
the manager of the room is sitting directly next to us making it a little
awkward. She writes our names down and hands us two limes to show we’ve rented.
Wesley barges in interrupting our sex and starts shooting at me with a gun. It
makes this weird flatulence-pop sound but no bullets come out. In reflex I snag
the gun from his hands and start shooting him back. It turns out to be a fart
gun. He laughs about it.
▬ ○ ☼
Waking up around 11:30 a.m.
Oranges.
All day shift at China Wok.
It’s true I can honestly say I’ve been working this job too
long...to the point where I could crash and burn and lose my sanity...or just
turn on my apathetic auto-pilot, which I normally do eventually. But these
non-tippers are really striking a nerve today. Too many shit-tips in a row can
cause aggravation. The color of a person’s skin makes no difference to me when
it comes to respect or basic equality, but I’ve never been able to wrap my head
around why 90% of my stiffs come from black people.
...
Delivering an order on Realty Lane. A black girl in grey
sweatpants and lazy attitude answers the door. Her total is $13.92. She hands
me a twenty.
I ask, “Alright. Um. So how much you need back?”
I use this tactical question to help hint at the fact I’m
expecting a tip. I think it’s a subtle and polite method.
She answers, “Uh...seven. I mean six.”
I hand her six bucks, “Ooookay. Here’s six. That leaves me
with eight cents.”
I kind of left the last sentence hanging in the air.
Half embarrassed she just says, “Yeah...” and starts to
close the door. At this point the customer knows without a doubt that she’s not
tipping me.
I add, “I work for tips just so you know.”
Without remorse and another “Yeah” she closes the door.
Scrambled Egg. Five Guys French Fries with Ketchup. Honey
Green Tea.
Delivering an order to Colonial Arms Circle. The nice
shorthaired white girl deliberately crosses a straight line next to the tip
section on the credit card receipt. I joke to myself in the car as I drive
away, “And there’s the 10%!”
Dark Chocolate.
The day continues steadily into the night. The orders keep
coming. Even though I’m not making as much of a top dollar as I was yesterday,
today is still busy enough to produce a decent profit despite the 6 out of 34
orders that were stiffs.
Vegetable Lo Mein.
Off work and back home.
Chatting with Leslie on the phone.
Leslie: “I don’t even know where I am right now. I entered a
world I didn’t even know I was entering and got lost in it for a little while.”
...
Venting a little bit on the frustrations of my day. She has
this to say about the non-tipping black people epidemic, “The African-American
population spends more money on nondurable goods like clothing...and frivolous
things. They spend money excessively. Right behind that is Hispanics, Hispanic
females specifically. I guess when a black person stiffs you so many times it’s
more evident. Because it’s something that draws your attention when it happens.”
Downstairs de-shelling the pecans I got from North Carolina
while continuing a discussion with Leslie.
Enjoying some of my slightly burnt Oven-Roasted Pecans with
Milk.
Sleep 3:30 a.m.
[i] Album
artwork for single release of Cui Jian's “Nothing To My Name”.
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