Vaughn was something of a homunculus. He was a waddle of a man who wore too much cologne and a nametag that said General Manager. There was always a clipboard in his left hand, a pen behind his right ear. These things did not make Vaughn an evil man. These things didn’t make him much at all, except, of course, General Manager of Bargeld’s Music Warehouse at the corner of Clark and Halsted.
I had been working there for six months. It started as a Christmas temp job, with five of the fifteen extras guaranteed a full time position. I didn’t expect to get the full time position. But no matter what the job is, when fifteen temp workers are hired, twelve of them are bound to be subnormal; guys who can’t control their tempers, girls who can’t resist stealing, and others who never make it on time, regardless of race, religion, or sex. All I had to do was show up sober and count CDs and write numbers in a fat inventory book. Temp workers were rarely given problems they couldn’t solve on their fingers. I’d watch Vaughn walk around and size up the workers. I’d watch and I’d learn. One day he approached a temp worker named Lafferty who’d begin to shake uncontrollably whenever someone spoke to him.
“Have you invy’ed the jazz section?”
“Invy?” said Lafferty. “I don’t understand.”
“Have you done inventory in the jazz section?”
“Um… Jazz? I did… I’m doing… I mean, no one asked me…”
“Oh for the love of Christ! Mop the floor!”
I knew Vaughn would be in my face sooner or later so I devised a system where I’d erase the date of the previous inventory and write in the current one. That way, everything looked as though it had just been done. My time came shortly after Lafferty’s.
“You! What the hell! What’s your name?”
“John.”
“Did you invy the jazz section?”
I leafed through the pages as if I had the thing memorized. “Let’s see, jazz, jazz…” I really played it up. “Oh yes. Did it this morning.” Vaughn looked at me, slightly dumbfounded, and said something like “Good man, good worker,” before he walked away. Once he was gone, I changed the date back, just in case someone got wise. I did this three or four times until Vaughn stopped asking altogether.
“Hey man,” said Lafferty at the end of a fifteen-minute break. “Do you think you could cover for me while I go smoke a J?”
I looked at Lafferty. He was a human twitch, in from one of the Dakotas.
“Mop the floor!” I said.
But I still never expected that full time spot.
§
Instead of getting better over the run of six months, I got worse. Instead of coming up with new tricks, I aroused suspicion while covering my old ones. Instead of getting used to the faces and the walls, I grew to dislike nearly every corner, every employee, every boss. This occurred no matter where I worked, but sense usually prevailed. I was able to step back and see that the people I worked with were individuals like me, trapped in a minimum wage job. We carried our own thoughts, feelings, and ideas like little paper bags filled with turds that we didn’t know where to deposit. Some of the employees were fucking each other. Others passed around a petition to allow the men to wear earrings if they so desired. Sense usually prevailed and allowed me a certain amount of empathy with my fellow employees. Only my senses had failed me after six months at Bargeld’s.
Take, for instance, Evan.
Evan was thirty-two years old. His hair was short all around his head except in back, where it hung down to his shoulders. In addition, there was a ring of brown fuzz around his thick lips. He took karate lessons and played computer war games on the weekends. Passing Evan was like walking by a spider’s web that seemed to be looking back at you. A spider’s web wearing a silver cross and a Store Manager nametag.
Evan didn’t like me. I didn’t like Evan. Only Evan had been elected Night Manager and once the Christmas rush was over, he was left with a store full of bored employees. He ran around giving us all worthless little jobs that no one wanted. I remember a Tuesday night in January. It was snowing. Snowing? It was a blizzard. In two hours there had been one customer, who only stopped in to get warm. I had my inventory book back in the classical section where no one could see that I was doing nothing. The others just didn’t catch on as quickly. There was an African American lad named Tony who hung around the listening booths. Tony was all right as a human being but none too bright when it came to Working For The Man. Each time he passed the listening stations, he’d set down his inventory book and slip on a pair of headphones. Then he’d stand there, tapping his foot and saying “I can jam with this!” or “This sucks!” in a voice that resonated through the store. Evan targeted him first.
“Tony, do you know where the snow shovel and salt rocks are?”
“No.”
“They’re in back.”
“Yeah?”
“Yes. Why don’t you shovel the sidewalk?”
“Oh shit, man. It’s COLD out there! I work in a music store. I don’t work outside in the COLD! And besides, I forgot my gloves.”
“All right, Tony. Do you know where the ladder is?”
“Next to the snow shovel and salt rocks?”
“Get the ladder and clean the lights.”
“Clean the lights? You mean the lights on the ceiling?”
“Yes, the lights on the ceiling.”
“I’m afraid of heights.”
“Tony!”
Then it was my turn.
“I forgot my gloves too,” I said.
“Help Tony.”
The job went like this: first you had to climb to the top rung of the ladder and unscrew the plastic cover on the long fluorescent light. Then you had to wipe down the cover, front and back, and put it on again without losing any of the screws. So Tony got up there with a Phillips head screwdriver while I waited below with a washrag and a bucket of soap.
“Shit,” said Tony. “These things really are dirty.”
He was on the second screw. The cover popped from its hinges and a cloud of dust encircled Tony’s head. I stepped back and watched it settle on the floor.
“Oh shit!” said Tony. “SHIT! This ain’t dust! These are motherfucking BUG CARCASSES! A MILLION TINY BUG CARCASSES!”
Evan in the manager’s booth pretended not to hear. Tony handed down the first panel and waited on the ladder while I washed it off. He was right. There were hundreds of little bug exoskeletons stuck to the plastic. Some of them were glued on tight. They had probably been up there since the opening of the store. My sponge wasn’t doing the trick. It was like trying to wash burnt oatmeal off the bottom of a saucepan.
“I’m going to find an ice scraper.”
I set the panel down and went into the supply room. I read a music magazine, looked through the afternoon shipment, and drank a cola. When I came out again, Evan was telling Tony to quit hanging around the listening station and get back to work.
“I want both of you to finish cleaning these lights tonight. If you don’t finish, I’m going to hand Vaughn two write-ups tomorrow morning.”
There were at least thirty lights hanging from the ceiling. Thirty lights, and one hour until we could punch out and go home. Evan stood there looking at us. His eyes seemed to be held in their sockets with sharp pins. His goatee and mullet stapled onto his skin. The thought of smashing his face in crossed my mind. It must have crossed Tony’s mind too because Evan suddenly spun in a circle and assumed a karate style fighting stance.
“I wouldn’t try anything if I were you,” said Evan. “I’m a brown belt.”
He threw a few kicks in the air to let us know he was serious.
Tony was still fairly new to the game. “What’s a write-up?”
“A write-up is a warning,” I told him. “Get two and you have to be counseled by the General Manager. Get three and you’re fired.”
“I’ll take the write-up,” said Tony. “I don’t want to clean no more of those fucking lights.”
“What about you?” asked Evan.
“I’m going to go look for that ice scraper.”
We were both written up that night.
§
Meanwhile, I was breaking up with my girlfriend. We had been breaking up for three months. It was a difficult separation. Each time we’d end it for good, I’d get drunk and show up at her window at two a.m. Sometimes, she’d get high and show up at MY window at two a.m. One night, no kidding, I was drunk and she was high and we showed up at each other’s window AT THE SAME TIME. Neither of us was home, of course, and the following day we accused each other of sleeping around.
We were some pair.
Her name was Wendy. She liked Bruce Springsteen, D.H. Lawrence and drugs, lots of drugs. I was drinking a six-pack a night so I was in no position to tell her to quit. Cocaine was her recent craving and you can’t love a coke fiend no matter how hard you try. At two a.m., on the nights I showed up at her place, she’d be up with her telephone answering machine and “The Empire Strikes Back” playing on her video tape recorder (both machines she eventually hocked to buy coke). She sat on the floor, playing a particular scene over and over, trying to get it onto her answering machine.
“Shh,” she’d say. “I gotta record this explosion.”
There were 70’s LP sleeves covering the floor; ashtrays overflowing with lipstick stained cigarette butts. Shoes, change, coat hangers, an empty bottle of red nail polish, the all holy mirror, and the all holy dollar bill rolled up tight. A drunk’s apartment is no better, but while my space looked as if I had accidentally knocked everything over, Wendy’s room had the appearance of someone frantically looking for something that cannot be found.
On one of those nights, I said, “Look, sweetheart, I want to talk.”
“When does Darth Vader say “I gave myself to the dark side and so should you?”
I thought for a moment. “Darth Vader never says that.”
“Yes he does. I can’t remember when.”
“Look, I’m telling you. Darth Vader never says that. You’ve invented this in your head. You know how you dream things up and think that they’ve really happened? Well, you’ve been dreaming about “Star Wars” and made up all these scenes that never occurred. You’re nuts, see?”
“GODDAM YOU! DARTH VADER DOES TOO SAY “I GAVE MYSELF TO THE DARK FORCE!” YOU THINK YOU KNOW BUT YOU DON’T KNOW! WHY ARE YOU EVEN HERE? GET OUT!”
It was a different story when she came to my place. She was usually in tears with a plan to get her life back in order. Her plans had the duration of two or three hours. The following morning, she’d wake up and say “How did I get here?” and I’d have to explain it all to her.
“Oh shit, I’ve got to go home.”
I listened to so many of her plans, I began to prefer Wendy when she was coked out angry as opposed to coked out ambitious, even if it meant that I wouldn’t get to sleep with her.
Needless to say, it was a terrible winter.
§
I was ready to admit that I had problems. There wasn’t a trace of denial in my system. I had even been putting aside twenty-five, sometimes fifty dollars of each week’s paycheck with the thought of moving somewhere else. The truth was, it wasn’t about money. I would have been gone the day before yesterday if I had a clue WHERE. It all seemed the same, from the small towns of Michigan to the big cities of California. America felt like a big, rigged game where I couldn’t find a job, despite the piece of paper that said I’d done my time at a university. Maybe I was bitter. Maybe that’s how this whole thing started. If it were bitterness, I wasn’t aware of it. I was mostly just bored.
§
It was a Sunday morning in March. I hadn’t slept. Wendy had called in the middle of the night. She wanted to borrow fifty dollars. If there was one thing I always told her, it was don’t ask for drug money. She swore up and down that it wasn’t for drugs. That it was for a friend. I gave in, reluctantly.
“I’ll drop it off on my way to work,” I said.
“It’s Sunday. You don’t work on Sunday.”
“I do now.”
Actually, it was an employee meeting. Once every two months, all the employees had to show up at seven a.m. on a Sunday and discuss ways to improve customer service, along with things the bosses felt needed to be discussed. I left my apartment at six thirty and arrived at Wendy’s around six forty-five. I rang the buzzer on the outside of her apartment building and waited. I’ll be a son of a bitch if a man’s voice didn’t answer.
“Yeah?”
“Is this Wendy Taylor’s apartment?”
“It’s seven in the morning,” said the voice. “Come back at noon.”
I stood there for a moment looking at the small round speaker. Then I turned around and walked away. As I did, I heard the man’s voice once again.
“Hey! Is this the dude with the money? Hello? Hello?”
The employee meeting started without me. The Regional Manager, whose name was Phil, had brought three boxes of donuts for everyone to share. They were gone by the time I arrived. I sat in the back of the carpeted section, next to the classical music display, while Phil talked on and on. He was only a little bit older than most of us, but spoke with a confidence that made him seem like a very important human being. He was talking about the recent drop in sales. It was his belief that poor customer service was at the root of it.
“You people may not realize it,” said Phil,” But this company receives hundreds of applications every day of the week from young, hip folk just like yourselves. You people are lucky to have the job you have. Sure there are days when you’re stuck doing inventory or clean up duties, but even these seemingly unimportant tasks strengthen the framework of our company. Customers are impressed when they walk in and see an organized, efficient store. And when a bright, smiling, employee offers his or her assistance, that customer will tell his or her friends to come. Those friends will tell their friends to come. This is a hip job! This is a fun job! You people are lucky!”
On the other side of the classical section sat Tony, dead asleep and snoring. I picked up a cassette tape of Beethoven’s Third and tossed it in his lap. “Huh? Wha?” I wondered if Tony got a donut.
“Now,” said Phil, “Just for fun, I’d like to hear the worst task you’ve been asked to do here. Let’s see whether any of them were truly pointless.”
Everyone sat there, looking at Phil, looking at each other. Then a hand went up. It was George. George was the oldest employee at Bargeld’s, beating us all by at least twenty tears. He was thin and balding and somewhat addled. He liked to wait on the young girls. The young girls often left the store with a CD tucked in their purses. We all knew about it, but George never got into trouble. I guess the managers felt sorry for him.
George stood when he was called upon.
“Well, I suppose inventories are the worst,” said George.
“Aren’t they though?” said Phil. “But before we go knocking inventory, can anyone tell me why it has to be done?” Not a soul replied. Phil raised his eyebrows and clapped his hands loudly. “Inventory lets us know what we have, and what we don’t. It also lets us know whether anyone’s stealing. Now I know that with all this music around, the idea of slipping a CD into your back pocket is tempting. Who’s going to miss it, right? Well let me tell you something, folks. When you steal from this store, you’re not just stealing from us, you’re stealing from every employee that works here. That’s right. Even your friends.”
“Man,” Tony whispered. “I can’t believe I got out of bed for this shit.”
“Now I know inventory is a bore,” Phil went on. “Heck, that’s no secret. I’d like to share something with you that I’ve come up with myself for making inventory a little easier. It’s called the CCS system. What’s CCS? Count, Check, and Smile.”
I picked out a cassette and turned it over in my hands. Wendy would be waking up soon. She’d discover that I came by, and what had happened. Then she’d throw an ashtray at her current lover, dealer, stud. It was all part of the game.
“Who else?” said Phil. “Who else has had to do a job you thought was yucky?”
“Yucky!” said Tony. “That motherfucker just said “yucky!”
Phil raised those eyebrows and looked in my direction. “You sir in the back. What was the task you disliked the most?” He folded his arms and waited for my reply.
“Well, Phil,” I said. “Taking my six months here into account, weighing all the pros and cons, I’d have to say that I’ve never disliked my job more or felt less of a human being than right here, right now, listening to you.”
“THAT!” said Phil, “Is a prime example of a bad attitude!”
§
In the end I wasn’t fired from my job. I was reprimanded. I was written up. I was counseled. I believe everyone in the store expected me to continue with my rebellion. They didn’t know what I knew; that if it weren't this job, it would be another job, on another street or another city, just like it.
In the other end, Wendy played dumb. She told me there hadn’t been anyone in her apartment all night. She said that I must have pushed the wrong button. She still wanted the money.
“Forget it,” I said. “We’re through.”
“You bastard! You’ll be knocking at my door after your next six beers and you know it!”
“Yeah?”
“Yeah! And when you do, do you know what I’m going to say to you?”
“No.”
And I hung up.
In the final, terrible end that was unlike any other end I’d come up against thus far, I looked in the mirror and said wow. Here I was, a young man in the so-called prime of life, lacking in skill, ambition, and whatever else it took to make it in America. I didn’t know what to do about it. I started to take walks in the afternoon, not because I liked walking, but to remember something I felt I had forgotten. How people dressed. How people socialized and conducted themselves in relationships. It wasn’t that I had really forgotten these things, but I did wonder at the whys and what fors. On one of these walks, I passed by the Institute of Asian Languages. There was a flyer pasted on the wall outside that said TEACHERS WANTED.
Teach English in South Korea
Airfare, room and board, monthly salary
Apply at I.A.L.
South Korea? A boy with green hair and pierced eyebrows walked up and asked me for some change. I told him that I didn’t have any. He gave me the finger and walked away.
I opened the door of the language institute and went in. There were two pretty Asian secretaries sitting behind a desk. “Hello,” I said. “I saw your sign on the wall.” One of the girls jumped up and ran into the back. The other gave me a piece of lined notebook paper. “Please,” she said. I picked up the sheet and began to read. It was a piece on the Planet Venus. “Is correct?” the girl asked.
“Right here,” I showed her. “Venus is gaseous with an e-o-u-s. Not gassy, gaseous. And here. You wrote, “Planet is two from the sun.” That’s wrong. Have you got an eraser?”
The first secretary came back into the room. There was a man with her. He was thin with one strip of eyebrow stretching across his face. A badly tied Spider-Man tie was around his neck. Name: Randall.
Randall led me into his office and moved some textbooks aside so that I could sit down.
“So!” he said. “What makes you want to teach in South Korea?”
“I haven’t given it much thought,” I said, then decided that was a bad answer. “I’m looking for a change. I graduated from college six years ago with an English degree and haven’t been able to rise above the ranks of Head Clerk.”
“Yes. I got my Bachelor’s Degree in History. I don’t know what I was thinking.”
Randall picked up a box of matches and slid it from hand to hand across the desk as he talked. He talked about the opportunities currently available in South Korea. He said that everything would be fine just as long as the North didn’t invade, ha ha. I wasn’t too sure about Randall and his Spider-Man tie. He loaned me a book on South Korea and told me to think it over. I took the book home and read it from cover to cover. I came away from it slightly more confused than when I began. Then Randall began to receive reports from some of his teachers already in South Korea. One was sent to a school that had closed two years ago. Another had been beaten up by his administrator. Something about refusing to teach a double load of classes.
“Of course,” said Randall, “There are people who go to Korea and have a wonderful and unique experience.”
“Who?”
“Lots,” said Randall. The Incredible Hulk was breaking down a wall across his tie. “Lots and lots.”
In the end, he suggested that I wait. He had a list of schools, but didn’t trust his contact in South Korea. How long should I wait? Two or three years. I’d be past my prime in two or three years. Worse, I’d probably be a Section Manager at Bargeld’s and living with Wendy and her goddam answering machine. Suddenly, I couldn’t wait. The job, the girlfriend, the non-life of it all. It was a bad comedy that needed to end. And the idea of leaving, going anywhere, had already spread through me like a virus. I wanted out. I decided to roll the dice and try South Korea. I telephoned the language institute. Randall answered. He was very happy that I called. He had something for me.
“You’ve got a school?”
“Yes, but not in South Korea.”
“Where?”
“Thailand!”
“Thailand? I don’t know a thing about Thailand.”
“Well, what do you know about South Korea?”
He had a point. I traded in my book on South Korea and purchased one on Thailand. This time I came away totally confused but somehow intrigued by the idea. If America were a theme park and Europe were a museum, then I looked at Asia like a dusty old junk shop where you were never quite sure what you’d find.
“All right,” I told Randall. “Let’s get the ball rolling.”
There was paperwork. There were shots. The nurse at the health clinic warned me about Malaria. Malaria, Jesus, isn’t that what killed Maughm? Oh hell, I wasn’t Maughm. I dragged out the army rucksack that had accompanied me through many dull and tiresome moves and packed until it groaned. I slid it onto my shoulders and then I groaned.
On one of those final cloudy Chicago days, I bought a Doctor Doom tie for Randall and taped a nice red ribbon on it.
“I’ve talked to a fellow who has lived in Thailand,” said Randall. “He said he had some wonderful and unique experiences.”
“Yeah? Did he get beaten up?”
“No, I wouldn’t say that.”
“What would you say?”
Randall scratched his eyebrow. “He went through some real—changes — over there.”
“Well, that’s why we travel, so I hear.”
“Good Luck, John.”
We shook hands, and I left.
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