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jack_babalonDidn't get shit for sleep this weekend. So of course it's the serotonin deprivation speaking. It's the up with the first piss of dawn no matter how hard I toss and turn in bed speaking. It's the three dollar ATM fee to pull out a 20 dollar bill that I then have to break at a convenience store whose digital slot machines are fully manned at 8:30 in the morning speaking. It's the spastic in front of me arguing with the man behind the bullet proof glass about whether or not the half a torn dollar bill he is offering is legal tender for a twenty five cent bag of chips speaking. It's the bus I needed to catch rumbling off for the first time in my history riding it on schedule speaking.
But it was that at that point I slammed the two dollar bottle of water I was going to break my twenty with into the plexiglass window and scrambled up the counter to stand on it facing the stunned shoppers, KWIK staff, and gamble-holics anonymous that gathered slack-jawed before me.
"My fellow citizens here in the Fall of New Rome, spare me but a minute fraction of the decades of my time you have squandered with an inability to comprehend the most rudimentary aspects of the social contact. A conduct so mind-bogglingly absurd to behold at times, as to border as a collective, if not subconscious, act of performance art to the casual observer."
I was answered by the cashier who began banging on the plexiglass with the flat of his fist behind me while shouting for me to get down. The crowd before me stared at cell phones and started murmuring their anxiousness to buy their three dollar loaves of white bread or two dollar rolls of one ply toilet paper and get on with their day.
"No listen, you've all been duped! Has it not occurred to at least some of you that there might be a better way! Isn't it at all possible that perhaps we could all universally agree to read those little stickers with the price printed on them instead of attempting to swap shop haggle for our blocks or cans of flavored corn-syrup when it's our turn before the register? Couldn't we, with great effort and will power no doubt, count out our change before getting on the bus and deciding you're a few dimes short of the fare you've already begun to pay for and spare the rest of us sitting in a lane of backed up traffic from getting to where we need to get to on time? Isn't there some remote universe we can conceive of where we have one line for lottery tickets and another for everything fucking else so those of us who just want to get a tank of gas aren't stuck behind someone trying to decipher the works of Nostradamus because tonight's the fucking night the fates have decided this asshole's finally become a millionaire?"
At this point the cashier along with his manager or his assistant are below me and trying to prod me off with a mop for one and a push broom for another. I swat away at their blows even as they curse me in a language beyond my comprehension. Even as I block with my forearms the random snack cakes, small sized instant coffee jars and one-liter bottles of off-brand diet cola I continue undaunted.
"There's a better world out there and it is not some top-secret cabal that hides it from us, but rather they sit back and benefit from a prison whose inmates gladly act as each other's guard, warden or attack dog. We deny ourselves a world, no a paradise, where with a nominal amount of cooperation and a pretense of civility, where each and every one of us can get to where we need to be without it turning into a test worthy of the initiations of monks and mystics. Imagine living in a land where walking into a convenience store isn't a rite of passage or require the skills needed to barter in a post-apocalyptic bazaar for much needed supplies. It's there... it's waiting for us all... and at long last I can tell you what you, and you, and you and me need to do..."
Everybody finally stopped pelting me with canned devil food or trying to hook me by the back of the neck with a push broom. They had heard me this far and were at least now curious to hear what the hell this fool was babbling about.
But it was at that moment I saw it. Right there, out of the corner of my eye and thanks to my elevated height, I could glimpse the #21 rolling down Memorial towards the stop just outside the mart. Wasting no time I hopped down, barreled through the staff, shouldered through the crowd, kicked the door open, vaulted over the splayed out legs of the wino and sprinted to the bus stop just as the bus pulled up. I fed the fare machine the 20 dollar bill figuring fuck it, I'll use up the rides sooner than later, and before I could pick one of many empty seats we were on our way to Kensington Station which would take me to Five Points which would take me to Doraville where I would catch the #124 to a park, walk through it, then up a hill and arrive, if lucky, no more than a few minutes late for work.
As the bus departed from the stop, I could see the broom and mop baring staff standing outside their mart. Behind them the crowd milled through the open door behind them, staring at me with wonder, confusion and not a little bit of pity.
To them all I gave a solid middle finger pressed against the glass and as we sailed past the next light, I closed my eyes to quickly try to steal back a few minutes worth of the sleep I lost.
But it was that at that point I slammed the two dollar bottle of water I was going to break my twenty with into the plexiglass window and scrambled up the counter to stand on it facing the stunned shoppers, KWIK staff, and gamble-holics anonymous that gathered slack-jawed before me.
"My fellow citizens here in the Fall of New Rome, spare me but a minute fraction of the decades of my time you have squandered with an inability to comprehend the most rudimentary aspects of the social contact. A conduct so mind-bogglingly absurd to behold at times, as to border as a collective, if not subconscious, act of performance art to the casual observer."
I was answered by the cashier who began banging on the plexiglass with the flat of his fist behind me while shouting for me to get down. The crowd before me stared at cell phones and started murmuring their anxiousness to buy their three dollar loaves of white bread or two dollar rolls of one ply toilet paper and get on with their day.
"No listen, you've all been duped! Has it not occurred to at least some of you that there might be a better way! Isn't it at all possible that perhaps we could all universally agree to read those little stickers with the price printed on them instead of attempting to swap shop haggle for our blocks or cans of flavored corn-syrup when it's our turn before the register? Couldn't we, with great effort and will power no doubt, count out our change before getting on the bus and deciding you're a few dimes short of the fare you've already begun to pay for and spare the rest of us sitting in a lane of backed up traffic from getting to where we need to get to on time? Isn't there some remote universe we can conceive of where we have one line for lottery tickets and another for everything fucking else so those of us who just want to get a tank of gas aren't stuck behind someone trying to decipher the works of Nostradamus because tonight's the fucking night the fates have decided this asshole's finally become a millionaire?"
At this point the cashier along with his manager or his assistant are below me and trying to prod me off with a mop for one and a push broom for another. I swat away at their blows even as they curse me in a language beyond my comprehension. Even as I block with my forearms the random snack cakes, small sized instant coffee jars and one-liter bottles of off-brand diet cola I continue undaunted.
"There's a better world out there and it is not some top-secret cabal that hides it from us, but rather they sit back and benefit from a prison whose inmates gladly act as each other's guard, warden or attack dog. We deny ourselves a world, no a paradise, where with a nominal amount of cooperation and a pretense of civility, where each and every one of us can get to where we need to be without it turning into a test worthy of the initiations of monks and mystics. Imagine living in a land where walking into a convenience store isn't a rite of passage or require the skills needed to barter in a post-apocalyptic bazaar for much needed supplies. It's there... it's waiting for us all... and at long last I can tell you what you, and you, and you and me need to do..."
Everybody finally stopped pelting me with canned devil food or trying to hook me by the back of the neck with a push broom. They had heard me this far and were at least now curious to hear what the hell this fool was babbling about.
But it was at that moment I saw it. Right there, out of the corner of my eye and thanks to my elevated height, I could glimpse the #21 rolling down Memorial towards the stop just outside the mart. Wasting no time I hopped down, barreled through the staff, shouldered through the crowd, kicked the door open, vaulted over the splayed out legs of the wino and sprinted to the bus stop just as the bus pulled up. I fed the fare machine the 20 dollar bill figuring fuck it, I'll use up the rides sooner than later, and before I could pick one of many empty seats we were on our way to Kensington Station which would take me to Five Points which would take me to Doraville where I would catch the #124 to a park, walk through it, then up a hill and arrive, if lucky, no more than a few minutes late for work.
As the bus departed from the stop, I could see the broom and mop baring staff standing outside their mart. Behind them the crowd milled through the open door behind them, staring at me with wonder, confusion and not a little bit of pity.
To them all I gave a solid middle finger pressed against the glass and as we sailed past the next light, I closed my eyes to quickly try to steal back a few minutes worth of the sleep I lost.