|Fight Club Re-Version.
||[Mar. 3rd, 2004|02:25 am]
|[||In the Moment
|||||Blue Öyster Cult - Godzilla||]|
I was Jack's copy machine.
For over a year, I toiled at a cubicle in the hell's kitchen of Detroit's suburbs.
With my Stain-defender Wrinkle-free dress shirts and matching pants, I answered calls of the drunk and disorderly, cheerfully providing directions to the nearest liquor store.
Then, one night I read Adventures in the Screen Trade, and Goldman's words of duffing it in the early years before success hit me.
I had not failed in my attempts to write.
The very next evening, I smoked outside the building of ignorance when the director asked me to put out my cigarette.
I said no.
At one point, she bellowed, "Do you know who I am?"
She steamed, huffed, followed me into the building, argued with me, howled, threatened, and caused a bigger scene. She did so in vain . . .
I wasn't doing anything wrong.
It occurred to me, at that trembling moment, staring at the hose-beast of a leader of our building, who was upset and defending her ego by attacking mine, standing there before me, in her anti-smoking anger and pride, that she should have been lucky I didn't maim her with comments about workplace harassment and legal action.
She's lucky that another alternative, bashing her face in with a chair, wasn't utilized. Unlike her, I had a conscience, and someone so useless wasn't worth the energy spent giving her a quality beating.
I don't like the taste of bitchy power-trip management-types. They're too stringy, and I get diarrhea from the ingredients.
The final alternative, it seemed the higher path. I twiddled my thumbs for an extra week, and then I quit working there.
Working at Erectile Dysfunction Syndrome proved worse for my health than a daily pack of cigarettes.
When one has had enough of the static nonsense, the moment becomes clear, and the results lead to exhilaration, no matter of the path chosen.