I always thought when I published my life story it would be titled Vizionz from the Bottom. The current working title is : They Stuck a Thermometer in My Vagina and Stirred Their Coffee with a Chainsaw. I know, it’s long but it fits. Since I do alright with this writing thing I thought about jotting down notes from the j.o.b. It will make a beauty of a sitcom.
No I am still not ready to share where I work, but it’s comical there. Nights like tonight for instance have their moments. This post title is the working title for the pilot. If they can make OITNB into a comedy Netflix has gotta want some of what I got right?
Where else can you get the gripping drama of a middle aged single mother in an entry level position surrounded by 20somethings? I mean in a few years I am gonna have a PsyD and the title of Doctor. Today though I am still in a women’s shelter, working for an hourly wage.
I haven’t had an hourly wage since I became a parent. I’ve been salaried for 96% of my employment history. Mind you it’s not minimum wage, but it’s also not my set 15th and 30th of the month direct deposits either.
Tonight I was only the second oldest person on duty. The oldest? A 70 something old White man who wears depends to work. I know this because during a conversation with him his crotch area expanded.
This is a normal occurrence with me, my milkshake brings all the boys to the yard.
What was abnormal though was the specific pattern which is familiar to mothers of boy toddlers in pull ups.
See, this is why I have to write this shit down, my life has millions of these types of moments.
Mookie was the deaf man who because he is deaf didn’t hear the announcement that he should have been in a city about 20 miles from here. The transport specialist said why didn’t you hear me are you deaf? Mookie pointed to his two cochlear implant devices and gave the specialist the middle finger. My supervisor and I tried to get alternate transportation for Mookie but the cans were quoting $100 and no one seemed to have the Uber account information.
Mookie gave me the number to his brother “Tony” who cursed when I woke him from his sleep and said put my brother on the phone.
“Money” Mike was stuck in our men’s room. I know this because his sibling whose gender was not identifiable came to the desk and asked us to page him and tell him his ride was outside.
After paging him twice – yes I paged Money Mike twice – I went into the men’s room to see if he was actually there. Hey, I am gully like that okay?
Money Mike was there. His junk was out and he was furiously working up to his own personal money shot with our stained tiled bathroom floor. Being the sex positive diva I am, I walked back out to let him finish. I do not know if he washed his hands.
In a night full of interesting characters, the one armed man topped my night off. He wanted a ticket to Boston. It is Labor Day Weekend. We are sold out of everything north or south until 9pm. I am getting better at my job though and I figured out how to get him to New York and then to Boston. I quoted him a price, let’s say it was 70 dollars.
He bent over to rifle through his bag. No biggie, I am painfully getting used to people asking me for tickets and looking at me blankly when I give them a price as if it is free ticket day at the job.
He came up and handed me a sock. The sick was full of change. Now he also gave me bills after the sock. Okay, fine. I counted out the bills praying to a god I don’t believe exists that I would not have to go into the sock. $45 dollars in bills. Okay time to examine the sock.
As I poured the sock out, it was full of nickels. Perhaps $10 in nickels. Not enough for the fare. I gave him all his money back, pouring all the nickels back into the sock. I may have possibly imagined beating him with that sock of nickels for wasting my time.
Money Mike may or may not have washed his hands, but constant reader I am now gonna go take a hot water and bleach shower. Seems like the thing to do after handling sock money.