22 percent

What kind of a person plays Russian Roulette?

I’m definitely of the opinion that at the wrong place and wrong time, I would play it. So, what kind of person am I?

Sad. Depressed. Lonely. Stupid. Dumb. Naïve. Stuck. Forgetful. Silly. Happy. Wonderfilled. Etc.

Devouring my soul, my work gets worse every day. I sit around and do nothing, almost literally, for 8 hours a day. I don’t understand how people do this for 40 years or more. Hating their jobs.

I have loathed parts of my job many times. But never hated it. I do now. It’s just so pointless. The crap that I put on the page is awful. And no one seems to care. Except for the folks paying for it. Every day I see people cancel their subscriptions. Most of the time it’s because someone in California (that’s what they tell them) charged the customer too much money for the paper.

Today, a guy brought in a print out of the web site. On it was the price of the paper’s subscription. It was less than what he was paying, so he, rightfully, “wanted that price.”

“We don’t do that price,” the lady at the desk says.

Finally, after a 5-minute argument, they get the circulation boss, who we have dubbed “Monte” for his ability to place the three card game on just about every customer with is dumbed down accent and folksy ways.

He shows Monte the print out of the Web page. Monte replies simply and succinctly.

“That’s the price for new subscribers sir, you’re already getting the paper. And, according to our records, you’ve been a reader for over 20 years. Congrad-u-lations.”

“Well, I want to pay that price. Not the one I’ve been paying. And nowhere does it say this is for new people.”

“Sir. Sir. Sir. I understand what you are saying. But I’ve got no control over this. It’s from the corporate headquarters in Cali-for-ni-a. They just do things strange there, you know?”

“I’m from Sacramento.”

“Well, let’s see what we can do…,” he stutters. “I can’ give you a rate of 76.20. That’s the best I can do.”

“Nope. I want this one. It says 66 dollars.”

“Geez, sir. I just can’t do that. How about 75 and I’ll throw in one of these,” he reaches into his pocket, pulling out a white plastic card. It’s one of the discount cards they give subscribers. They’re six months old.

“What is that?” the customer says, unconvinced.

“It’s a card we give out to the best customers. We only have a few to give. And you seem like a loyal one.”

“Well…”

“I won’t take no for an answer. Even if you don’t re-up your subscription!” Monte says with a loud chuckle and slap on the back.

“You got yourself a deal,” the customer says. “Thanks for being so understanding.”

“It’s my job.”

I turn back to my computer and with a long, drawn out breath, release a sigh.

“Step right up …” a co-worker says.

“Monte always wins,” I say, before I start laying out another page of the rag he’ll read in the morning. Smiling with his new discount card, and high priced newspaper.

***

Would an insane mailbox bite you when you get your mail? And will anyone understand that joke in 10 years? Kind of like wrapping fishes in a newspaper. One day, that won’t make sense.

Guess I’m getting old, thinking of such things?

***

It’s hot out again. Almost too hot. The rain was supposed to get here by now. Instead, we go wind. And humidity.

“It’s raining somewhere,” my old lady says, wiping her brow with an old rag. “Just never here.”

Never? That’s got to be an exaggeration. But I try to remember the last time it rained. I can’t.

“Baby, how ‘bout you and I just go somewheres tonight.” I don’t have any clue where, I just don’t want to stare at these same four walls at all tonight.

“Can we go to Wal-Mart?” she says as Southern as she can possibly manage, which is about Massachusetts by way of Arizona.

“Fuck you.”

“That’s better.”

***

Stepping outside, the first thing you notice is the fresh air. Staying inside that awful office building for too long makes one immune to the smell. It has to be illegal, the amount of chemical that is in the air. But no one says a thing. They all know if they do, they’ll be out a job. And with unemployment at 22 percent, walking out of a job is akin to suicide nowadays. Hell, suicide is a job now.

***