"Philosophy of Farful"

Anger is a poisonous fuel that will destroy a man's engine--that engine being his soul.

"File Under: 'Disaster'"

Looking back, it all started with the woman’s son.

I was at my best friend’s fifth birthday party, happily playing with a toy, when BAM! I got clocked and went down like a ton of bricks. Unbeknownst to me, this woman’s son wanted to play with the same toy and felt the best way to handle it was to punch my ass out and take it from me.[1]

Now fast-forward the tape of my life ‘til where I’m twenty-three and we’re ready for round two.

So this kid’s mom owns and runs a filing business that does, amongst nothing else, filing work and, I, twenty-three years old and fully recovered from her son’s beating, have just completed my junior year of college (I’m not dumb or a slacker—I didn’t got to college straight out of high school) and am sorely in need of some summer-time employment. So, bing!, idea, I decide to try working for her and I give her a call.

This is where things get weird.

Somehow, despite the fact that I totally know this woman, having spoken and spent time with her on numerous occasions; that we share a close mutual friend (the family of the kid whose birthday party her son punched me at); and that my older brother worked for her before and she knows my mom and her son, who I went to high school with and hung out with some—we end up getting along all right—knocked me out and that I saw and talked to her days before placing aforementioned call, she has no idea who I am. But, after I explain some of the above connections, she seems to remember me and, voila, I land a four-day filing gig, which is to begin on Wednesday, run through ‘til Friday, at which point we skip the weekend, and end on the following Monday.

Work. Day one. I get picked up and the woman is still a bit hazy on who the hell I am, but again with me throwing out some of our connections, she remembers me—again.

Down to business: I’m the new guy, and being the new guy, I feel it’s imperative to get off on the right foot work-wise and also not to overstep my bounds, so I try and focus intently on my work and I don’t really speak unless spoken to. Overall, the day goes without incident and I feel good about my first day’s performance.

This brings us to: Day two. Again, I work hard, but I decide that I need to chat it up more, bring something to the table talk-wise, you know? So I try and pick my moments, but as I have a tendency (I do it pretty much all the time) I get overly excited and overly talkative—gregarious, if you will—and talk probably too much. There is also a great deal of concern that day about the speed at which we must complete the job and she mentions to me that I need to work faster, and so I try to up the quickness with which I file. Then on the ride home, I, again probably talk too much and it is decided, the possibility having been brought up that day at work, that, because another one of her other jobs is behind, people will need to be shifted to that job, and subsequently my presence will not be required on Friday and that she’ll call me about Monday.

This turn of events strikes me as not good. But I shrug it off. I’ll be back in action Monday, I tell myself. However, as I laid in bed that Saturday night, having not yet heard from her about Monday, I suddenly got frightened and began to wonder if she was greasing me off—by the way, for anyone who doesn’t know what getting greased off means, it’s basically when someone is trying to get rid of you by ceasing any and all contact with you; also don’t feel like you’re out of the loop or not hip or something because you haven’t heard this term, because I totally made it up and no one else except me uses it.

ANYWAY, I again assured myself that she wouldn’t do this, seeing as how it seemed very unprofessional and something even I wouldn’t do, yet by Sunday I still hadn’t heard from her, so I called her to inquire about the details of Monday and that’s when she TKO from Tokyo’d me Piston Honda-style, saying: “You know what, John. Your work was meticulous: absolutely no mistakes. But I’m afraid speed just isn’t your forte.” She then went on to explain that speed had to be one’s forte in the filing business and that, this, meaning me working for her, was not going to work out, which meant, more or less, that I was headed for the welfare line[2].

Crushed, I sat in my kitchen strumming my acoustic guitar as my mom attempted to console me until my younger brother, upon entering and hearing the news, made fun of me, claiming that a monkey could do that job (perhaps, a monkey whose forte was speed) and I sat there, punch-drunk, nothing left to do but laugh at myself, especially at the fact that I had to call her just so I could be given the boot properly.



[1] To his credit, it worked: he got the toy.
[2] I think it’s fair to say that overall I have not done well with this family.

"Philosophy of Farful"

The path to Enlightenment can be a dark one.

"Lights, Camera, Minimum Wage!"

A lot of people take jobs at video stores for the money, the fame, the lifestyle, the parties—But, me, I got into it just for the money.

At the time, I was eighteen years old and in the process of putting together five hundred bucks so I could buy some musical instrument and/or accessory[1], and I already had about half of the money together, but where was I was gonna score the rest? Answer: a gig working at a very large, very popular, and very successful video store chain that rhymes with Glockbuster.

I applied, was interviewed, and landed the job.

Now in case you haven’t been paying attention to the story so far (shame on you!), I wasn’t planning on having what you would call a lasting occupational relationship with my new place of employment—like I said before, I just needed to make the other half of that five hundred bucks—and being the immature idiot I was back then (and still occasionally am now), I had, before even getting hired, put together this clandestine idea—and subsequent clandestine plan—where I figured the following: One, if so inclined, can obtain a job and work it for roughly two weeks—without working hard at all—due to the fact that the first week of the job is more or less the training period—during which your performance can be lackluster and mistake-ridden—because you are, after all, new, and then you have about another week until they, whoever you are working (not very hard) for, finally get fed up with you and fa-fa-fiya yo ass. But by then, it’s been about two weeks, and you have your loot, and you’re in the clear. Seems perfect, right? (Assuming your situation is almost identical what mine was.) But like so many things in life, the perfect plan turned out to be not so perfect, and many things went wrong.

The plus’ of the job: As an employee, you got to rent five movies a week for free, and this kid, who I went to camp with when I was younger and who is a living legend, worked there for, I think, one day that I did, but then was organizing videos and just couldn’t take it anymore and quit very quietly and without incident right then and there. I couldn’t believe this. However, a co-worker, who wasn’t phased by this at all, told me it was no big deal and happened a lot. (By the way, I know that second one was a weird thing to consider a plus.)

The minus’ of the job: They played this TLC music video/promotional ad for something or things round the clock, and it was so annoying that, after about an hour, you wanted to shot yourself in the head. Droves of people would return a video or videos, only to discover that there video or videos were late and they had incurred a late fee, and they would righteously announce how they weren’t going to pay it, and then I would explain to them that, because we had their credit card on file, they most definitely were going to pay it, and then they would get even more angry and ask to see the manager, and sometimes he was there, but sometimes not, so sometimes they got the assistant manager, who told them the same thing the manager would of told them, which was the same thing I had told them in the first place—we had their credit card on file: they were paying the late fees. End of story. And then they would still be all huffy-puffy and go off about how they were never going to rent movies from us again. But then, after like three weeks usually, they would be back, sheepishly renting whatever movie was popular at the time[2].—And another thing: Why would they get all mad at me? I mean, it wasn’t like the late fee money was going in my pocket. I was making like six-fifty an hour, for crying out loud. I couldn’t have cared less. In fact, as far as I was concerned, people were free to loot the store.

Getting back on track.

Duuude, this job was seriously hard. It was like the hardest job I’ve ever haaaad[3].
Now, to Glockbuster’s credit, they ran a very tight ship—but sadly, I was on this ship and not really down for all this tightness[4]. Check this out: At the end of the night shift (which I worked at least a couple of times), we had to go through every movie on every shelf and make sure they were all lined up perfectly. That still haunts me.

Okay, every story has an ending—even that movie, The Never-ending Story, and its two sequels.

I missed a day of work.

Honestly, I can’t remember why I missed it—I think it was just an honest mistake—but that led my boss to call me, and rightly so, be very angry with me and demand that I come in on a day I wasn’t previously scheduled to work, which would have been fine if this particular day hadn’t happened to coincide with my older brother’s graduation from college.

Quite the pickle.

To the point: He told me if I didn’t show up that day, I was finished at Glockbuster and I told him I probably wasn’t going to make it. He said you either show up or your fired. I responded, well, if I’m there I guess I still have a job, and if not, I don’t.

I went to my brother’s graduation. I had to. It was a big day, a major achievement.

Career at Glockbuster: Finito.

In the end I didn’t make all the money I set out to, but I got close enough to buy whatever I wanted to buy; my friend, Matt Mazzoni, who worked at another Glockbuster, heard about my not showing for work and my quitting/getting fired and ripped on me about it; and lastly, they never asked for the shirt back and I kept it. However, since I didn’t work there anymore, I had no place to where it. What can ya do, ya know? Ya know?

[5].


[1] For the life of me, I can’t recall at all what it is that I wanted.
[2] You can’t beat the late fees at Glockbuster. Ya just can’t.
[3] Good thing I wasn’t planning on staying more than two weeks. Maybe my perfect plan really did have something to it.
[4] Again, good thing this job was basically a scam.
[5] Who am I, Chuck Klosterman?

"Philosophy of Farful"

A healthy spirit is much like a healthy tree: firmly rooted in the rich soil of positive thinking.

"Workin' Man"

When I was nineteen years old, in a controversial move, I got a job while on vacation. My entire family was enjoying a little R & R in Avalon, New Jersey for two weeks and I was so bored—it’s nice but the only things to really do there are to go to the beach (which I don’t like), ride bikes?!?, and play miniature golf. (By the way, why do people get so excited about playing miniature golf while on vacation? I mean, no one seems to give a crap about this activity in any other circumstance.)

Anyway, it was a bold and controversial move, made even bolder and more controversial by the fact that I was not exactly prone to working while not on vacation.

And this brings us to my first day of work.

The aforementioned job was at a gas station and I was not particularly excited, or particularly motivated, by the job or the work involved—to tell you the truth, I really just wanted the shirt all the employees got (the gas station attendant shirt was quite chic at the time and I wanted one enough to take a job at a gas station just to get one).

My first day of work started off innocently enough with me being taught the ropes and getting right into the task of filling up gas tanks, squeegeeing windshields, and hoping no one asked me to check their oil, because even though someone had shown me how to do it, I still wasn’t anywhere near confident in my abilities in that department, which is a nice way of saying I had absolutely no idea (even to this day) how to do it.

So there we were, a team of gas station employees, a bonded unit, a finely-oiled machine, working hard, like dogs, toiling under the strain of the oppressive and unrelenting heat of the summer sun at this honest—but let’s be truthful—fairly crappy, job, scampering about and giving it all we had, as we pushed ourselves to the max, leaving it all on the mat—all except for me. Sure, I was doing my “job,” and doing it well enough, but something was amiss to me. I saw something the others did, nay, perhaps could not see: this gas station, our gas station, was the only one on the whole fucking island! (By the way, Avalon’s an island, which I feel is a fact I should of introduced earlier, but whatever, the thing’s an island; one small step away from an archipelago—surrounded by water on three sides, not four). Now this may seem like a totally innocuous fact to you because—like the people I was working with—you’re not as smart as me, but what they (and you) did/do not understand is that we had a monopoly going. So why in Sam Hill were we working so fast and so hard? Where were these people gonna go? I’ll tell ya, sister: NOwhere. And being the nice guy that I am, I graciously shared this information with my fellow employees, who responded in turn by telling me that I’d better shut up and not let the manager hear what I was saying because he already thought I was a slacker. I retorted by saying not to worry, dear friends, that the guy was a pussycat, and that my revolutionary idea (that is, to work slower and with less effort) was in their best interest (which it actually was—I was trying to make their jobs easier.) But some people just have to look a gift horse in the mouth; some people just have to have it the hard way. So I cooled it out for the rest of my shift, and when it was over, discussed with the manager when I would work next, and then started home.

But something happened along the way: I put my hands in my pockets, as I sometimes do when strolling to and fro places, and felt something: a wad of cash. I pulled it out of my pocket and stared at it. Okay, freeze frame on that image. Now let’s zip back through time, super-fast, like in a movie, to the beginning of my shift, and let’s angle on the part where I’m given a wad of cash with which I am to make change with while I work. Okay, now let’s zip back, again, super-fast, to me standing there with the wad of cash in my hand. Unfreeze me and I’m standing there, the realization of the situation having sunken in, and I’m trying to decide what to do: I could take the money, skip town, buy an inexpensive, prob’ly used mountain bike, or do the right thing and take the money back.

So what did I do: I decided to be honest Abe and I took the money back and got totally fired.
BAM! after only one shift, too. The manager basically said he thought I sucked and that I was a slacker, and I also think he had heard about my idea to work slower and with less gumption, and forgetting to hand back the money was the straw that got my ass fired. He stood there, thinking he had delivered the death blow, that he had absolutely crushed my soul—but he couldn’t have been wronger (not a word); I couldn’t have cared less (I mean, I already got the shirt, folks). Honestly, what the hell was this guy thinking? That this job was in any way long term? That I was gonna try and work my way up, climb the ladder of success at this joint until I was assistant manager, possibly even manager, dethroning him? I was on vacation, for Pete’s sake! I was gonna leave the job in two weeks max, no matter what.

But still I was a tad stung by his and the gas station’s rejection of me and my ways, and so I vowed to get another crappy job the very next day. I landed a position at Dairy Queen, where I washed dishes for twenty minutes and then felt really anxious and like I had to get back home (where I’m from) right away, so I told the manager and she somehow totally understood. ?!?.

I went back to the house, told the family I was out, packed up my stuff, and hit the road.

"You're Gonna Die, and I'm Gonna Kill You"

Fresh out of college, I shot for the stars and landed a position at an ice cream store near my house[1]. Now before some of you reading this (you know who you are) race to judgment, pinning me as one of those no-good directionless waste-of-space slackers who deserves to be shot in the head, I had a “real” full-time job lined up for the fall—and on top of that, it was a volunteer position, meaning I was going to be working forty to sixty hours a week, for next to nothing, as I struggled to re-instill hope and goodness to the world, while I simultaneously saved it—and its inhabitants—from whatever doom and gloom that might be permeating the universe at that time. HOWEVER, conversely, before ANY of you judge me as this great altruistic has-it-together saint who also isn’t a total moron a good deal of the time, hang out with me for like two or three days or just read the rest of the story.

Back to the story.

So the job was just supposed to be a summer gig to keep me busy and help me make a couple bucks at the same time.

Now cut to: Me, as I start the job. The training I receive is quick and horribly insufficient, and we’re off to the races as I meet my fellow employees, learn the basics, and then rapidly descend into the living hell known as working at this joint.

Let’s go to the highlight reel, shall we?

Clip #1: One of my co-workers, Ivan, who is a really cool guy, calls me on my cell phone (I should have never given it out on the application) while I’m not working and asks me to go the supermarket (again, while I’m not working) so that I might pick up some honey and lemon juice for the store with my own money (he promised that I’d be reimbursed and I was) so that I can bring in aforementioned items the next time I’m scheduled to work—and I actually do it! (Also, looking back, I wasn’t scheduled to work until at least the next day, so could it really have been a matter so urgent that I had to do it when I wasn’t working? I’m gonna lean toward “no.”)

Clip #2: This girl, who is seventeen, psychotic, and also one of the store’s assistant managers, grabs me in the middle of a shift while it’s busy and hectic and I’m serving up water ice, and whispers in my ear “You’re gonna die, and I’m gonna kill you” for no apparent reason whatsoever, except—maybe—she thinks this is funny?!?

Clip #3: I move to working only the night shift—which has no dinner break so I end up eating ice cream, chocolate chip cookies, and soda for dinner every night—and also, once we’re closed, begin to frequently take my tip money down to a bar that’s about two blocks away, where I use it to drown my workaday sorrows before I stumble home.

Clip #4: With an I-don’t-really-care-anymore attitude brought on by working at the place, I often deliver the following two lines in the following two situations, which, at this job, pop up a lot: When somebody asks me what’s in certain cookies and I don’t know the answer because I haven’t been able memorize it yet, I reply “Well, the main ingredient is deliciousness” (by the way, everyone loved this line. It was gold.) and when a customer is debating about whether or not to get the medium-size whatever or the large, I respond “Everybody dies. Just go for it.”

Clip #5: An older woman who works there, and who is awesome and my only real friend at the place, invites me repeatedly to karaoke night at a local bar and I go, but it’s karaoke night at a bar and the whole situation is awkward for me so I stay for a while, then split.

Clip # 6: My younger brother picks me up to give me a ride home one night and we give one of my fellow employees a ride home and she scares my younger brother to death, scarring him, in the five minutes it takes to drop her off.

Clip # 7: This other employee of mine starts taking me off shifts, of his own accord and without mentioning it to me or anyone else, to better suit his schedule.

Clip # 8: It becomes widely rumored amongst the employees, my family and friends, and perhaps even some random people in town, that I am going to be fired—or possibly already am fired—and everyone—even my three-year-old nephew—makes fun of me, and so with the threat of possibly getting canned looming over me, I dream up this fantasy that I will never carry out where, after getting the axe, I go out, work hard, save up money, and then open an ice cream store right across the street, which is so awesome that it puts them out of business.

Clip #9: After a night of work and subsequent boozing to deal with that night of work that includes someone grabbing me by the neck and threatening me with further and more severe violence (with kind of good reason—it was a misunderstanding) and a group of girls making fun of me because of a Warrant T-shirt[2] I’m wearing, I, broken, distraught, and in absolute shambles—the job driving me into alcoholism, take a long walk (I’m dead serious. It was like over an hour long and I stared out at vistas and everything) to take stock and try and make sense of it all, my whole world falling apart around me, and it is then that I decide to quit the job—especially before I get fired.

Clip #10: Angry, hurt, and nearly defeated, it seems only right to me that I go out in a blaze of glory where I yell at and viscously insult the manager of the store, who I now hold chiefly responsible for all that has happened, but my mom talks me out of it (she was right), convincing me that I need to do the adult and upstanding thing, which is to speak to the manager and tell him the job just isn’t working out. One hitch: the guy is almost never actually at the store so even quitting is a hassle because I keep trying to catch him but keep missing him but then finally catch him, and it is then that I quietly and respectfully tender my resignation, often to return to the store as a customer—their ice cream and cookies are that good.

[3].


[1] It’s worth noting that I had taken a job at this exact same store like five years ago, worked there for about a week, and then quit because it sucked so hard. And it’s prob’ly also worth noting that, applying for and took the same job again, is most probably a sign of severe mental illness.

[2] Warrant is an awesome band and I have no doubt that by making fun of me, and my Warrant T-shirt, those girls have firmly secured for themselves a place in hell.

[3] I know the footnote thing is totally ripped from Chuck Klosterman.