Deliverance
When I was 21, married to Pronoun Stupid, I remember having a conversation with his brother Tommy.
Tommy, can you hear me?
Tommy was much nicer than Stupid. More than once I'd wished I'd married Tommy instead, but Tommy was devoted to his Tracy. T'nT. We'd be C'nt. It wasn't in the stars.
I don't remember exactly what we were talking about, but it had to do with my level of expressed honesty that led him to say to me, "Maybe you're the one to save our family."
Smoking joints and chugging domestic light beer in the hot summer sun, Tommy and Stupid were 2 brothers that seemed incredibly close. They'd lost their father a couple of years prior. Their mother, who loved a ghost more than most women have loved any living partner, was a devout Baptist. She never killed a fly or went fishin' (flies and fish are our friends); didn't encourage card play on Sundays, or dancing - ever - because, well, dancing led to sex and Sunday was God's day. She loved her boys, including the eldest who seemed not only old-fashioned, but just plain old. His sons were closer to my own age. An old seeming man shrouded with a bristly nest-like, dull brown beard with woven strands of non-shimmering grey. Who seemed and commanded learned.
How the hell did he think I could save anything? Stupid and Tommy were at least 11 years older than I. Doesn't age lead to wisdom?
For the majority of my life if I was in the company of someone with little letters preceding or succeeding their name, I would perceive them to be in a greater position of knowledge, subsequently, of power. In tandem, I created a self-induced, reduced sense of personal adequacy. I reasoned that these people - who have lived longer than I and/or went to Serious School - knew more than I. Were more than I. In my mind I had elevated their status, thus relinquishing all of my own personal power.
Yes, doctor.
Of course I don't mind being booked in for an appointment at 9:00am, to not be seen until 10:30.
The fact that you have sixteen 9:00am bookings seems perfectly reasonable to me. You are the doctor.
Personal power, belief structure and general code of ethics - sold - to the only bidder.
All for the low, low price of free.
It's all perceived value anyway.
Something happened this week.
I did things I'd never really done before.
As an addendum to the 2 weeks of hell work tenure in Toronto's District of Distillation, I returned with a lilting tail, not quite between my legs, but more wrapped around one knee. As much as I needed to leave that job, which would have been both the demise of myself and the dear relationship with my darling Fatty, I had never before left a post as unceremoniously. Just up and walking out in the middle of a shift. In truth, there was a bit of shame attached to my right heel as I walked again through ominous doors, adjusting the Comrade Collection Agency cap on my head. I had both a pay cheque and cash owed from 2 night's work.
The Comrade: What do you mean you can't find it?
Floor Manager Fabio: [Shaved head, club clothed, guttural Gino-type] I saw an envelope kicking around with your name on it, but that was a while back. I haven't seen it in a while.
The Comrade: Well look harder. Peter did my cash out one night. Where's that?
FM Fabio: You're going to have to take it up with Peter.
Rip the needle off the vinyl.
The general manager.
Clear over 6'4".
Nice man,
Though
Falls squarely into my reductive-self complex.
A little terrified, I went home and sent an email to the general manager. It was sweetly asking if he knew the whereabouts of any of the money that was owed to me. One night was accounted for, but the other night left a great big question mark over his head. The best explanation was that the bartender I was training that night, incidentally her first night, something that doesn't usually warrant a 50/50 split, more than likely received not merely half, but all of the evening's collective earnings. That one night produced a 14 hour workday-induced hemorrhoid the size of a quail's egg. It took 2 weeks for it to return close enough to my body to no longer consider it alien.
Years, nay months, ago I would have just let this one go. I'd reasoned that I was the one who left, so I should face some sort of punishment. Besides, it's normal to take some knocks along the way. Normal. If you get out with yourself intact, that should be enough.
But it nearly killed me.
But it almost tore the ass out of my relationship with the love of my life.
But I had felt repeatedly raped and pillaged there.
Plot/scheme
Plot/scheme
Think, think, think
Why was considering to let this go? If I'd heard about this happening to someone else, I'd have all kinds of things to say and more suggestions on how to deal with the matter. Why has it been easier for me to choose to defend other people over myself?
I earned this money... the hard way.
While in its greatest protrusion, I nearly painted the ass goiter a robin's egg blue.
Fuck this.
With conjured powdered wig and reaper's gown, dodging swinging gavels while rising from a block of oak, I delivered the opening statement to my peers of imagined Comrade clones: I deserve to receive all the money that is owing to me.
The Supreme Court of Comraderie.
It does have a nice ring to it.
Without holding anything back I presented the general manager with a rather long essay outlining exactly why I left and how it was his sole responsibility to give me all the money I am due.
Bridges need burning sometimes.
They light your way.
[excerpt]
I left because of the lack of regard and respect for the staff.
I left for the unfair and illegal practices demonstrated [by management].
I left because there was no proper recompensement for working 14 hours straight in a relentlessly busy environment when in the end I couldn’t fire one neuron against another to complete a cash-out.
Which was why I handed it off.
Something you accepted the charge of.
Regardless of how much time has passed, money that I earned, that I had entrusted to you, has gone missing. I can only see it as your responsibility. If the lion’s share of earnings went to the bartender-in-training, someone with whom I was fully prepared to equally share my earnings, no matter how time has passed, the money that is rightfully mine was allocated incorrectly.
I’m asking you to correct the situation.
Yeah, well, he didn't like that one bit.
He wrote:
I disagree with everything you say.
Which is fine. Had he agreed on much of it, it would be terrific evidence that the Labour Board would be quite interested in.
In the end, as a method of appeasement, he asked me how much money I'd like. It was more than likely a resolution to make me happy because I was proving to be a potential whistle-blower. Who cared? I had a goal in mind. Though he tried to fracture the amount, using a dirty underhanded method of do-you-really-think-you-deserved-that-much-money, something historically I would have caved over out of guilt or feeling: He's right; maybe I didn't deserve it. He did make the mistake of asking how much money I thought was fair. I may present confidence often, but I don't always feel it. Though when working behind 2' wood,
I feel like a master.
I responded:
Thank you so much for taking the time to read so thoroughly and respond so thoughtfully. I am earnestly grateful. As for fairness in recompensement, I do feel that $200 for that shift is fair.
As I learned selling weight loss programmes to poor, overweight women once upon a time in my sordid, professional past, the first rule of sales: Bring things to a close.
Continued:
I will be by next week to collect it.
Many thanks again.
God knows he's not the first person to call me a bitch.
I don't suspect he'll be the last.
In my last post I'd promised myself I'd write a letter to my family which would exempt me from further annihilation of self-esteem. As I am a girl of her word, and as I was on a roll anyway, every family member I was raised with was CC'd.
[abridged excerpt]
I have decided to create a self-imposed exemption from any further function where obligatory attendance is required.
[T]he truth is this man, whom I am obligated to honour in his septuagenarian year, has for 20 years simply ignored my existence. A few years ago I was told I could be “forgiven” as long as I proved something to him. A presentation of another fiery hoop in which to jump through. To prove the validity of my deserving love.
For a lifetime I’ve heard all the rationale of forgiving the father for “he knows not what he’s done.” Or other clichés like “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” But he learns new technology. He applies knowledge of newly learned trades. All of which he lords over his wife, our mother, further elevating his status while reducing her self-esteem to rubble. If learning to love was important to him, he would have made it his life’s goal; something I’ve mandated within my own life. The process albeit is riddled with both success and failure, but it is still a process.
I do not make concessions for ignorance in my own world. To continue to allow this because it's "family" is a continued personal breach.
At the heart of every function is an unwritten clause that we all must maintain a façade that everything is fine, that we were all raised wonderfully and we think our dad is the greatest.
The World’s Greatest Dad who hasn’t spoken to his youngest child in over twenty years.
I beg for any other rationale than that of nonsensical pride.
I cannot take part in another scene in this ridiculous, self-destructive farce. It’s beyond disheartening. It’s morally corrupt.
When I wrote this, it was for no other design but to eliminate a sense of massive impending doom. I didn't expect a response, unless it was that of ridicule or further judgment.
My eldest brother, who speaks in monotones, no caps, little inflection and certainly no italics, wrote first:
Excellent letter!!!! I agree 110%.
I will be out of town until next week.
Maybe we have lunch the week of August 8 to talk!!!
Sincerely,
Vince
7... count 'em, 7 exclamation points.
He's never invited me out for lunch before in his life.
Second to respond was my darling brother-in-law Jimmy:
Well done. Is there anything I can do for you!!!
Always in service to others, this man who has "everything" I thought could do something for me. I requested:
What you can do for me is to be happy. And to do what you want. And to realise you are a remarkable person. And that I love you very much.
Besides that, I'd love to go for a pint soon.
As good things reputedly come in threes, the third, more than likely final, familial response came with the subject line: Your long lost brother
Walter
The apple of my childhood eye,
Whom I miss so much,
Who had estranged himself from the family,
Broke his silence
And invited me back into his world.
Tommy, can you hear me?
Maybe you were a guru.
Maybe you divined it.
You were right.
Maybe I do have the power to save.
You just got the families wrong.
Tommy, can you hear me?
Tommy was much nicer than Stupid. More than once I'd wished I'd married Tommy instead, but Tommy was devoted to his Tracy. T'nT. We'd be C'nt. It wasn't in the stars.
I don't remember exactly what we were talking about, but it had to do with my level of expressed honesty that led him to say to me, "Maybe you're the one to save our family."
Smoking joints and chugging domestic light beer in the hot summer sun, Tommy and Stupid were 2 brothers that seemed incredibly close. They'd lost their father a couple of years prior. Their mother, who loved a ghost more than most women have loved any living partner, was a devout Baptist. She never killed a fly or went fishin' (flies and fish are our friends); didn't encourage card play on Sundays, or dancing - ever - because, well, dancing led to sex and Sunday was God's day. She loved her boys, including the eldest who seemed not only old-fashioned, but just plain old. His sons were closer to my own age. An old seeming man shrouded with a bristly nest-like, dull brown beard with woven strands of non-shimmering grey. Who seemed and commanded learned.
How the hell did he think I could save anything? Stupid and Tommy were at least 11 years older than I. Doesn't age lead to wisdom?
For the majority of my life if I was in the company of someone with little letters preceding or succeeding their name, I would perceive them to be in a greater position of knowledge, subsequently, of power. In tandem, I created a self-induced, reduced sense of personal adequacy. I reasoned that these people - who have lived longer than I and/or went to Serious School - knew more than I. Were more than I. In my mind I had elevated their status, thus relinquishing all of my own personal power.
Yes, doctor.
Of course I don't mind being booked in for an appointment at 9:00am, to not be seen until 10:30.
The fact that you have sixteen 9:00am bookings seems perfectly reasonable to me. You are the doctor.
Personal power, belief structure and general code of ethics - sold - to the only bidder.
All for the low, low price of free.
It's all perceived value anyway.
Something happened this week.
I did things I'd never really done before.
As an addendum to the 2 weeks of hell work tenure in Toronto's District of Distillation, I returned with a lilting tail, not quite between my legs, but more wrapped around one knee. As much as I needed to leave that job, which would have been both the demise of myself and the dear relationship with my darling Fatty, I had never before left a post as unceremoniously. Just up and walking out in the middle of a shift. In truth, there was a bit of shame attached to my right heel as I walked again through ominous doors, adjusting the Comrade Collection Agency cap on my head. I had both a pay cheque and cash owed from 2 night's work.
The Comrade: What do you mean you can't find it?
Floor Manager Fabio: [Shaved head, club clothed, guttural Gino-type] I saw an envelope kicking around with your name on it, but that was a while back. I haven't seen it in a while.
The Comrade: Well look harder. Peter did my cash out one night. Where's that?
FM Fabio: You're going to have to take it up with Peter.
Rip the needle off the vinyl.
The general manager.
Clear over 6'4".
Nice man,
Though
Falls squarely into my reductive-self complex.
A little terrified, I went home and sent an email to the general manager. It was sweetly asking if he knew the whereabouts of any of the money that was owed to me. One night was accounted for, but the other night left a great big question mark over his head. The best explanation was that the bartender I was training that night, incidentally her first night, something that doesn't usually warrant a 50/50 split, more than likely received not merely half, but all of the evening's collective earnings. That one night produced a 14 hour workday-induced hemorrhoid the size of a quail's egg. It took 2 weeks for it to return close enough to my body to no longer consider it alien.
Years, nay months, ago I would have just let this one go. I'd reasoned that I was the one who left, so I should face some sort of punishment. Besides, it's normal to take some knocks along the way. Normal. If you get out with yourself intact, that should be enough.
But it nearly killed me.
But it almost tore the ass out of my relationship with the love of my life.
But I had felt repeatedly raped and pillaged there.
Plot/scheme
Plot/scheme
Think, think, think
Why was considering to let this go? If I'd heard about this happening to someone else, I'd have all kinds of things to say and more suggestions on how to deal with the matter. Why has it been easier for me to choose to defend other people over myself?
I earned this money... the hard way.
While in its greatest protrusion, I nearly painted the ass goiter a robin's egg blue.
Fuck this.
With conjured powdered wig and reaper's gown, dodging swinging gavels while rising from a block of oak, I delivered the opening statement to my peers of imagined Comrade clones: I deserve to receive all the money that is owing to me.
The Supreme Court of Comraderie.
It does have a nice ring to it.
Without holding anything back I presented the general manager with a rather long essay outlining exactly why I left and how it was his sole responsibility to give me all the money I am due.
Bridges need burning sometimes.
They light your way.
[excerpt]
I left because of the lack of regard and respect for the staff.
I left for the unfair and illegal practices demonstrated [by management].
I left because there was no proper recompensement for working 14 hours straight in a relentlessly busy environment when in the end I couldn’t fire one neuron against another to complete a cash-out.
Which was why I handed it off.
Something you accepted the charge of.
Regardless of how much time has passed, money that I earned, that I had entrusted to you, has gone missing. I can only see it as your responsibility. If the lion’s share of earnings went to the bartender-in-training, someone with whom I was fully prepared to equally share my earnings, no matter how time has passed, the money that is rightfully mine was allocated incorrectly.
I’m asking you to correct the situation.
Yeah, well, he didn't like that one bit.
He wrote:
I disagree with everything you say.
Which is fine. Had he agreed on much of it, it would be terrific evidence that the Labour Board would be quite interested in.
In the end, as a method of appeasement, he asked me how much money I'd like. It was more than likely a resolution to make me happy because I was proving to be a potential whistle-blower. Who cared? I had a goal in mind. Though he tried to fracture the amount, using a dirty underhanded method of do-you-really-think-you-deserved-that-much-money, something historically I would have caved over out of guilt or feeling: He's right; maybe I didn't deserve it. He did make the mistake of asking how much money I thought was fair. I may present confidence often, but I don't always feel it. Though when working behind 2' wood,
I feel like a master.
I responded:
Thank you so much for taking the time to read so thoroughly and respond so thoughtfully. I am earnestly grateful. As for fairness in recompensement, I do feel that $200 for that shift is fair.
As I learned selling weight loss programmes to poor, overweight women once upon a time in my sordid, professional past, the first rule of sales: Bring things to a close.
Continued:
I will be by next week to collect it.
Many thanks again.
God knows he's not the first person to call me a bitch.
I don't suspect he'll be the last.
In my last post I'd promised myself I'd write a letter to my family which would exempt me from further annihilation of self-esteem. As I am a girl of her word, and as I was on a roll anyway, every family member I was raised with was CC'd.
[abridged excerpt]
I have decided to create a self-imposed exemption from any further function where obligatory attendance is required.
[T]he truth is this man, whom I am obligated to honour in his septuagenarian year, has for 20 years simply ignored my existence. A few years ago I was told I could be “forgiven” as long as I proved something to him. A presentation of another fiery hoop in which to jump through. To prove the validity of my deserving love.
For a lifetime I’ve heard all the rationale of forgiving the father for “he knows not what he’s done.” Or other clichés like “You can’t teach an old dog new tricks.” But he learns new technology. He applies knowledge of newly learned trades. All of which he lords over his wife, our mother, further elevating his status while reducing her self-esteem to rubble. If learning to love was important to him, he would have made it his life’s goal; something I’ve mandated within my own life. The process albeit is riddled with both success and failure, but it is still a process.
I do not make concessions for ignorance in my own world. To continue to allow this because it's "family" is a continued personal breach.
At the heart of every function is an unwritten clause that we all must maintain a façade that everything is fine, that we were all raised wonderfully and we think our dad is the greatest.
The World’s Greatest Dad who hasn’t spoken to his youngest child in over twenty years.
I beg for any other rationale than that of nonsensical pride.
I cannot take part in another scene in this ridiculous, self-destructive farce. It’s beyond disheartening. It’s morally corrupt.
When I wrote this, it was for no other design but to eliminate a sense of massive impending doom. I didn't expect a response, unless it was that of ridicule or further judgment.
My eldest brother, who speaks in monotones, no caps, little inflection and certainly no italics, wrote first:
Excellent letter!!!! I agree 110%.
I will be out of town until next week.
Maybe we have lunch the week of August 8 to talk!!!
Sincerely,
Vince
7... count 'em, 7 exclamation points.
He's never invited me out for lunch before in his life.
Second to respond was my darling brother-in-law Jimmy:
Well done. Is there anything I can do for you!!!
Always in service to others, this man who has "everything" I thought could do something for me. I requested:
What you can do for me is to be happy. And to do what you want. And to realise you are a remarkable person. And that I love you very much.
Besides that, I'd love to go for a pint soon.
As good things reputedly come in threes, the third, more than likely final, familial response came with the subject line: Your long lost brother
Walter
The apple of my childhood eye,
Whom I miss so much,
Who had estranged himself from the family,
Broke his silence
And invited me back into his world.
Tommy, can you hear me?
Maybe you were a guru.
Maybe you divined it.
You were right.
Maybe I do have the power to save.
You just got the families wrong.
posted by Comrade Chicken at
8:07 p.m.
6 Comments:
excellent post!!!!!! cograts, have fun!
By
Anonymous, at 9:40 p.m.
Reading your blog and I figured you'd be interested in advancing your life a bit, call us at 1-206-339-5106. No tests, books or exams, easiest way to get a Bachelors, Masters, MBA, Doctorate or Ph.D in almost any field.
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By
Anonymous, at 12:50 p.m.
Thank you my lovely girls.
Wowee-wowee! It looks like Sally Struthers is now offering doctorates in 30 days! That degree would look quite handsome next to my authentic plumber's certificate. Thanks Anonymous!
By
Comrade Chicken, at 1:17 p.m.
There is a chorus singing their hozannas as we speak, I'm sure. "Excelceor!" or some such. Whatever the word, the angles with pinions painted neon are doing a go-go dance above your apartment.
Congrats, darling.
By
M. Spider, at 1:23 p.m.
update! update! update!
i'm dying to know what's been keeping you away from us. please, or i'll hold my breath until you do :)
much love
f
By
FC, at 10:51 a.m.
Thank you. Saying it to your face is not enough. I need to record it for posterity. You are such a wonderful writer that I can go back and re-read long forgotten posts and divine much needed comfort from them. I think that makes you an angel. Or a cherub. Or perhaps a Sissy Hankshaw.
Love and Comeraderie indeed.
Ryan
By
Rye, at 11:14 a.m.
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