I've made a career out of being fired. I make it look easy. People are often amazed by the sheer amount of jobs I've occupied and been asked to vacate immediately. It's difficult to keep track of, so I thought I would compile a list of the firing highlights chronologically:
1) Wicks N Sticks candle store. Nashua NH. Cashier
Reason: My first job ever. I was let go shortly after Christmas being told that I was strictly seasonal help. Working there since June, I was unaware of this entirely.
2) KB Toys Store. Nashua, NH. Cashier.
Reason: Do you know how when you are on vacation you lose all track of the date? The time when you become entirely oblivious as to what time and day of the week it is? Once you stop adhering to a schedule, the concept of time ceases to be. As it was with me in the Spring of 1996 in which I worked at KB Toys. Priding myself on my responsibility, I started working early at the age of 16 as soon as I got my junior operator's driver's license. Over my school's April vacation I continued to work at this job located in a nearby mall. However, when not at work I mostly hibernated in my bed while watching Golden Girls reruns. Because of this, I was completely unaware of the little phenomenon that we archaically celebrate called "Daylight Savings Time." I strolled into work an hour late when I thought I was precisely on time. The manager greeted me with a scowl and asked to see me in the stockroom where she unspooled. I made her an hour late for a lunch appointment because I deigned not to show up for my shift on time and she couldn't leave the register. I was shocked at the accusation and pointed to my calculator watch—1:00 on the nose, what was she talking about?
"Daylight Savings Time was 4 days ago." She spat.
Oh. Why doesn't anyone tell me these things? I suppose I should have figured it out after my Golden Girls lineup seemed all out of wack.
"I'm writing you up." She barked.
"What does that mean?" I inquired
"It means we have something in writing stating that you were tardy and it goes to the corporate office on your permanent record. If you get another write-up you won't be eligible for promotions and after 3 write-ups you can be let go."
"I'm sorry I was late, I really didn't know that it was daylight savings."
"I don't believe you." She replied, scribbling furiously on a form letter. "And even if I did, this is the company's policy."
"I don't really care if you believe me or not. It's the truth. I've worked here for almost a year and never been late. Do you really think I would stroll in an hour late one day just because?"
Ignoring me, she passed the form and pen to me, "You need to sign at the bottom where it says 'reprimanded employee.'"
"I most certainly will not." I replied, refusing to take the pen.
"If you don't sign this, it is grounds for termination." Her voice, full of ice.
"I thought that wasn't until the third write-up." I said smugly.
"Ha ha. Sign it." She urged.
"No."
"You have to." She growled staring into my eyes.
"I don't." Returning her Medusa gaze.
"Then get out!" She shouted suddenly.
"Fine! I hope you NEVER get to eat your lunch!" I shrieked, plowing through the revolving Staff Only door and out into the store.
"Fuck YOU!" She screamed after me, her shout echoing throughout the Pokemon, parent, and child-filled aisles.
It's a shame nobody was there to write her crazy ass up.
3) Sweets From Heaven candy store. Nashua, NH. Cashier.
Reason: The store was taken over by a Pakistani family and they didn't think I was a good fit, so they "hired" their 12-year old boy to cashier instead.
4) Lily's on the Pond Restaurant. Rindge, NH. Waiter.
Reason: Got into it with the bartender/co-owner one night when she was PMSing. We had a very rocky relationship from day one when I came in for my first waitstaff shift and she told me my dinosaur tie was inappropriate for a fine dining restaurant. I told her it was inappropriate to refer to the place as a fine dining restaurant since people wore full body aprons and sneakers. Our relationship continued to decline when I started taking smoke breaks like everybody else did, even though I have never smoked in my life. When I needed a break, I would just step outside and pretend to smoke. I carried a lighter and an empty pack of cigarettes in case anybody needed proof. If they needed a light, I gave them my lighter. If they needed a cigarette, oh sorry, I just smoked the last one. Empty. See? A heavy smoker, we would often cross paths outside and she would watch me like a hawk. I'd pretend to get a phone call or chew gum or anything else to get out of actually smoking a cigarette. Sometimes she would even offer me one and I'd have to come up with an excuse to refuse. One day she caught on and confronted me.
"You really shouldnt pretend to smoke just to take a break. It's not fair to the other employees." She said, taking a drag from her cigarette.
"You really shouldn't smoke when you're trying to have a baby." I replied, knowing she and her husband had been trying for 6 months now and everyday I got to hear about their exploits.
"I'm going to quit before the first trimester." She said defensively. "Besides it's none of your business."
"You make it my business when you tell everyone, including me, all about it."
"Fine. It saves me the chore of having to talk to you." She quipped.
After our chat, we didnt wind up on the schedule for any shifts together for a few months. The next time I saw her was because we were both called in to work a wedding reception. She was starting to show, and moodier than ever. I congratulated her and was met with a stare and silence. Taking the hint, I went about my work. Towards the end of the evening I went to the bar to grab a tray of drinks I had ordered and as I was walking away with the tray, she leaned over the bar and grabbed the back of my shirt, causing my to drop the entire tray onto the floor. Broken glass and wet clothing abound.
"What the hell is your problem?" I yelled.
"You didn't stab your drink slip." She yelled back.
"So?"
"If it doesn't get stabbed, then it just sits there and I accidentally make the order again."
"Then stab it. my hands were full!"
"Your hands aren't full now."
"I'll stab something alright!" I growled, and walked away to wash up.
I was let go promptly after the wedding.
5) NK Graphics, Keene, NH. Design Intern
Reason: A mandatory graphic design internship brought me to this place, and a mandatory internship would be the only thing to get me back there. Dull, drab, and dreary the office felt like a mausoleum, especially during the night shift when I worked because of my class schedule. I stuck out the 280 hours required of me, even after at about hour 200, my 40-something supervisor asked me to dinner in a hushed whisper. Dumb struck, I just stared blankly ahead with my mouth open. He told me not to worry, that even if I had hemorrhoids, they were just pleasurable speed bumps. Enough said.
6) Staples, Inc. Framingham, MA. Graphic Designer
Reason: Was told that personality-wise, I was a great fit, however my creativity was too much for the Staples brand to handle.
7) Whistling Swan Restaurant. Sturbridge, MA. Host
Reason: Asked for a raise up to $10/hour from my $8/hour. Was denied and promptly released from their employ.
8) Blue Water Grill Restaurant. New York, NY. Host
Reason: After my training was completed, was told I was a good employee and that their sister restaurant, Ocean Grill needed me more then they did.
9) Ocean Grill. New York, NY. Host
Reason: Was fired for not serving alcohol to a minor who happened to be a celebrity. Celebrities are exempt from our silly little laws you see.
10) Serendipity. New York, NY. Host
Reason: Perhaps my favorite firing because it caused the biggest scene. Let me give you some background information about this place. It is run by this wretched old shrew, Xandra. The first shift I shared with Xandra, she told me not to speak unless absolutely necessary because my Boston accent was off-putting. I could have lambasted her for this alone, but I held my tongue. Next shift she told me my pants were too baggy and that I should go home and change. I looked at her wrinkled blouse and windblown gray hair barely contained beneath a faded Yankees hat. "This isn't the East Village. This is Midtown." She said. I replied that I didn't know what the hell she was talking about. She scowled and said I didn't fit in and should go back to New Hampshire. Again, I held my tongue. Our Third shift together, shit got real.
A normal restaurant will number all of their tables. Serendipity thinks giving each of their 117 tables a name is the way to go. Table 11 is not Table 11. Table 11 is Marilyn. Why? Because Marilyn Monroe once sat there. Table 29 is Rose. Why? The owner likes roses. Excellent.
Lunch rush hit. There was a 45-minute wait, and the phone was ringing off the hook. I wasn't allowed to answer it lest my accent be discovered. Xandra flings some menus at me and instructs me to seat the next party of 4 at Steven. I nod, motion mutely for the people to follow me, and lead them to Steven. I come back and lead the next party to Crystal. Then Naomi. Tori. Vincent. No sooner do I seat Vincent when Xandra comes storming up to me in her frumpy skirt, bra-less shirt, sequened sandals, and a Yankees cap.
"Why did you seat a party of 4 at Steven?!" She barks—not even attempting decorum in the middle of the packed restaurant.
"Am I permitted to respond, your highness?" I ask sweetly.
"Steven is reserved for the President of 20th Century Fox! Now we have to seat him somewhere else!"
"You told me to seat the next party of 4 at Steven. That's what I did."
"No I said Kevin!" She yells—turning more and more heads in our direction. "You're not very bright are you? Do you even want to work here?"
"Is that a trick question?" I ask.
"That's it! You're out!" She stomps over to a cash register, thumbs through some twenty dollar bills and throws them at me. "Take your money and leave!"
"I will!" I shout, scrounging around on the floor, picking up my hard-earned sheckles while everyone in the restaurant looks on. A customer leans down and hands me a bill from under his table.
In a Carrie-like blood rage I stomp towards Xandra, and the exit, foaming at the mouth. She sees the fury in my eyes and backs up a step. Not far enough. I reach out, snatch her Yankees hat off her head and throw it down on the floor with extreme prejudice. "YANKEES FUCKING SUCK!!!" I shriek and stomp on it.
"GET OUT! You're BANNED! BANNED!" She screams at my back as I run to the exit.
"You couldn't PAY me to come back to this dump!" I turn around and face everyone seated at their tables, staring open-mouthed. "THEY PICK THE BROWN AND BLACK BITS OFF THEIR SALAD GREENS!" I warn and exit the restaurant forever.
I wonder if there's a job waiting for me at 20th Century Fox.
11) The Big Cup coffee shop. New York, NY. Barista.
Reason: I lasted 3 weeks at Manhattan's gay premeire coffee shop in Chelsea. I was fired for being too slow in making a customer's double-espresso half-caf macchioato-chino. The only real surpise here is that I wasn't fired sooner. Not being a coffee drinker or a particularly good listener, when people ordered extravaggant menu items such as this or maybe a soy chai latte-chino I would usually give them a cup of coffee with a whole milk foam on top.
12) Pink Pages. Boston, MA. Graphic Designer.
Reason: Mary, the beast of a lesbian owner, didn't like me from the start. But her designer quit suddenly and I was the only person who would work for $10/hour. She made it clear that I worked too slowly, dressed too nicely, my hair was too long, and was too friendly with my coworkers.
"Coworkers are a distraction. I'm paying you to work, not pick up tricks." She used to grunt, implying that not only was I not doing my job, but that I was also a whore.
Needless to say, I let my mouth fly back at her at every opportunity and got myself fired after 6 months. We are now currently feuding over my unemployment claim.
Tales of a tactless twit
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
Monday, October 5, 2009
Another top 5 List
Worst 5 People to Walk Behind
- Couple in Love—These people really need a punch in the throat. They walk slowly ahead of you, gazing into each others' eyes with shy little smiles while you have just been dumped and spent the last few days watching the Gameshow Network and eating corn chips. Usually holding hands and taking up the entirety of the sidewalk, they are sure to make you late for any engagement. All you want to do is get a running start and crash through their interlocked arms, like the finish line of a race or a childhood game of Red Rover, send "___" right over! The younger couples will have hands in each others' back pant pockets, causing them to sway left and right with each stride as you try in vain to pass them. For maximum irritation they might stop in mid-stride to share a quick kiss. Your laser beam scowl bounces right off their force field of obliviousness. Your deepest hatred cannot penetrate their oasis of love. Helpless, you will follow this couple inevitably to your final destination. While you might veer into an office building for a day of work or a dentist appointment, they will continue onward to a picnic in the park or a couples massage.
- Drunk Girl—We all know this girl. We have all walked behind this girl for
what seems like miles in the wee hours of the morning when all we want to do is crawl under the covers. Inappropriately dressed, she will stumble slowly infront of you, swaying to and fro, blocking all escape paths. We try to walk very slowly behind her, keeping our distance in case she falls backwards and touches us—or worse—to prevent any passersby on the opposite sidewalk from thinking that we know each other. We want to distance ourselves from Drunk Girl as much as we can. We don't want to actually cross the street and pass her by because this might call attention to us and then maybe she will start spewing drunken obscenities at us. Slow and steady wins the race with Drunk Girl. Inevitably, Drunk Girl will whip a cell phone out of her purse and begin drunk dialing ex-boyfriends. The conversation might be something like this: - Foreign Tourists—While these people may only come from overseas, it often seems they come from another planet. A planet where rules of social acceptability do not apply. It seems to them that it is perfectly fine to blockade an entire sidewalk so that they can get a picture of one another infront of God-knows-what striking some inane pose, God-knows-why. Often traveling in flocks and speaking foreign tongues, the herd will never let you pass, never allow for any fun eavesdropping, and after irritating you thoroughly with their antics of stopping, starting, slowing, pointing, etc. They will even spin around and mime for you to take their photo infront of something. Despicable.
- School Field Trip—If 50+ twelve-year-olds swarming around you isn't enough to churn your
stomach, then you are a stronger man than I. 50 loud, laughing, screaming brats all revelling in prepubescency. 50 pairs of dirty hands high-fiving, pushing, and texting emoticons on their cell phones. 2 exasperated teachers will be trying in vain to control their loose flock, shouting orders over the crowd, like "Jimmy put that away!" "Kayla get that out of your mouth!" and the fruitless "Stay to the side to let people by!" Soon they will give up any thread of control of the herd and turn back to their coffees—irish no doubt. You'll notice people giving this group a wide berth. It's not that we inately fear children. After all, we are bigger, stronger, and can usually intimidate with words without the need for spankings or snapping their tiny necks like a chicken's. However children of today are different. They are teenagers at 10 years old. Moody, disrespectful, and under intense peer pressure to be cool. This means you won't hear any apologies when one bumps into you, no pleases or thank yous, and certainly no moving aside to let you pass. Part of me sympathizes with this ragtag group of adolescents and the trouble they are going to face in the years to come, while the other part of me wants a tractor trailer to tip over and wipe them all out so I can go on my way. - Smelly People—I'm blessed and cursed with a very large and sensitive nose. I have little tolerence for exposure to prolonged odors. This includes (yes I'm a terrible, awful, wicked wretch of a man) the homeless, sweaty joggers/gym enthusiasts, manual laborers, and simply anyone who decides to spray paint their bodies in cologne or perfume instead of dabbing or spritzing it on as intended. Fragrances are meant to be subtle and smelled only by those within arms length. It isnt to make a trail of stench that lingers for hours in your wake. If people follow behind you spraying air freshener, you should take the hint. If you leave a room and people open the window it is not a coincidence. It is these people I most dread walking behind. What is one to do? Hold their breath and hang back to let them get a head start and you become late? Pull your collar over your mouth, put your head down and make a mad, bullish dash past them? Ask them to kindly stop exuding noxious fumes? There is no easy solution but to find an alternative route entirely.
Drunk Girl: Heeeeey Keeeevin. Whatcha been up tooOOOoo?
*muffled response*Drunk Girl: Omigawd I knoooooow. I've been craaaaaazy busy tooooo. It's like....craaaazy! There's so much...BUSY going on, ya know what I mean? Ya know?
*muffled response*
Drunk Girl: No KEVIN I am not DRUNK-ah! I just wanted to talk to you JERK! GAWD-ah!
*muffled response*
Drunk Girl: No YOU go to BED! Go sleep with WHATS HER FACE! The one with the **burp** PERM and...HORSE TEETH!
*muffled response*
Drunk Girl: WhatEVER ASSHOOOOLE!
*click*
Drunk Girl will now weep the rest of the long walk home. Pausing only to mutter, look into a compact mirror, and apply more and more unnecessary lipstick.
Friday, January 23, 2009
Top 5 List
I haven't updated in the timely manner that I'd hoped for, and the amount of tactless occurrences have really piled up. To relieve the stress of covering each one in its own post, they will be summarily lumped into one. Drum roll please:
- Had a nightmare that the sweet, homeless Chinese man in Boston Common that I see every morning had died. I discovered him in a heap surrounded by the pigeons that he had been so kind to over the years. The next morning on my way to work I saw him throwing out bread crumbs and was so relieved that I ran up to him and gave him a hug. He returned the hug and in doing so spilled a foreign liquid from his canteen down my backside. Upon arrival into work I was greeted with upturned noses and inquiring stares. The smell emanating from me was whiskey. No amount of standing under the hand dryer in the bathroom seemed to help. I sprayed myself down with bathroom air freshener and proceeded about my business.
- Proclaiming myself a master of public transit and tempting the will of the Fates, I dared to not hold the handrails of the subway car and elected instead to read from my Tom Robbins novel. A sudden stop caused me to lose my page and also my footing. I was sent sprawling into the crotch of a middle-aged stranger. It smelled like blueberries and I told him so. I don't think he took it as the compliment I had intended.
- Got food poisoning at an Indian restaurant during a first date. Feeling the chunks start to rise, I jumped up and fled toward the little boy's room. I didn't make it in time. A stream of curry-colored projectile vomit erupted from me and splattered against the bathroom door before I smashed through it and stumbled into a stall. After heaving several pounds of chicken tikka masala and lamb curry, I cleaned myself up, chewed a stick of gum, and returned to my table. After several minutes of silence, I burst out with "Well, that was a waste of money!" and snorted at my own appalling joke. I can't imagine why I wasn't called upon for a second date.
- Exiting the house to walk Cinnamon, I slipped at the top of my icy porch and fell on my rear. Cinnamon then pulled me down the entire flight of stairs where I smacked my rump on each step before landing in a puddle of melted ice, salt, and dog urine at the bottom. My butt had symmetrical bruises on both cheeks, each increasing in latitude. It looked like a level from Super Mario Brothers.
- Fainted at my doctor's office after giving blood. Insisting that I was fine 5 minutes later, I stood up to make my retreat and got woozy again. I intended to fall backwards onto an exam table, missed, and fell into a large bin full of soiled hospital gowns. I saw the nurse practitioner write "stubborn" and "weak constitution" on my chart.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Tollbooth Tactics
Since I moved to Boston from New Hampshire, there is one person that I've found myself missing inexplicably. My arch-rival. My nemesis. The north-bound Hampton tollbooth man.
We met a year ago. I wonder if he remembers that fateful day as well as I do. I had my dog Cinnamon in the passenger seat with me, on my way to visit my boyfriend. Because I am an utter fool, I refuse to get an EasyPass—one of those Jetson-like devices that sticks to your windshield and pays your toll for you via a savings account. I don't trust it. Nor do I have a savings account or any savings to speak of.
As I sat one car back from the tollbooth, waiting for the elderly woman to fish out $1.50 from her purse, I watched the tollbooth man. A handsome, 50-something man with salt and pepper hair and a trimmed beard—very New Hampshire. He was all smiles as he held out his hand, graciously accepting the woman's $1.50 like it were a Publisher's Clearing House check. He said "Thank you ma'am," waved goodbye, and she sluggishly pulled away in her green Volvo. I took my dollar down from my sun visor, fished fifty cents from my cupholder, and edged forward to the tollbooth window.
"Morning!" I chirped, happy to be outside in the Spring weather and en route to see my man.
"Hi." He replied flatly, his expression utterly devoid of any cheeriness that I'd just seen directed at the old bat in front of me. In fact, he looked at me and Cinnamon like we had just asked him for spare change. He held his hand out and waggled his fingers, like he were in a real rush. Exactly where are you rushing off to Mister Booth?
Ignoring the thinly veiled hostility, I reached out intending to gracefully plop my tuppence into his paw. Instead, I accidentally managed to hit his hand with my own, launching my money onto the highway. Embarrassed, I apologized and opened my driver door to get out and scrape up the scattered coins. I misjudged the distance between my car and his station. My door flung open and smashed into the side of his booth. The man recoiled in disgust, as if I had done it intentionally and with extreme prejudice. I apologized again, got out of the car, and dropped to the ground, hunting for change. Cars behind me were about as amused as he was. I found my dollar and quarters that had dispersed under the car, stood back up, and held out my money for him to take—hoping to drive away with some dignity.
"Sir, get back in your car please." He said gruffly.
Confused, I got back in my car, shut the door, and extended my hand out the window. This time, he took my money.
"Thanks." I said, still determined not to let this damper a beautiful day.
"Yeah. Thanks a lot buddy." He grunted, looking at his cash register and avoiding my eyes.
His sarcasm wasn't lost on me. Neither were his several slight insults over the course of our 60-second exchange. I decided that I hated this man. The man who had been so courteous to the woman in front of me, and so unwelcoming to myself. He drew a battle line this day, and I intended to cross it. We will meet again.
Next weekend, on my way back up to visit NH, I approached the tollbooth section slowly, stalking my prey. I wanted to be damn sure that if he was working, I pulled up to his booth. Spotting him on the far left, I veered over and gingerly pulled up to his station. Over the course of a day, he must see at least 500 people, but I am fairly confident he recognized me. He did his best to not look at me. No niceties. No greeting. He held out his hand and stared straight ahead at his mini television. Following suit, I stared straight ahead, extended my hand full of quarters vaguely above his, and loosened my grip. The quarters bounced off his palm and rolled down the highway. Not even coming to a complete stop, I just continued through the toll. I was quite pleased with myself. I hope he had to exit his cave and crawl on the pavement, hunting for my change or have it come out of his salary.
Every weekend for the next few months we continued this routine. I made damn sure to pull up to his tollbooth. He made damn sure not to ever look at me. Sometimes he would catch my money and sometimes it would fall to the ground like a battle gauntlet.
Our hatred for each other actually seemed to grow. Once when I was pulling up to his booth, he turned the red light on and took his lunch break—exiting through a side door and never looking back. I had to reverse and find another booth. My rebuttal was counting out 30 nickels and giving that to him on my next voyage. I have to give him credit, because despite the pound of change thunking into his hand, he still never looked at me. I would have given him 150 pennies, but that seemed too obvious and planned. I wanted him to think that I hadn't given it a thought. That he was a nonentity to me. In fact, I spent many hours thinking of the awful things I could do to this man. This stranger that—had things worked out differently—maybe we could have been friends. Maybe we could have hung out at a local bar, sharing beer and peanuts. He could tell me about all the assholes he has dealt with on the highway. I could tell him about the awful dresses on Project Runway this season. Instead, because he wanted to play nasty, I was one of the highway assholes that he tells his real friends about. I could hear him now. "Yeah Jim. There's this little piss-ant and his girly-looking dog that always come to my booth and drops money everywhere without looking or slowing down." Imagining him talk about me behind my back to his friends—or maybe his wife if the sonofabitch duped a good woman into his bed—made me all the more vengeful.
Maybe next time I would simply hurl my change out the window and let the chips fall where they may. If I was lucky, one would get him between the eyes or chip a tooth. Or maybe I would coat my quarters with honey or syrup and plop them into his hand, getting him all sticky for the rest of the day. I bet he's not the type to have hand sanitizer in his booth. I bet it would really put a damper on his day. I bet that everytime he reached out to take change from someone else, he would flinch as it dropped into his sweaty palm. Maybe it would inspire him to wear gloves and be nicer to people that aren't old. I mean, really, shouldn't he be wearing gloves anyways? If I worked in a tollbooth, I would. Maybe I could teach Cinnamon an "attack" command and have him leap out the open window, going directly for the jerk's throat. My mind reeled with possibilities to torture this man. Didn't he deserve it after all? He was rude to me, and I'm a nice person—thoughts of torture aside.
Our time together was cut short after my visits to NH came to an end. All of the plots I so cleverly devised never came to fruition. I actually found myself missing my rival. What is a superhero without his villain? A protagonist without an antagonist in a booth? It was sort of like we were dating. We saw each other only on weekends and all too briefly. Each time we met, we did something different. We always learned more about each other after each exchange. Our minute together was worth all the $1.50's in the world. I wonder if he thought about me too. I suppose he was pretty happy to be rid of me and watch his television in peace.
Several months later, I needed to fly out of Manchester Airport in NH. I drove north in a snowstorm to stay over at my friend's house for an early morning flight. It hadn't even dawned on me that I might be seeing my "friend" again as I crossed over the NH border. Sure enough, as I trailblazed through the snowy night in my little, all-wheel-drive, cherry red wagon, I spotted him in a booth. It was hard to see him through the snow, but I could see his stub of a beard and his ridiculous fishing hat he always wore. He was in a different booth than usual. And there was only one other booth open with an attendant that accepted cash. I thought about going quietly into that good night and driving up to the other booth. Perhaps sparing us both a last, painful encounter. I didn't have any tricks up my sleeve anyways. I was tired, cold, and unprepared. And still, my car gravitated over to his booth.
I pulled up slowly, snow crunching under my salty tires. I rolled down my foggy window and started readying change from my cupholder. You can imagine my surprise when I heard him speak to me.
"Haven't seen you in a while. Where ya been?" He asked in a voice that was unexpectedly warm in such cold weather.
I sat mute for a couple seconds, still in shock and totally unsure of how much information to divulge.
"Haven't needed to come to New Hampshire anymore... I was dating someone here but... I don't anymore... I live in Boston." I stumbled.
"Ah." he said, venturing a reticent glance at me, as if he were in trouble at school and I were a principal.
"Yeah..." I trailed off.
The silence on the dark, snowy highway was unsettling. It seems unnatural that a place designed to fit so many people and loud machines simultaneously could be so vacant and dark. The only light was coming from above us—a single bulb with no covering, like an interrogation room.
I stretched out my gloved hand to give him my $1.50 and he reached out to accept. Our hands touched as I gently placed it into his naked hand. There was no malice in our touch, nor anything sexual. It was simply two people connecting as exposed humans do.
"Thank you." He said grinning.
"No, thank you." I said.
"So... be seeing you and that dumb mutt of yours around?" He chuckled into his beard.
"Yeah bitch. You'll be seeing me again." I gave him a wink.
"Watch your mouth. I'm a public servant." He said, feigning shock.
"Yeah. and don't you forget it." I spat.
We waved goodbye and I sloshed back onto the snowy highway. I actually felt sorry for this man who was out working in a cold booth during a snowstorm at 11:00 pm and had to put up with assholes like me. I glanced in my rear-view mirror to see if he was watching me drive away.
He was giving me the finger.
We met a year ago. I wonder if he remembers that fateful day as well as I do. I had my dog Cinnamon in the passenger seat with me, on my way to visit my boyfriend. Because I am an utter fool, I refuse to get an EasyPass—one of those Jetson-like devices that sticks to your windshield and pays your toll for you via a savings account. I don't trust it. Nor do I have a savings account or any savings to speak of.
As I sat one car back from the tollbooth, waiting for the elderly woman to fish out $1.50 from her purse, I watched the tollbooth man. A handsome, 50-something man with salt and pepper hair and a trimmed beard—very New Hampshire. He was all smiles as he held out his hand, graciously accepting the woman's $1.50 like it were a Publisher's Clearing House check. He said "Thank you ma'am," waved goodbye, and she sluggishly pulled away in her green Volvo. I took my dollar down from my sun visor, fished fifty cents from my cupholder, and edged forward to the tollbooth window.
"Morning!" I chirped, happy to be outside in the Spring weather and en route to see my man.
"Hi." He replied flatly, his expression utterly devoid of any cheeriness that I'd just seen directed at the old bat in front of me. In fact, he looked at me and Cinnamon like we had just asked him for spare change. He held his hand out and waggled his fingers, like he were in a real rush. Exactly where are you rushing off to Mister Booth?
Ignoring the thinly veiled hostility, I reached out intending to gracefully plop my tuppence into his paw. Instead, I accidentally managed to hit his hand with my own, launching my money onto the highway. Embarrassed, I apologized and opened my driver door to get out and scrape up the scattered coins. I misjudged the distance between my car and his station. My door flung open and smashed into the side of his booth. The man recoiled in disgust, as if I had done it intentionally and with extreme prejudice. I apologized again, got out of the car, and dropped to the ground, hunting for change. Cars behind me were about as amused as he was. I found my dollar and quarters that had dispersed under the car, stood back up, and held out my money for him to take—hoping to drive away with some dignity.
"Sir, get back in your car please." He said gruffly.
Confused, I got back in my car, shut the door, and extended my hand out the window. This time, he took my money.
"Thanks." I said, still determined not to let this damper a beautiful day.
"Yeah. Thanks a lot buddy." He grunted, looking at his cash register and avoiding my eyes.
His sarcasm wasn't lost on me. Neither were his several slight insults over the course of our 60-second exchange. I decided that I hated this man. The man who had been so courteous to the woman in front of me, and so unwelcoming to myself. He drew a battle line this day, and I intended to cross it. We will meet again.
Next weekend, on my way back up to visit NH, I approached the tollbooth section slowly, stalking my prey. I wanted to be damn sure that if he was working, I pulled up to his booth. Spotting him on the far left, I veered over and gingerly pulled up to his station. Over the course of a day, he must see at least 500 people, but I am fairly confident he recognized me. He did his best to not look at me. No niceties. No greeting. He held out his hand and stared straight ahead at his mini television. Following suit, I stared straight ahead, extended my hand full of quarters vaguely above his, and loosened my grip. The quarters bounced off his palm and rolled down the highway. Not even coming to a complete stop, I just continued through the toll. I was quite pleased with myself. I hope he had to exit his cave and crawl on the pavement, hunting for my change or have it come out of his salary.
Every weekend for the next few months we continued this routine. I made damn sure to pull up to his tollbooth. He made damn sure not to ever look at me. Sometimes he would catch my money and sometimes it would fall to the ground like a battle gauntlet.
Our hatred for each other actually seemed to grow. Once when I was pulling up to his booth, he turned the red light on and took his lunch break—exiting through a side door and never looking back. I had to reverse and find another booth. My rebuttal was counting out 30 nickels and giving that to him on my next voyage. I have to give him credit, because despite the pound of change thunking into his hand, he still never looked at me. I would have given him 150 pennies, but that seemed too obvious and planned. I wanted him to think that I hadn't given it a thought. That he was a nonentity to me. In fact, I spent many hours thinking of the awful things I could do to this man. This stranger that—had things worked out differently—maybe we could have been friends. Maybe we could have hung out at a local bar, sharing beer and peanuts. He could tell me about all the assholes he has dealt with on the highway. I could tell him about the awful dresses on Project Runway this season. Instead, because he wanted to play nasty, I was one of the highway assholes that he tells his real friends about. I could hear him now. "Yeah Jim. There's this little piss-ant and his girly-looking dog that always come to my booth and drops money everywhere without looking or slowing down." Imagining him talk about me behind my back to his friends—or maybe his wife if the sonofabitch duped a good woman into his bed—made me all the more vengeful.
Maybe next time I would simply hurl my change out the window and let the chips fall where they may. If I was lucky, one would get him between the eyes or chip a tooth. Or maybe I would coat my quarters with honey or syrup and plop them into his hand, getting him all sticky for the rest of the day. I bet he's not the type to have hand sanitizer in his booth. I bet it would really put a damper on his day. I bet that everytime he reached out to take change from someone else, he would flinch as it dropped into his sweaty palm. Maybe it would inspire him to wear gloves and be nicer to people that aren't old. I mean, really, shouldn't he be wearing gloves anyways? If I worked in a tollbooth, I would. Maybe I could teach Cinnamon an "attack" command and have him leap out the open window, going directly for the jerk's throat. My mind reeled with possibilities to torture this man. Didn't he deserve it after all? He was rude to me, and I'm a nice person—thoughts of torture aside.
Our time together was cut short after my visits to NH came to an end. All of the plots I so cleverly devised never came to fruition. I actually found myself missing my rival. What is a superhero without his villain? A protagonist without an antagonist in a booth? It was sort of like we were dating. We saw each other only on weekends and all too briefly. Each time we met, we did something different. We always learned more about each other after each exchange. Our minute together was worth all the $1.50's in the world. I wonder if he thought about me too. I suppose he was pretty happy to be rid of me and watch his television in peace.
Several months later, I needed to fly out of Manchester Airport in NH. I drove north in a snowstorm to stay over at my friend's house for an early morning flight. It hadn't even dawned on me that I might be seeing my "friend" again as I crossed over the NH border. Sure enough, as I trailblazed through the snowy night in my little, all-wheel-drive, cherry red wagon, I spotted him in a booth. It was hard to see him through the snow, but I could see his stub of a beard and his ridiculous fishing hat he always wore. He was in a different booth than usual. And there was only one other booth open with an attendant that accepted cash. I thought about going quietly into that good night and driving up to the other booth. Perhaps sparing us both a last, painful encounter. I didn't have any tricks up my sleeve anyways. I was tired, cold, and unprepared. And still, my car gravitated over to his booth.
I pulled up slowly, snow crunching under my salty tires. I rolled down my foggy window and started readying change from my cupholder. You can imagine my surprise when I heard him speak to me.
"Haven't seen you in a while. Where ya been?" He asked in a voice that was unexpectedly warm in such cold weather.
I sat mute for a couple seconds, still in shock and totally unsure of how much information to divulge.
"Haven't needed to come to New Hampshire anymore... I was dating someone here but... I don't anymore... I live in Boston." I stumbled.
"Ah." he said, venturing a reticent glance at me, as if he were in trouble at school and I were a principal.
"Yeah..." I trailed off.
The silence on the dark, snowy highway was unsettling. It seems unnatural that a place designed to fit so many people and loud machines simultaneously could be so vacant and dark. The only light was coming from above us—a single bulb with no covering, like an interrogation room.
I stretched out my gloved hand to give him my $1.50 and he reached out to accept. Our hands touched as I gently placed it into his naked hand. There was no malice in our touch, nor anything sexual. It was simply two people connecting as exposed humans do.
"Thank you." He said grinning.
"No, thank you." I said.
"So... be seeing you and that dumb mutt of yours around?" He chuckled into his beard.
"Yeah bitch. You'll be seeing me again." I gave him a wink.
"Watch your mouth. I'm a public servant." He said, feigning shock.
"Yeah. and don't you forget it." I spat.
We waved goodbye and I sloshed back onto the snowy highway. I actually felt sorry for this man who was out working in a cold booth during a snowstorm at 11:00 pm and had to put up with assholes like me. I glanced in my rear-view mirror to see if he was watching me drive away.
He was giving me the finger.
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