Wednesday, January 08, 2003

 

"I'm not sure why it looks like this," I said in a half drunken stupor, squinting my eyes against the blinking lights of North Beach, "but Merry Christmas anwhose..."
I leaned into James, caught myself on his shoulder with one hand before falling off'a my stool. Tis the season to be jolly, I guess... and James and me aint had the money, nor the gumption to spend it with family. Augh, it was better in a bar anyhow. I got me a great big check for 80 dollars to spend. It was a bonus cheque from the office. The office gave it to me and told me they had enough work through the year, but not for me, and I was being laid off. Thanks alot. Layoffs always look better through a martini glass, or through the copper tones of a neat single malt.

I've become quite adept at dealing with the startling rush of emotions that come with a layoff. It happened to me a few times in the last year, but never before the holidays. Never during a time reserved for sugarplums dancing around in my head, a jolly ole saint nick looking to bring me the newest contraption, eggnog and rum served near a roaring fire, near a library of books with hours and hours to peruse and pontificate over. I dont know who I'm fooling. Anytime I get laid off is a pain in the neck. This time, though, had nothing to do with insurgent behaviour. I was always on time, and I had always procured the finest of work from my day, making sure that everything was filed properly, everything was collated accurately. My dress was always casual, but dressy, and my shoes were never, ever sneakers. Nope, this time I was laid off because they built a machine that could do my job ten times faster and, according to the firm's research, more accurately.

I paced back and forth in my cubicle when I found out, just a few days before Christmas, which is to say I paced four feet, then turned around to another four feet, and so on....

I did that for a good twenty minutes and Charlie Parker played on my radio. Helps me to think. Not like Coltrane helps me to think. Coltrane sounds like the howl of an oncoming train in the subway, each train another escape route, getting me outta the hustle and bustle of downtown and into the dirty streets of the Mission and into night clubs filled with music and broads and good liquors. Bird, on the other hand, is more frantic. Like the crowd boarding the trains, struggling to get on, quickly, quickly and tight so tight that bodies are pressed uncomfortably against one another, blue collars curse at white collars for stepping on toes, and women clutch their purses for fear that shifty kids might steal some of their shit.

posted by Hog 9:19 PM