Perchance to Dream
Disclaimer: see prologue
Summary: Follow Stanley to work.
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At Work I
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Every day after school, I duck into the boys' bathroom nearest my locker to change clothes. I carry my work uniform in a little drawstring bag that spends most of the day neatly placed inside my schoolbag, along with a stick of deodorant to make sure that if Cartman drops by, he can't accuse me of smelling like sour milk. He's done it before, and once went so far as to replace my gym deodorant with a "special" stick that actually did smell like that, but I caught it and tossed it over my shoulder with an annoyed sigh.
My work uniform consists of a black polo shirt with a cup of coffee on the left breast with the word "Jumpin'" embroidered above the cup and the word "Java" embroidered below it, and a pair of black khaki pants. Greg, my boss, isn't really concerned about my footwear. No one really sees them anyway, so I leave my Chucks on. They're the only things comfortable enough to keep me on my feet for five hours every evening.
It's a fifteen minute walk from school to Jumpin' Java, so I can't leave any later than twenty minutes until four. Today, I manage to get out of school at three thirty-eight, so I allow myself a somewhat more relaxed pace in my walk to work. Normally, I spend this time thinking about whatever happens to be on the top of my mind that day. Today, I just pause to admire South Park around Christmastime.
The town is cheery, for the most part. The snow is packed onto the sidewalk, just like normal for this time of year. Christmas trees are going up in the planters that occupy the corners downtown. Fully decorated and lit, little star on top and all. The middle school and high school crowds are packing into the shops, looking for presents for their friends.
I haven't seen a Christmas tree in my house since my Freshman year in High School. I haven't had what anyone would consider a proper Christmas since then either. My past three Christmas presents have been a scarf, a wool cap, and a deck of playing cards. We eat Christmas dinner at Church, with all the welfare families. I don't speak to anyone, like usual.
With a pathetic sigh, I walk into Jumpin' Java and head behind the counter, much to the relief of Greg, as the after-school rush is just beginning. He retreats to the back room to start crunching numbers, or whatever it is he does during the five hours I'm working my ass off.
"Welcome to Jumpin' Java, are you ready to order?" I recite for the million and first time, grabbing a pad as Token Black approaches the counter.
"I'll have a Mocha Cappuccino with extra whipped cream, a dash of hazelnut, a dash of cinnamon, and the chocolate syrup, with two biscottis," the dashingly handsome black teen says, as I hurriedly check off boxes on the pad before inputting the order into the cash register.
"Six ninety-three," I say, and scowl when Token presents me with a $100 bill.
"We don't take anything over a fifty," I say, deepening my scowl and pointing at the notice affixed to the counter. "Do you have a twenty or something?"
Token returns my scowl before pulling out a checkbook and scratching out a check to Jumpin' Java for $6.93, tearing it out angrily and thrusting it at me. I take it, scowl deepening, and record that Token has paid for the beverage I'm about to go make.
Taking an empty cappuccino cup, I line the bottom with chocolate sauce before filling it with cappuccino, squirting a double helping of whipped cream atop the liquid, and sprinkling hazelnut and cinnamon powder over that, before glazing more syrup over top, snapping on a lid and spiking a straw into it. Setting it on the counter, I grab a piece of wax paper and snatch two biscottis out of the display case and present them to Token.
"Enjoy," I mutter, as the next customer steps up to the counter.
This is pretty much how it goes for the next three hours. I spend fifteen minutes arguing with someone over the fact that we don't accept credit cards or non-local checks. He then leaves in a huff, and I see him head down the street to Harbucks. Eh, fuck him. The rest of the customers are generally decent, despite the fact that they all have a penchant for handing out ridiculous orders. Some little freak orders a double-hazelnut half-caf latte with out soy cream and imperceptible amounts of chocolate, cinnamon, and paprika, of all things.
At around seven, Greg comes out of the back room after I have another argument with a customer about payment that works me up so badly that I stop abruptly in mid-rant, throw my hands in the air and actually scream for him.
It went something like "Well, why won't you take money?" "We DO take money!" "But you won't take MY money." "Your bill's too large!" "Money's money, you twit!" "GREG!!!"
Anyway, Greg comes out, placates the angry asshole, makes him his coffee, and comes over to me.
"Take a break, Stan," he says, laying a hand on my shoulder. "I think it's time we turned off the elevator music, don't you?"
I smile. "Delilah?"
He nods. "Delilah. Got any new stuff for us?"
"A couple," I reply. "I haven't really had a lot of time to write and practice lately, with finals on the way."
"I'm sure you'll be fine," Greg says, turning me around and gently pushing me around the corner of the counter. Taking a deep breath to try and calm myself down, I walk over to the little stool next to which rests my pride and joy, my guitar. Delilah was the first thing I bought with the meager savings I get after all the bills are paid. Other teens would have bought a cell-phone or an iPod or something shiny and flashy, but I bought Delilah. She's a simple acoustic guitar, but she lets me relieve my miseries through music.
"Hey there, Delilah," I say quietly, picking the guitar up by the neck and getting into playing position. I strum a few chords to make sure I'm in tune, before launching into song.
The line bends.
The line holds.
The line bends.
The line breaks.
We cross the line, we run away.
We hold the line, we save the day.
Can we do it? No we can't.
Our hearts aren't in it.
We run so fast!
When all is said and done
Can I say that I have won?
Or will I have to say I quit,
Because I could not cut it?
They say the line has to hold
They say that fortune favors the bold.
But I'd rather be a coward, poor and alive,
Than a bold rich bastard, attracting the flies.
Hey, hey, heyyyyy…
When all is said and done
Can I say that I have won?
Or will I have to say I quit,
Because I could not cut it?
Would you rather I die?
Would you prefer I lie?
Tell me what you would like
From me … tonight.
I like singing. This new song is a bit on the darker side, lyrics-wise, and the chords give it a strange dichotomy. It's a bit harder, though, to play dark chords on an acoustic guitar. Even so, I would never give up Delilah for an electric model that would let me modify the tone and play harsher. I'll stick with her, because I don't do a lot of original writing.
"Anybody want to hear anything?" I ask. I do a lot of covers. From Jon Bon Jovi and Bruce Springsteen to Green Day and U2, I know a few songs from most of the popular ones. I even learned a few country songs out of necessity in this redneck ass-end of nowhere.
The first one is from a girl in a cowboy hat, and is for Kenny Chesney. Disgusted, I sigh and launch into "Don't Blink," one of his newest. After that, I do some Johnny Cash and some Garth Brooks before someone finally gives me some relief and asks for some Bon Jovi. I spend the rest of my shift playing song after song, with only one more original composition in the mix.
At nine, the last customer shuffles out of the café, tossing a dollar into my guitar case as he passes. I spend a few minutes winding down, just playing random chords before I stop, scoop the money out of the case and replace Delilah in her safe little niche. Tonight I made an extra fifteen bucks. Sighing, I stuff the money into my pocket and head back around the counter to get my coat and bag.
"I'll see ya tomorrow Greg," I say, sliding on my coat and hefting the bag over my shoulder.
"Bye, Stan," Greg says, and I head out into the cold Colorado night.
This, this pathetic, harried, overly stressful existence is my life. It's my life for the next eight months. Well, maybe only the next five. I may head to Boulder early to take summer school classes, get a head start on my gen. ed. requirements so that I can start in the fall taking a few introductory classes in my major. I'm thinking about environmental studies. It's my kind of thing, behind veterinary medicine, but I can't afford vet school, so environmental studies it is. I may try and work my way through law school, but that's something for later.
Walking home takes about twenty minutes from downtown where I work. Tonight, the outdoor temperature is an even zero degrees Fahrenheit. I can see this on the thermometer on the bank across from the café. It'll be probably around ten in my room. Assuming I make it home…God, it's freezing out.
A car horn sounding startles me, and I shield my eyes when I'm illuminated by headlights, which fade as the car pulls alongside me.
"Figured you'd want a ride home tonight," Dad says, opening the passenger-side door. "Your mom's broken out the hot-water bottles and the electric blankets, and she'll have cocoa ready for you with your casserole. You don't have any homework tonight, do you son?" he asks as I get in the car.
"Did it all in study hall," I say. "Just a couple of trig worksheets and an outline for Civics. I'll have a paper due next Monday, so you're gonna need to call the gas company on Friday to give us our monthly fill."
Dad nods. "I'll write it on my schedule. You're going to make the usual this week, right."
"Yeah," I reply. "250 gallons worth."
"Alright, I'll tell them," Dad says, turning up the heater in the car and allowing me to un-numb the nerves that were frozen by the ninety seconds I spent outside.
The radio plays country music quietly and I wilt inside silently. I hate country music. It's all about whiskey and cowboys. I've tried whiskey, and cowboys are idiots. Especially the Dallas Cowboys, because they won't shut Terrell Owens up. Whiskey makes me want to shove a fire extinguisher down my throat. Why do all these idiots like country music?
By the time we arrive home, I'm more than ready to run inside, cram some hot food and drink down my throat, run take a hot shower and bury myself in blankets. I manage the first, drop my bag down at the foot of the stairs, and head into the kitchen, where the oven door is open, spewing a small amount of heat into the room. My mom pulls a plate and a cup out of the microwave and hands me a fork, allowing me to dig in to my supper – chicken casserole, with a mug of cocoa to drink.
In the interests of not freezing to death, I finish quickly, bid Mom and Dad goodnight, hasten from the kitchen, watching my breath freeze as I grab my bag and run upstairs to my room, repeating my quick undressing and grabbing my shower materials ritual from the morning and running to the bathroom, where the water can't heat up quick enough. Most people would never shower in water this hot. It's scalding, really. You could fill the tub and put eggs in it and they would hard-boil. But for me, it's necessary, so that I can keep warm for the trip back down the hallway.
This I do, and jump into my longjohns and sweatpants and thermal undershirt and sweatshirt and baseball socks, before sliding underneath the mountain of covers and blankets that keeps me warm. A stocking cap accompanies the ensemble tonight, and I sleep with my hood up, but at least I sleep.
I know my life sucks. But it's going to suck through the winter, and the spring, and even though I'll get away from it this fall, it'll still suck when I come home for Christmas. Or any time I come home.
I hate my life.
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Notes: OK. I now know my schedule for major assignments for the rest of the semester. I have a five-page analytical paper due 8 November, another due 15 November, and a ten-page research paper due 29 November. I might eke out another update to this sometime before Thanksgiving, plus one Thanksgiving week, but I doubt it. So, I hope this update will sate you until then.
And, I know the song sucks. I blame my British Literature class for making me read war poetry for the past two weeks.
Phoenix II