The Wanton SongFebruary 3, 2008 at 9:37 AM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | 2 Comments
My end purpose for taking the job at Domino’s was for money, obviously. I mean, you don’t think, "Hmm, I need inspiration for my writing and more aggravation in my life. I think I’ll get another part time job." I don’t know, maybe you do. If that is the case, however, chances are good that you’re a freak.
So this was my Friday night. The night before, there was a big snow storm. Today, 40 degrees and everything is melting. Tonight, the shit that was melting is starting to freeze again. . .
I’ve been here less than two hours, and I fall on my ass. I’m walking back to my car, so I didn’t have a pizza. All I hurt was my pride, which I keep in my knee–because that’s what I landed on. That, and my hand, trying to break the fall. I swear to God, next time I’m just going to tuck and roll, and hopefully I can come up out of it gracefully, put my arms up, and yell, "Ta-Daa!" to the cheering onlookers.
Cause yeah, nobody falls on the ice without someone seeing them.
Luckily, the knee I hurt is the left, the most damaged one and the one I use for my clutch, because adversity builds character.
We have three people working tonight that I’ve never seen before, and I’ve been here for three weeks. Two young Chinese kids, male and female, and a middle-aged Bulgarian dude. First the Asians: They speak perfect English. Obviously raised here, but not necessarily born here.
I didn’t talk to the boy much, but the girl came up and introduced herself. (Now, my girlfriend has no need to be jealous. First of all–as you know–chicks dig me. I can’t help it. Secondly, what am I going to be doing with a sweet young Asian girl. . . ?
Of course I want to violate her; that’s a given.
She tells me her name is Erica. The boy is Kevin, I think. (I didn’t pay much attention to him because, while he may be cute, my Asian fetish has no homo-erotic crossover as yet.) But she just got her paycheck and was showing it to someone. Her name on the check was something of a more traditional Chinese fair, like Poon Tang Chan or something.
I mention this, and she says, "Oh, my real name is Erica. That’s (other is) my Chinese name." Adopted as an infant and brought to this country is my guess.
I ask, "Well, can I have a Chinese name?" I think we settled on Jet Li.
Paro, or Parov, came from Bulgaria. Paro. Paro. I’m telling The Dude, and he’s not hearing me right. Paro. "How do you spell that?" "Uhm. . P, A, (growl), O."
He just came back after being off for five months. On vacation. Five months. On vacation. It still boggles my mind. He explained at length, speaking in a accent, which might be Slavic.
He works at Domino’s part time and another part time job. Between the two, a little over full time. His wife works also. They work hard and save up, and then they go to Bulgaria, where his daughter is. She is young–21–and has a baby. Her husband is in England right now, also working.
This strikes me as a helluva commute.
Paro says most people in Bulgaria earn 600 dollars per year. He can make that in less than two weeks. They save, they go to Bulgaria, and they help out their daughter. I imagine they also take in the many sights and attractions Bulgaria has to offer.
I guess I understand everything except this: How can they manage to live that frugally *HERE*? I have to work three jobs and I don’t get to leave the country. Damn Lo-jack.
I made really good money, even though I got stiffed a couple of times. The first time here, actually. One bitch met me in the driveway, made chitchat, asked how the roads were, and then said, "Here’s a twenty, go ahead and keep the change." The total was 19.58. She’s on my tea-bag list.
The next guy to stiff me was later that night. He’s a regular. I had a double, so the sting was lessened. An apartment complex–and you KNOW how I feel. I call up the ass-clown. Why is it whenever I call someone in this fucking area to ask for directions, no one can ever give them to me? Honestly? Invariably I hear, "I don’t know how to describe it." "I’m not from around here." Join the club, fuckhead. "I’ll meet you outside." Yes, great. But WHERE outside? Have you ever been outside before? I have, and outside is a big fucking place. Where at outside will you be? "On the left."
So I meet with him, and he’s real polite, trying to explain where is apartment was as if I gave a flying donkey turd, and then stiffs me on the credit card slip. I go back to the store to bitch about it, and I notice the name on the slip: Larry Tate. That’s right, from the TV show Bewitched, Darrin Stevens boss. Of course, the old white man with white hair became a younger black man with baggy pants and no etiquette.
But they knew of him at the store; they refer to him as Larry Taint. Cause you taint gonna get a tip.
On Friday, we stay busy longer, but by 2am, had been high and dry for a while. My last run was before midnight. I had time to clean the entire store while the manager worked out one of her many personal crises on her cell phone. It’s been a long time since I’ve been up this late for this specific reason. At least it was Friday, so I could sleep in tomorr-
Fuck! I have someplace to be in the morning.