Stuff I'm Reading

Well none of us want to work there. We'd rather be things like playwrights or stand-up comedians. That's what some of us (read: me of us) want to be. It's what we (me) are, just not for the amount of money necessary for say, Pop-Tarts or porn. Those things require money. So you work at a bookstore. You call it your day job. Even though you're there at night sometimes. And of course, it's not you, it's me, but with you, maybe it's a music store, or a doctor's office, or a restaurant. Maybe it's not plays or comedy. Maybe it's graphic design, or photography, or songs. You know, the things you do, rather than the stuff you're doing.

It's usually bearable. Some of my coworkers are pretty funny, and you can check out books. The last three nights, though, man, the stories I could tell you about the last three nights. This kid—maybe fourteen—tells me, “There’s something bad in your bathroom.” And he’s clear about the bad. It’s not just that it’s something in the bathroom, it’s something bad. Sometimes people bring stuff in there. We don’t even sell real porn, just “Men’s Interest” magazines like Maxim or FHM. Airbrushed girls from Charmed, or maybe The Apprentice. Low-budget, pretend, soft-core. And the CD reviews aren’t even reliable. We sell Playboy, but you have to ask for it. Once in a while, you’ll find a sex guide by Ann Hooper; something tasteful for the open-minded nightstand. And, of course, every so often, the Gay and Lesbian section has been looted, with a bathroom stall being the only place some customers feel safe to be themselves. This is what I expected. Maybe a novel about farmboys, maybe a pocket Kama Sutra. Maybe Alyssa Milano on the cover of Stuff. So I ask him, “Is it merchandise?”

“No,” he tells me. “It’s more like something bad happened.” He’s fourteen.

So, I go in there, a step in and one right back out. Horror. It’s like a crime scene. Like a frickin’ X-File. Like something staged by Roger Corman. Except there’s no blood, only shit. Everywhere. Fecal. Matter. On the walls. And the floor. And the counter. And the trash. Not huge strokes or splatters, just random, like you could miss one if you weren’t careful. But I was very careful. Two pairs of gloves, a mop, a brush, paper towels and some spray. My gag reflex, not used since June (when I became a bachelor party cliché, watching my reflection in the toilet water) was in full effect. Twice I had to back away from what I’d named Gunfight at Shit Canyon. There was a pen on the floor, dangerously close to the disaster scene. Every time I saw it I thought, “Hey, a pen!” I finally had to throw it away to keep myself from taking it, imagining my future self with the pen behind my ear or in my mouth, having forgotten its previous life. I was already planning my story, as I brushed and sprayed and swore. As I tiptoed around, making sure each section of the floor was spotless before I mopped it (like my grandma filling the dishwasher), I thought, there’s got to be some way to make this funny. Later, this will be hilarious. “The smell, my god, the smell. You guys wouldn’t believe it.” That’s what I’ll tell them. And about the pen. That’ll get a laugh. But during, it’s not funny. Not at all. Because this is my life, cleaning up shit in the bathroom, finding rubber gloves in my pocket later at the grocery store; getting a reminder before I’d even forgotten.

And the next day. Maybe I’m not allowed to talk about the next day. About the thing that was missing. Like the rubberband ball in Clockwatchers, only much bigger; more personal and expensive. And missing. Gone. Not a thing that could be misplaced easily. Not a thing able to leave under its own powers. A thing stolen. Everything is opened, everyone asked, nothing found. So me and my buddy from work decide we’ll check the dumpster. It’ll be funny. It’ll be a little adventure. Something to get us outside. Something only we did. A little extra for the laughs. So, coats on, and into the rain and the dark, and there it is. In the dumpster. In the wet garbage, we find it. We laugh, like we expected, but not for the reasons. We laugh in that well-would-you-look-at-that way. We laugh like you laugh when your brain hasn’t settled on an emotion. Part of me thinks it’s cool that I found the lost thing. But another part thinks the dumpster is the perfect metaphoric follow-up to the busted piñata of shit from the night before.

Night three: vomit. Three puddles. Two inside, on the carpet, needing me to clean them up. I don’t do a great job. Mainly I cover up the smell. Mainly, I push the vomit around long enough to feel sorry for myself, and to construct my “You won’t believe it, but something gross happened a-gain” story.

Night four. Some drunk bastard, all up in some old lady’s face. Sitting at her table and barking orders and being, okay, a little awesome. Disruptive, yes, but probably harmless. If this was a movie, he’d have been the hero until now, and this is his downfall. He’s like Paul Giamatti in Sideways. He’s reached his breaking point. But no, this guy’s just a jerk, drunk and making an ass of himself. And I’m the guy who has to get rid of him. I make one attempt, and the guy doesn’t even understand me. He’s not comprehending that I’m being authoritative and bad-ass. He doesn’t care or understand that I’m in charge. But I did my duty: told him the rules and walked away. And then I’m called right back. He’s getting worse, and people are getting pissed. He’s up, and refuses to sit down, refuses to shut up. So I called the cops, feeling a little guilty that I had to describe his tattoos as if that makes him a villain. The police are there right away, pulling the Bad Drunk Man onto the sidewalk for a talking-to. They come back and ask me if I want to press charges. For a second, I think it’s the greatest thing I’ve ever heard. Better than the shitty pen, even. I say no. He was just loud, and maybe a little frustrated. Maybe he cleaned up your shit a couple days ago, or your vomit. Maybe he was all up in the dumpster or some drunk’s face. Maybe he’s not your goddamn janitor or mother or bouncer, and he needed to blow off a little steam. I wonder if he knows it’ll be a good story later.

Oh, almost forgot. Stuff I’m reading: Assassination Vacation, by Sarah Vowell; A Changed Man, by Francine Prose; No Plot? No Problem! by Chris Baty; Uncanny X-Men, by Chris Claremont; Superman, by Brian Azzarello; Y the Last Man, by Brian K. Vaughan; Rolling Stone (“The Children of Rock”)