« Fake Stuff | Main | Email »
June 14, 2005
This is Fake Pt 1
I used to smoke crack for the government - the Federal government. I did it as sort of a private contractor. That's what I liked to call it anyway; it made me sound higher on the food chain. Actually, I was more of a sub contractor, or a free agent, but the bottom line is the government paid me to smoke crack.
It was sort of a strange and shitty time in my life. I was nowhere near where I pictured myself only a year or two before. I don't know how or where I took the wrong turn, but just like missing your exit on the freeway I noticed when I'd gone too far: My girlfriend dumped me. I was twenty five and my eighteen year-old girlfriend dumped me.
I met her through my sophmore year roomate. He was back in town for his parents' wedding anniversary -- it must have been their 30th, or one of those round numbers, because he flew back from China where he oversaw some computer chip making factory. On his last night in town he called me up to "do lunch" or some such affected saying for hanging out.
I worked as a line cook at a chain bistro, the same job I'd had when we were roommates, so I couldn't take off on such short notice. I had to move things to after the dinner rush. He said that worked for him, his sister waited tables not too far away and he could pay her one last visit before leaving.
We made awkward small talk mostly around how much fun we'd had when we lived together. We carefully avoided our present situations. For different reasons, of course. I felt a sudden shame, unlike any I'd felt in the years since graduating in the solid middle of my class. He, on the other hand, being the nice guy he always was didn't want to make me feel too badly. He was pulling down a solid six digit salary. Mine was barely that, even if you counted the decimal places. I think he notice. No. I know he noticed. I showed up in my kitchen uniform stained with a brownish mixture of no specific origin. The only blemish I could recall having added to the collection was a splash of grease from an accident with the deep frier.
The bright spot in the conversation for me was his sister. I remember her as a shy little girl. She was maybe twelve then, but the years changed that. They definitely changed that. That and her shyness. Maybe it was because I bore the stigmata of the restaurant industry in my formerly white shirt and she opened up to me as one of her of own, but she opened up. It was something more than just working for tips, that I could tell. So when Geoff, my old roommate, her brother, made his hasty rush out to the airport -- to catch his plane to Xuzhou, or Luzhuo, or where ever -- I stayed behind.
I talked to his sister, Sarah, for a while correcting her that Geoff and I weren't "best" friends, but not letting her know why he didn't call me up until the last day he was in town -- it was a bigger sore spot for him than for me. Toward the end of our junior year he slept with my girlfriend. Technically she wasn't my girlfriend, I'd broken up with her earlier that day, but it still hurt, and I told him so. I got over it pretty quickly - she was a sort of a bitch. That's why I broke up with her. But no matter what I said Geoff always thought I still hated him for it. I didn't want to spoil anything by talking about her brother having sex when all I could think of was having sex with her.
Well, I could also think of how ridiculous I may have looked in my shirt that looked as if I used the kitchen floor as a slip and slide. How my hair felt and stunk like something fried. How my car occassionally didn't start, and how if we passed that hurdle I'd still be a little self concious about the soda I spilled on my bed when I got too high and fell asleep the night before. And how I didn't clean it up.
So I got her number and tried my best to leave a tip impressive enough for her to be home when I called.
Posted by calculatoronfire at June 14, 2005 10:21 PM
Trackback Pings
TrackBack URL for this entry:
http://baltiblogs.com/mt/mt-tb.cgi/6009
Listed below are links to weblogs that reference This is Fake Pt 1:
Comments
Now that story, my friend, is a solid beginning to a fictional novel that would be attractive to the late teens early twenties reader. I myself am a bit older but still find myself asking for more. Details are your mastery; please continue with this written imagery that is obviously your skill of expression.
The imagination, when shared with others, is an invitation to a voyage that not everyone is able to attend.
Posted by: at June 14, 2005 10:40 PM
funny. I just bought a boat today.
It'd be fit for a voyage if it floated.
Posted by: brian at June 14, 2005 11:08 PM
liar.
Posted by: patrick at June 15, 2005 07:23 AM
good stuff man
Posted by: chris at June 15, 2005 10:11 AM