A Day Off, Part II

It turned out that there was no town, just the crossroads, but it was literally a crossroads, not a metaphorical one, so that's good. The editing didn't take long, and it felt good to do some kind of work that meant something and be done by noon as well. Chris and I went to meet Eric or Jeff for lunch, and the good thing is it turned out to be Eric AND Jeff. We all went to the only place to eat at the crossroads, the Hole'in'One Doughnut Shop. I was worried that I wouldn’t be able to eat anything, but this place featured wheat-free doughnuts, which is something I've never seen before, anywhere! I told them that I was going to be such a good customer that I'll single-handedly keep them in business. Jeff had never met Eric or Chris before, and we all had a nice lunch, talking about music, art, literature, and doughnuts. It turned out that these doughnuts, besides being gluten-free, were also high in fiber, vitamins, and complete protein, so that you could actually live on them! Not that you wouldn't miss other foods, but the nice thing was, we were able to eat like a dozen each for lunch, and they didn't make us sick. They were all really fresh and warm, too, and there was a great variety, crullers, and cake doughnuts, and custard filled ones, and jelly doughnuts. After we ate, we sat back, full and satisfied, sipping hot coffee, and we talked about where each of us was in our lives. One of us was on the brink, another in a deep hole, another stuck on an elevator going up, and the last stuck on an elevator going down. We discussed how we might feel if we were able to trade places with each other, and in the end we realized it didn't really matter. Life was short, long, good, and bad, and the only thing that really mattered was doughnuts.

A Day Off, Part I

I found myself at a crossroads on the outskirts of a town somewhere in Ohio, where there was maybe a filling station and a Hole'in'One Donuts, but not much else. From there I made it into the editing room and was talking to Chris. He had a list of scenes he was going to go through one by one, to examine closely as independent units of narrative or something. He said it would be really helpful if I would go through them with him, which I was happy to do, but then I remembered it was a weekday. I usually go into work at my temp job on every weekday, and then I remembered that I didn't have to go in today because my endless assignment had finally ended. I was happy about that, and my day off, but now this editing work was starting to seem a little worky. I told Chris that I was hoping to do something fun on this rare day off. But he said it wouldn't take long, so I said okay, then let's get started. After all, all I'd have to do is sit in a chair in a dark room and watch stuff.

Then I got a call from Jeff Curtis who said he was in town and wanted to meet up with me. I didn't even know what town we were in, actually, it was new to me. For some reason either he or I knew about some diner not far from where we were editing. I said okay, I'd like to meet up with him. But then, somehow, Jeff turned into Eric Lezotte. I work with a guy Eric, but this was Eric who lives in LA, and he was going to be in town, and wanted to meet up at this diner. So here it was, my day off, and I had to work on this editing, and also I wanted to meet with Jeff and Eric, who may or may not be the same person. I was getting really confused, not to mention stressed out!

Robert Harmon, Part II

It turned out that Robert wasn't disappearing down a tunnel but, rather, trying to escape my workplace nightmare. I caught up to him, soon enough, with all the authority that $9.00 an hour can wield. "Your poem sounds kind of like song lyrics," I tore right into my critique. "You don't need to state your name in the song. I mean, poem. You can just finish by saying, 'by Robert Harmon.'"

"It is song lyrics," he shrugged his shoulders with no small amount of agitation. "It's about me. I didn’t want to do it, but the temp agency requires it now, as a way to break the ice during new assignments." I had never heard of that, but then, they were always trying something new. When I started they gave me a desk nameplate with my name on it that I could take around from job to job. I soon "misplaced" it.

"You write it then," Robert finally dismissed me with exasperation, and he continued copying this several million page document with lots of staples, wrinkled pages, and different sizes of paper. I was happy to divert my attention to something else for awhile.

"Okay!" I sat down with an office pen and some copy paper. "We'll try this..." By lunchtime I had a new introductory poem for my reluctant coworker:

The very fact that I'm here indicates
a problem; perhaps not unlike the
problem that is life itself. Life itself
being all, and encompassing love

and despair in equal portions. Life
itself a problem. Abandon all hope
you who reside in this office, and
from those depths, we go on.

--Robert Harmon

Robert Harmon, Part I

I was at my job and my replacement showed up; he was the guy who was going to take my job over so I could go on and do something else. His name was Robert, and began the day by reciting me some poetry. I guess I didn't respond very positively, or at all, actually, because he seemed kind of offended. I felt like I had hurt his feelings and I shold say something.

I struggled to remember what he had said. I asked him to repeat it, but he refused. It was some kind of poem using his full name, which was Robert Harmon. It went something like: "My name is Robert, last name Harmon/ there is no one, that I'm harmin'/ I hate this job, but it beats farmin'/ I hope you don't find my rhymes alarmin'.”

That's from memory, so that might not be exactly right. Anyway, the frustrating thing was that I just wanted to tell him I thought it was funny, and nice that he came into work with a poem about his name. And I'd be happy to critique it if he wanted me to, or I could just simply enjoy it. But he kept moving further and further away from me, like a light disappearing down a long tunnel. I felt that communication was somehow impossible, and the whole encounter was very frustrating.

Let There Be Light, Part II

The movie starts, and to my surprise it's the sequel to American Job, called: American Job Two: A Nightmare on Elm Street. I wondered about how much sense that title made, but I didn't have time to ponder it because I was instantly thrust into a real-time cinematic version of my current job! There I was, up there on the screen, along with my co-workers; it was as if a day of my job was filmed with a hidden camera!

The audience immediately was wincing and fidgeting, suspecting that we might be in for a bit of endurance cinema, i.e., a faithful depiction of the eight hour work day. Boy, this movie was slow! I mean it was so slow it was rated NC17 for "language and slowness." Every once in awhile someone would come into the scene, one of my coworkers, and yell at me, and that seemed to sustain the audience for awhile.

Before long the people around me, my coworkers, started leaving in a huff. I suppose they were offended or freaked out by it, and I guess I don't blame them. Soon after that, other members of the audience started slipping out one by one until the theater started to seem more empty than full. I noticed that bastard Modine sneak out as well, trying to hide behind a bucket of popcorn. "Good luck at the center of the earth!" I hissed at him, knowing how much he hates it when people mix him up with Brendan Fraser.

By the time the movie was over there were only THREE people left, and I was one of them. Peter had also stayed, and he nodded to me solemnly, saying only, "Great movie." I believed that he really did like it, though I didn't believe he hadn't noticed that the theater had emptied. The third survivor was my old film professor, Richard Meyers. He simply nodded to me in approval.

Richard, Peter, and I went out for tacos then at a little place nearby. To our surprise, we were waited on by James Broughton, who was dressed like a ventriloquist dummy; you know, with vertical black lines drawn on the sides of his mouth. By then I was hungry, but Meyers told me I'd never taste those tacos. "That's how you know you're in a dream," he said.

Let There Be Light, Part I

As part of my job, I'm assisting in hosting and ushering people at an event at a theater. First it requires setting up a place with the building contractors and subcontractors. I feel a lot of anxiety about whether or not I'm doing it correctly or messing something up—I keep feeling like I'm making a big error, which will then get these people at my job coming at me all crazy, yelling, "Why'd you do that?!" and, "Did you forget?!" and asking me questions I couldn't possibly answer truthfully, or correctly, or in anyway to satisfy them.

Later, I'm in the lobby while people start arriving. There are my bosses from work, and a celebrity—who I don't recognize—I think it's Matthew Modine—didn't he give up acting? Finally, Peter Barrickman arrives, and he's wearing a tie. I'm wearing a tie, as well—we're all wearing ties. I usher everyone into the theater, to a section in the middle that's roped off, reserved for us. The lights go down, slowly, and completely, and there is a prolonged moment of pitch darkness before the movie begins.