Archive for paranoia

Rules of Engagement

Posted in Political Commentary, Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 01/30/2017 by Angel D. Vargas

-Friday, January 27th, 2017

“President” Donald Trump signs an executive order re: immigration at 4:42 pm Eastern Standard time. This order “indefinitely barrs” Syrian immigrants from entering our borders. The order also suspends all refugee admission for 120 days, and blocks citizens from seven Majority Muslim countries from entering the US for approximately three months.

The order takes effect. Almost immediately, chaos ensues. At airports around the country, hundreds are detained and questioned. Thousands more are left wondering about friends and family, stranded or turned away before they could reunite with loved ones who were simply traveling abroad. Across the world, millions are outraged.

I am outraged. Aside from the Anti-Muslim bigotry inherent in such a ridiculous order, there is more to be concerned about here. This is in direct violation of the US Constitution’s first amendment. For those who’ve forgotten it, here it is in bold print.

Amendment I. Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the government for a redress of grievances.

Federal judge Anne M. Donnelly, who used to serve in New York as a Manhattan Supreme Court Judge, challenges Trump’s executive order, granting a temporary stay for refugees and others. In her words “irreparable harm” would be caused by sending the travelers home.

Irreparable harm. Those are tough words. But we are living in tough times. As such, I’ve had to look at those two words and wonder if Judge Donnelly’s countermand was too late not to have caused irreparable harm to the way American citizens must now view their own country. Trust issues, anyone?

If I want proof about how bad things have gotten within Trump’s first ten days in public office, I only need to remember how recent conversations with friends, coworkers, and strangers have gone. Walking down the streets of Harlem these days, it seems that the tension is thick enough to cut with a chainsaw. People don’t look me in the eye here, which isn’t surprising given that it’s New York City, but many of the ones who do look wary or fearful. Many more appear angry.

Words are also a problem. Now it seems, everyone must be careful what they say. The media is being slowly silenced by a man so hell-bent in preserving his fragile little ego, that nothing bad can be said about him without consequence. Kellyannne Conway promises that journalists who say anything pejorative regarding Trump “will be fired.” Trump continues to malign CNN and other networks that express concern over his heavy handedness or his apparent inability to comprehend the consequences of his own actions.

And now, it seems, citizens don’t know how to talk to one another. I know I’m having trouble. I square my shoulders now when I engage in political discussions at work, for there is a good chance that emotions will erupt like Mount Etna. My home life has been invaded by tense discussions regarding Trump’s latest gaff or executive order. My personal life has ceased to be about the pursuit of happiness. Once again, I am pressed into making the choice between taking in the news of the day, or ignoring it for the sake of my sanity.

As a Hispanic American, I know it won’t be long before I am asked to produce “proof of citizenship.” I won’t deny the temptation to smash the face of the person who will inevitably do so, but there is no doubt that person will be an officer of the law. My father was one of those. I will never besmirch the honor of his service. Yet despite my father’s exemplary career, he has already come under scrutiny for being “the other” since Trump’s election. Now, it seems, the closet bigot is free to come out and play among us all, like a demonic bully child on a playground primed to be “great again” as it gets whitewashed with hatred and ignorance.

I cannot allow that.

But there is something else I cannot permit. I will not permit the others who oppose Trump to judge me for the confidence (or lack thereof) with which I pursue resistance. I’m still unsure what form this sort of resistance is supposed to take in the face of such tyranny. I say tyranny because I am sure that this is the monster with which we are faced. An emboldened idiot has taken office, blindly signing away the liberty and happiness of American citizens and immigrants, appointing self-serving bigots with seemingly corrupt agendas to surround him and shower him with inane praise. “Good job, Putin Puppet. Now, let’s release the hounds on these peasants.”

But what will happen when Trump goes so far that there is no turning back? Has he already gone that far? It’s not even been two weeks, and I am already terrified at the prospect of what’s to come. Will there be a KKK rally here in my home city? How many more hate crimes will be committed around the world that mimic senseless Mosque attack in Quebec?

When will I have to consider obtaining a conceal and carry permit?

That’s right. I’m considering it. Some of you same idiots that fight tooth and nail to defend the second amendment while threatening to shoot yourself some beaners are forgetting one simple truth. Not all liberals and Trump opponents are pacifists.

Think on that.

I’m not into marching or rallies. I never was. But mark my words. The true patriots of America have often been the dissenters. Without dissent, people will not have reason to rethink their potential ignorance of gravely important matters.

I wonder if those who voted for Trump are starting to understand how bad this might get. When will they scream to the stars in penance for what they’ve done? I’d invite these fools to wait for the inevitable “I told you so,”but that would be my own hypocrisy shining through. I am deeply sorrowful for the sharp decline of our Nation’s values. International friends and acquaintances are asking me “what happened?” to my own country. I can’t even give an honest answer. The truth is more horrible than any horror fiction I can concoct. Yet I know I mustn’t give into the sorrow. And neither must anyone else. The moment we the people give up our desire to do the right thing, I’ll know to look for the mushroom cloud on the horizon..

Advertisements

Frankentrump..

Posted in Drum Roll, Please...., The Flow and Rhythm of Life with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 01/19/2017 by Angel D. Vargas

So. What happens tomorrow?

Whether or not you can accept that the Forty Fifth President of the United States is none other than Donald Trump, truth is, he’s set to be inaugurated tomorrow in what is sure to be both a momentous and contentious event in U.S. History.

If you’re having a hard time with this fact, that’s okay. I’m having a miserable time grappling with it myself. I fought with myself and my poor memory for years old passwords just to regain access to a blog I’ve not written in for more than a year in order to express that.

Than again, maybe that’s not good enough for some people. I’ve heard it all before. “If you really believed, you’d be out there in Washington for the Million Women’s march,” or I’ve heard “well then, you should have put your vote toward Bernie like all the other cool kids.” The best one I’ve heard yet is “man, our votes never counted anyway, fuck all this happy horse shit. Life goes on, bruh. Life goes on.”

Yes, life goes on, and so often, the best lies we’re told are rooted deeply in the truth. All of the things I mentioned hearing from people in the last paragraph are lies. But they are pretty good lies when you think about it. The power of hindsight lets us all suddenly don our wizard’s hats and wax like Albus fucking Dumbledore about our country’s future. But the reality of it all is that every last one of us is scared of losing something deeply important to us in the coming four years. LGBT rights, women’s reproductive rights, access to healthcare, racial equality, and so many other things seem to be up for grabs in this brave new world of uncertainty.

I once heard some advice from a respected writing mentor, and it’s something that I still keep in mind even when I’m blogging. “Your writing works best when you write what you know.” When I heard that bit of wisdom, I didn’t like it, especially as I was struggling to become a legitimate fiction writer. I still read and write fiction, but nobody can relate to a good piece of writing, fiction or otherwise, if they can’t find something that reminds them of their own lives and experiences. At least, that’s how I’ve experienced success in my own writing.

Funny thing about me is that I only know what I see, hear, and feel.

On January nineteenth, 2017, the night before Donald Trump’s inauguration, here is what I have come to know.

People are angry.

I know that because I can feel the tension in the air when I walk past the Apollo Theater in Harlem to get to work in the morning. I hear it in the words of the young black man who accuses me of not shaking his hand because someone who looks like me would “never shake the hand of a black man in a million fucking years.” I see it in the looks of disgust on other people’s faces when I go outside with my girlfriend dressed to kill, and people give us accusing glares. I know what they’re thinking because they’ve shouted it in my face, or whispered it in not too quiet voices to their friends. “He voted for Trump because he’s white.” or “Look at the handsome white man who don’t give a fuck about the black man.”

Would you prefer it I went out and protested? Can I stand next to a crowd of black people and proclaim that “black lives matter?” Because I know they do. I’ve always believed that, even if you can’t see that unless I pull out a knife like a “typical Puerto Rican,” or curse you out in the Spanish you didn’t think I could rattle off with such a Caribbean flair. Only an idiot would judge a book by its cover, but I beg your pardon if I want to dress a certain way, or walk down the street with my head held high because I finally like who the hell I am. Do you know what a struggle it has been for me to even get to that point in my life? Oh yeah, I forgot. You really don’t want to know that, do you?

You’d rather be right than be happy.

But let me share what else I’ve discovered in my own quest for the truth. I’ve been to at least one community meeting that begged the question of “what next?” I’ve signed numerous petitions, written letters to government officials, and plotted out what to do if I witness sexual or racial intimidation or violence on the street. But none of these things are going to change the fact that the Donald is taking office tomorrow. I made my voice heard in my own way. I have two weapons available to me in this fight now. My fists and my words. I can be lethal with both. Unfortunately, it may come to the point in this country where I can be arrested for using either one.

That sound okay to you? It doesn’t sound okay to me.

Here’s something else that doesn’t sound okay to me. Nuclear war.

You can pound the streets demanding rights for every American, legal or not, and none of that will matter when you see a mushroom cloud in the distance, and you begin to feel the heat as a great wall of super radiated air rushes toward you and you begin to shit your pants.

Are we okay with that? Has anyone else been thinking about this, dreaming about it and waking up in a cold sweat? Well I have. So don’t come to me with your judgmental bullshit because of the way I look or dress. I don’t give a damn about Donald Trump, but now I’m forced to hope that he changes his tune rather quickly when it comes to foreign policy because I don’t want to have a nuclear bacon sandwich for breakfast.

And before you ask, I loathe the idea of protesting. I’ve hated it since college, and I went to a liberal arts college quite known for protests. But that’s just not me. I don’t want to pound the pavement and shout until my voice is hoarse. I don’t want to get arrested either. Maybe that has something to do with the fact that my father is a retired law enforcement officer and I already know too much about that side of things.

And who am I kidding? I may not be a pacifist, but I’m fucking scared. I’ve heard enough rumors and seen enough evidence of the tension building in my own city that I can believe that things are about to go from bad to worse. The return of the subtle racist is already underway. I’m not about to ask my gay friends to get back in the closet to protect themselves, and you’re never going to get me to believe that the Donald “didn’t mean that shit” he said about Hispanics coming to this country and bringing their problems, or “not being the best their countries had to offer.” I bet that racist douchenozzle wouldn’t even know I was Hispanic until he read my name on a resume somewhere, or mistook me for a member of the press.

But there’s so much more to this man’s presence that affects me on an everyday level that I can’t even escape when I go home after work. Every night, my girlfriend and I end up talking about what might happen when Trump takes office. And every single time we speak of him, it’s in these harsh and bitter tones, like we created a doomed experiment in a science lab and set him loose upon the world like a fucking Frankenstein. Too bad we all know that Frankenstein hates fire.

Donald Trump can’t even handle a twitter account. How strong could he really be?

That’s just what I know. If I wanted to write another book, I could start writing about the shit I don’t know. But I’m already writing a book of fiction that I’m pretending has nothing to do with what I truly know. Look for it one day. You’ll know it when you read it, I think. And even if you don’t, I hope you like it.

Young Frankenstein – Puttin’ on the Ritz

 

 

EKG and Living my Complicated Life

Posted in Uncategorized with tags , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , on 01/25/2014 by Angel D. Vargas

EKG – 1/20/2014

The fun doesn’t end when I get a 97 on my final exam in Phlebotomy. Teaching the material to the rest of the class ultimately works to my advantage. With EKG beginning after a weekend long respite, I don’t see my new role as an unpaid substitute teacher emerge until it, along with life outside of school, slaps me dead in the face.

Before the EKG unit even begins, life becomes complicated. A plumbing problem emerges at home just after my girlfriend and I get back from a holiday vacation. Before we know it, my girlfriend has to call the building manager. A plumber is summoned. Of course, the plumber’s “booked solid” thanks to pipes that have frozen all over the building due to the recent cold snap in New York City. Not knowing when they’ll actually show up, I’m surprised to find no less than two plumbers knocking at our front door at close to seven on a cold Tuesday morning, just minutes before I’m due to leave for my morning classes. Two men stand outside my open door clad in full construction gear. Rather than leave my girlfriend alone to contend with the demands of supervising a sink repair, I decide to stay and observe. Call it an old fashioned hunch.

The plumbers don’t take that long to fix the reported leak, but I am still late for class. With EKG still just over the horizon, no less than three students who’ve already taken the course have warned me that missing even an hour of class will leave me as lost as a buffalo on a New York City subway train. I’m already touchy about being late. I find myself hoping household problems are finally settled. Didn’t we already have a pest control issue just over a month ago?

Little do I know what’s coming next.

The Monday after my final phlebotomy exam arrives. I’m tired, but things are more or less progressing as normal. The material is dense, but interesting. It’s nice not to have to memorize the order blood draw for a certain procedure, keeping in mind the various unseen additives in a bunch of plastic tubes. Now I’m set to learn about the heart’s function as it pumps blood through the human body. I’m eager to understand how it works, and what can go wrong with it. More to the point, I want to know what I will be able to say and do about it when complications arise for patients. How, after all, am I going to make money with this knowledge?

Monday’s class is pretty tough. I’ve begun to realize how complex and important an organ the heart really is. EKG, for those who don’t know, is a procedure that allows us to measure the electrical activity of the heart. Simple as that sounds, an EKG provides us with a plethora of information regarding the heart’s condition. There is a great deal of knowledge that needs to be obtained before one can practice an EKG with any degree of proficiency and understanding.

But the universe doesn’t care about that, and it decides to drive the point home by having my girlfriend’s lovely cat wake us up at two the next morning with a plaintive, albeit adorable “meow.” At this point, neither I nor my girlfriend believe that anything is wrong. Perhaps that’s because it’s two in the fucking morning and we’re both desperate to keep sleeping before the alarm wakes us in about four hours. Regardless, a tapping sound begins in the hallway just outside the bedroom door. My girlfriend is the first to stir in response to the noise, sitting up next to me. I grumble because she’s moved my portion of the sheets and now my feet are cold.

“Whaddefuuuuck?” I whine

But then I hear it too. “Tap. Tap-tap. Tap!”

Shit.

There’s no doubt about it. My tired mind already knows what the sound is. For some reason, as my girlfriend scrambles from the bed to fetch buckets and pans, an Edgar Allen Poe passage bursts to the fore of my mind.

-suddenly there came a tapping, as of someone gently rapping. Rapping at my chamber door.

However, one bucket proves to be inadequate for the task at hand. Multiple leaks emerge, poking their way through our ceiling as though it is a dam about to burst. Worse, one of the holes has appeared within the light fixture directly above our heads, and the light within is starting to flicker ominously. In a panic, I try to slap my sleep-oppressed brain into forming some plan of action. The only thing I can think to do is to grab my keys, head out the apartment door, and try to figure out if my upstairs neighbor has a clue what the fuck is going on.

The roar I hear outside the neighbor’s apartment door reminds me of the commercials I’ve seen about Niagara falls. At best, this is intolerable. But my work in mental health and my budding career as a horror writer both leave me with an incredible ability to imagine the worst case scenario. Standing outside the door, I find myself picturing the grisly scene of a murder or a suicide, and my heart begins to beat a violent tattoo against my rib cage. A mangled, bloody corpse floats in the bathtub of my twisted internal vignette, and I try not to cringe as I ball up my shaking right fist and knock three times.

When no one answers, I have to fight the mingled feeling of anger and panic warring within my churning stomach. I pound on the door this time, straining my ears for signs of life on the other side. Yet I am consumed with the notion that a mobster or an axe murderer may suddenly throw the door open and proceed to make me their next victim.  I slam my fist into the door as though the pounding will banish the creeping shadows and haunting nightmares from my already exhausted mind.

“Hello? Who is it?”

Presently my soul grew stronger; Hesitating then no longer, ‘Sir,’ said I, ‘or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore; But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping, and so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my chamber door.’

Eventually the door opens. I choose to dispense with the formalities, and before long, my female neighbor is in a slight panic. I can scarcely think what to do next, and in my own altered state, I begin to fuss with a pair of knobs in the bathroom until we both realize that the roar of water is coming from a geyser shooting through the fixture of her faucet just above the sink basin.

Damn.

At least we both know we’re not hearing things. After a few minutes of forced calm and conversation, my neighbor proceeds to place buckets beneath the sink, hoping to catch some of flowing water. Her efforts, however, are akin to trying to empty an ocean with a dump truck, or at least it feels that way. Thinking of the knobs beneath the bathroom sink, I wade through what looks and feels like a pooling lake of warm water. Utterly clueless, I kneel at the foot of her kitchen sink, wrench a pair of buckets out of the way, and set to work trying to twist a rusted hot water knob to the right. The damned thing doesn’t budge a micron, and after a few minutes and layers of skin, I get my hands on the only tool that my neighbor appears to possess.

“Dink-dink-dink-dink-dink.” That is the sound of a small hammer against the side of a rusted metal knob beneath someone’s sink. Just thought you ought to know that. That being said, I finally manage to yank the thing closed, and the torrent of water that must have been gushing like blood from a stab wound for more than two hours ceases to exist.

That’s when I hear the blare of a fire-truck’s siren. Thinking that there’s probably some cross town apartment going up in a massive blaze, I shake my head and go to get my glasses. I talk with my visibly nervous neighbor for a few minutes. This is when I realize that she never saw this coming. I would later come to understand that nobody else did either.

Minutes later, I am leaving her apartment when I hear the unmistakable “thump thump” of multiple, boot clad feet on the hallway staircase. Turning to my right, I see no less than six men, each more than six feet tall, clad from head to toe in protective, fire retardant battle gear. For some reason, this doesn’t register as odd to me until I realize that the shortest man in the group is still at least four inches taller than me, and he is carrying a crowbar that appears to be as tall as he is. The five other men now walking with him down the hallway toward me all have serious looks on their faces. Two of them are carrying hatchets. One of them is speaking into a shoulder-mounted radio. As soon as they see me, all of them do a double take.

For some reason still unknown to me, I hitch my chin in their direction and jab my right thumb over my shoulder. “She’s in there,” I say, as though I wasn’t about to wet myself just moments ago when I realized I couldn’t stop the lake from pooling on my neighbor’s floor, and eventually, my ceiling.

The fireman with the crowbar points the tip at me and says, eyes narrowed, “I bet he took care of it already. Look at his pants!”

Only then to I look down and realize that my pants are sopping wet up to my knees. Who says I can’t have a hot tub experience on a Monday night?.. even when I don’t want to?

Watching the firemen advance toward me, I am reminded of an armored band of Elves closing in on a weaponless Hobbit, and I immediately wonder if I should renounce Sauron and all his fiendish deeds before I realize that these men, perhaps used to saving real lives, may not be in the mood for Middle Earth jokes.

Words are funny. They come from the thoughts that form somehow in my brain, and they are are emitted through a complex physiological process that produces sounds. These noises come blasting, humming, or otherwise buzzing out of my mouth. The thought that this is possible strikes me as a minor miracle on some days. Other days, I often wonder why the universe has granted the gift of human speech to the most abysmally foolish of people. In the presence of these massive firefighters, I suddenly feel like such a fool. Words have come hurtling past my teeth. I only know this because. I can taste the copper seeping from the fault lines of an arid strip of earth otherwise known as my upper lip. The ‘clop clopping’ sound of six pairs of thick, heavy boots rears up behind me like an angry pair of mustangs. I almost feel the frustrated puff of a wild stallion just at the tip of my shoulder blades, driving the meaning of my useless words from my numb mind. Before I know it, I’m walking down the hallway toward my apartment, and I feel as though I am leading a group of Gladiators behind me, weapons drawn, muscles bunching beneath hot and heavy battle armaments.

And I don’t remember why they’re behind me.

Open here I flung the shutter, when, with many a flirt and flutter, In there stepped a stately raven of the saintly days of yore. Not the least obeisance made he; not a minute stopped or stayed he; But, with mien of lord or lady, perched above my chamber door –

I open my front door to find my poor girlfriend struggling to keep no less than five ceiling leaks in check with pots and buckets. She turns her head to the sound of the opening door.. She wants to smile when she sees me. Then I step into the apartment. I almost feel the shadow of the first towering firefighter eclipse me as I escort him inside. My girlfriend’s smile never becomes more than a surprised grimace. Her eyes bulge, and I grit my teeth in sympathy. The reason we’re all standing around looking at the damaged inside of the apartment clunks into place in my brain.

“These guys want to look at the light fixture, hon.”

It takes a long time to explain what’s transpired to the firefighters. From behind me, I swear I hear one of the men suck their teeth. I clench my jaw so hard that the strain makes my muscles throb. My awe of the firefighters’ presence suddenly becomes annoyance, but I hold my tongue. They want action, and I consider telling them why they didn’t get any. Yet my wet and ragged karate man pajamas scream what my croaky, Elmer Fudd, three-o’-clock-in-the-damned-morning voice never could. “I am the one who stopped the flood. It is me whom you seek!”

But who the fuck am I, anyway? You won’t find evidence of fame or profit to my credit, even if you google my name. I’m going to school. filling my brain with information that could either save or improve lives because I need a better-paying job. I didn’t ask to be dragged into this newest drama.

The firefighters call the “man of the house” over to watch as they turn off the switch on our circuit breaker that leads to the compromised light fixture. The epilepsy-inducing yellow flicker above our heads abates, but the struggle has just begun. More people need to be called, and neither I nor my girlfriend desire more repair people in our Harlem apartment. The cat hasn’t yet forgiven us for the hullabaloo of the holiday season, nor for her recent vet visit or the visitation of the last repair crew. Frustration begins to sprout in my mind like annoying weeds. I know this little furry creature doesn’t understand how much it hurt for her mother to spend four hundred dollars of hard earned money just to have the vet tell us that cats can exhibit “psychosomatic behavior.” As a former mental health worker, I understand full well what psychosomatic really means in the medical profession. I’ve had to resist the urge to call the veterinarian myself and thank her for ripping off my girlfriend and putting us all at risk for not having the rent payment for next month.

It is only at that moment that I realize how much I’ve sacrificed already to go back to school. What if I’d been able to be with her and the cat that morning instead of learning about needles and lancets? Would the vet have dared to look into my tired, stubbled face and say the same things she said to my worried girlfriend? I’m not saying I’m any more shrewd at business dealings, but there is still a systemic chauvinism at play when it come to sales, house repairs, or all sorts of other everyday transactions. The firefighters already demonstrated that much just moments ago. “Man of the house?” Please. I can’t even afford to pay my share of the rent in this place.

The building manager reassures us that a plumber will be out to visit our upstairs neighbor and to “assess damage and make repairs.” The humans of the household already know that nobody is making house calls at four o-clock in the morning, so we eventually try to sleep. However, as my heartrate finally slows and I begin to drift off, resting my head on my girlfriend’s shoulder, a “crack” rips through the uneasy silence of the night. I sit, bolt upright like a half-sized Frankenstein struck by a fateful bolt of lightning. I’m alive, but I don’t want to be. Once again,. I know what the strange sound means, and I am out of bed, flashlight in hand before I even think to tell my bed partner what is going on.

Staring at the circular beam of light on our ceiling, I almost groan in pure anguish. A jagged chasm has ruptured the ceiling just behind the compromised light fixture. Soon, my girlfriend comes to inspect the damage. and we both agree that this spells imminent danger. Another phone call is made. More reassurances are granted, but our bodies are not prepared to honor swords.  Adrenaline and paranoia make the worst bedmates, but they push themselves in amongst the sheets. Neither of us can sleep now, for we’re both anticipating another “creak” or snap before the ceiling (or our wearied bodies) burst from the pressure.

Chauvinism and bad attitudes replay themselves like an annoying, broken record throughout the course of the next day. The building manager shows her face, inspects our buckling ceiling, and almost demands that I step up on a ladder to remove the cover to the light fixture to allow the thing to drain. I stare at her in exhausted incredulity, wondering why she expects me to take responsibility in a potentially dangerous situation that I never caused, with a ladder that we never had the time or money to procure in anticipation of this apparent catastrophe.

Then this ebony bird beguiling my sad fancy into smiling, By the grave and stern decorum of the countenance it wore,`Though thy crest be shorn and shaven, thou,’ I said, `art sure no craven. Ghastly grim and ancient raven wandering from the nightly shore – Tell me what thy lordly name is on the Night’s Plutonian shore!’

It’s now 7 in the morning. I haven’t slept a wink, and neither has my sweetheart. We each have had to excuse ourselves from normal daily obligations and opportunities. I try to cover all my bases with my school, making phone calls and writing appropriate emails, but I already know the score. I’m going to have to play a nasty game of catch up, and I don’t like it. I’ve already heard the building manager on the phone with a audibly angry man who seems to give her a ready-made excuse for not having “the time to drop by” and find us. I want to set the mobile phone on fire with my glare, but it occurs to me that if nobody anticipated this accident, the handyman was just as surprised as we were. I try to plays Devil’s Advocate in my tired mind, but it doesn’t work. My right hand twitches as though it wants to ball itself into a quaking fist.

Fucker.

Eight hours later, a plumber shows his face. As he paces in our apartment, the look of incredulous askance on his heavy-lidded eyes sours my joy at his arrival. Relief turns to resentment when my burning eyes lock with his. My girlfriend and I find ourselves desperately trying to explain the situation to him, and I a leaden feeling in the pit of my stomach. The Ronin of the toilet won’t draw his sword without a reason. Instead. He seeks unknown recompense for this waste of his time and energy. Meanwhile, my wakizashi is still hiding up the sleeve of my tattered and stained kimono, and I suddenly want nothing more than to draw it against the flesh of his exposed carotid as he stares at our ceiling, shaking his head in surly resentment for what feels like the nineteenth time in ten minutes. Finally, he shrugs his shoulders at us, practically yelling at us in a thick accent for not understanding that there is nothing he can do. Frustration builds until my girlfriend and I decided to comfort him, reassuring him that we understand his inability to help us. I ask him pointedly what sort of mercenary we should seek in his stead.

“Get an electrician,” he answers as though we asked him a stupid question.

Much I marvelled this ungainly fowl to hear discourse so plainly, Though its answer little meaning – little relevancy bore;

The frustrated plumber leaves. I throw up my hands. My girlfriend, clearly a mistress of infinite patience, makes another call.

Four hours later, when we both are at the brink of utter despair, a knock rattles our door and sends our cat scampering for a hiding place. To my utter disbelief, the same plumber that showed his face a week ago to fix our leak stands at our door. He is hunched over. his hand pressed against one side of our doorframe. His chest heaves, and I wonder if his knees are about to give. I almost empathize until I see him shake his head, an ardent refusal etched on his olive-skinned countenance.

My patience begins to escape through the very pores of my greasy skin. My eyes widen. Are you fucking kidding me?

His eyes twitch in my direction. He’s seen the look on my face, and he almost sneers in indifference.

Fighting the urge to lift my heel and slam it squarely in his sternum with bone-breaking force, I hitch my thumb behind me, daring him to refuse my invitation to do his fucking job. My jaw is set. I can feel a heat set into my steely gaze. For every ounce of disbelief he can send our way by shaking his head, the fire of my will rises, swelling my chest and setting my shoulder back. I didn’t wait here, allowing my life to be turned completely upside down for an entire day for some idiot to stand there and tell me that this absurd story will not come to a satisfactory conclusion.

Say something, pendejo. Go on, pa que tu vea, maricon!

He goes on to be the most dismissive of our concerns. He pulls on the string to the light fixture with a force that I expect will send the thing crashing upon his obnoxious head. He explains that plaster is incredibly strong, but that it has a weakness when it comes into contact with water. With no leak continuing to seep through our ceiling, we are expected to believe that the thing will not collapse under the weight of the water that still seems to be trapped above our light fixture.

He finally looks at me and asks why we didn’t use a ladder to take the fixture apart ourselves. The sarcasm that oozes through his tired words sends me over the edge. I grit my teeth for a split second. I want to say, “Go get your ladder before I kick your lazy Puerto Rican ass and report you to the building manager for insubordination,” but instead, I merely nod and ask him to go get his ladder so we can get this done. Being Puerto Rican myself, I realize that I just succumbed to a massive stereotyping exercise that I’d railed against most of my adult life. Now along with pure adrenaline, shame burns runnels through my veins like an acid. This man, a reminder of my own cultural dissonance, couldn’t leave my sight soon enough.

Minutes later, when he stands on his ladder and literally slaps the ceiling just beyond the fixture, I  expect a chunk of plaster to fall into his open mouth. I almost wish for it, but I know that such an event will only prolong the agony of our long day. His reassurance that all is well mollifies me, and we both thank him for his time. Despite my growing concern that I will kick the ladder out from under this man’s feet and proceed to beat the ever-loving shit out of him, I join my girlfriend in her attempt to reassure him that we appreciate his less than courteous assistance with our plight.

Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’

We manage to salvage what remains of our day with a dinner out, smiles and laughter. I know the worst may be over, but it will take some time to return to any semblance of normalcy. Little do I know how accurate (or should I say ‘prophetic’) my statement really is.

Life goes on. The next day, I am back in school. To my utter shock, any semblance of jealousy from my fellow students seems to have dissipated, replaced with utter satisfaction at my arrival. The relief etched on the faces of my peers is mirrored in the unusually high pitched voice of my instructor, who normally insists on keeping a professional emotional barrier between herself and the class. I am taken off balance by this outpouring of emotion, and I am torn between gratitude and caution.  The lesson ensues, and in the end, I reclaim my role as class leader, finding ways to reteach the day’s material to my classmates.. In the back of my mind, I wonder what will happen when our training program concludes and we are all thrown back into the vicissitudes of life outside training. Will we all remember our time together in this place, learning from one another in the face of life’s unwavering difficulty?

I shake my head, already painfully aware of the the truth.

Just as I begin to think that things may be returning to normal, the following Thursday unnerves me in ways that I could not have predicted. I feel myself responding to unwanted visual scrutiny from fellow straphangers on a crowded subway platform. This cold snap hasn’t quite gone away, and public transit has been riddled with overcrowding and service challenges since the last snowfall. I step onto a crowded A train and feel my world close in on me like a steel trap. A woman begins to prosthelytize in a slight accent, and I roll my eyes. But she beings the same lecture in Spanish, and I almost lose my cool, aware that I haven’t quite gotten over the slight from my classmates just weeks before.

I stomp off the train, make my way to class, and finish out the day with a class review that I can’t lead this time. The class is going over the material that I missed, and I let them teach me for once. It puts a smile on my face that I don’t think the other students notice. However, the Dr. nods at me and winks, and I know that she is aware of how badly I want to succeed in class. Perhaps she’s saying something more with her gesture, but I don’t take the time to think on it. I absorb what I can from the lesson, leave the classroom and head back home to my girlfriend’s Harlem apartment.

I make my way back home, drop off my backpack full of clothing, books and papers, and head out to a local Subway restaurant. Things seem to be going well enough. I order my sandwich and watch a rather busy set of clerks do what they need to do for me and for several other adult patrons. My turn comes to finish having my sandwich assembled and pay for it when another fateful encounter with rudeness ensues. Before I can remove my wallet from my coat pocket, a black teenager saunters into the store at the head of a cadre of middle school students who seem hell bent on getting what they came for. Rather then head to the back of the line like everyone else, this teenager sashays to the front counter, her lips pursed, her eyes half closed as though she has all the time in the world to own this place and everyone in it. Her cornrows almost float behind her diminutive shoulder blades ensconced beneath a slim. black coat. She might almost be slightly cocky picture of youthful black beauty, but she spoils the effect as she opens her large-lipped mouth to speak.

“Can I get a chocolate chip cookie?” she asks, but not in a way that would make me want to help her. Instead, the shrieking tone of her voice and the sneer on her lips connote nothing less than utter entitlement, a twisted expectation rather than an acceptance that customer service is a privilege to be paid for and lent the dignity and respect it deserves.

My current work as a bookseller springs to mind. In seething chagrin, I watch as the other adults in the establishment turn their heads away from the spectacle unfolding before them.

Unfortunately, the clerk that answers her request has a pair of eyes that cross above the bridge of her nose. The look works against her in social circumstances, but it doesn’t appear to interfere with her understanding of basic customer service. She moves with a speed and grace that belies her experience with this exact situation, except that she forgets something very important as she hands the arrogant customer her bagged chocolate chip cookie.

The girl is quick to hone in on the cosmic injustice that has just befallen her. “Can’t you heat this up? Can’t the man next to you heat this up? I always get my cookie heat up.” The sound of her sucking her teeth and stomping her foot makes my right hand twitch. “What’s the matter with choo?” she continues. “Are you retarded?”

`Get thee back into the tempest and the Night’s Plutonian shore! Leave no black plume as a token of that lie thy soul hath spoken! Leave my loneliness unbroken! – quit the bust above my door! Take thy beak from out my heart, and take thy form from off my door!’

The sound of my teeth grinding rings out like a gunshot in the sudden silence. Furious, I turn back to the girl, prepared to make her pay dearly for her transgression. My brother, who falls under the umbrella label of “extreme autism” wouldn’t know the insult that was just bandied about, but I do. And I want to slap the impunity from this little bitch’s face.

But nobody else even stirs. Not one other adult in the room seems to notice the rudeness. Unfortunately for me, it means I have no support in my temptation to correct this child’s behavior, nor would I get any satisfaction from delivering a backhand of decapitating force. Still, my right hand becomes a gloved wrecking ball, hidden in my pocket.

Quoth the raven, ‘Nevermore.’

Holding out her hand and rolling her eyes as though she’s been crucified like a little Jesus, the teenager awaits her reward. Other members of her cadre pipe up with their insipid little requests. Before I know it, another fifteen minutes pass before I can finally pay for my sandwich, head back home, and do an impression of the girl before my shocked and laughing girlfriend who, like me, desperately needs to find the humor in life again.

 

%d bloggers like this: