Tornado... Part TWO!
Mar. 12th, 2006 11:46 pm![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
scary_manilowThe Day of the Tornado. Here's how it went:
I crawled home from my duties at the Replay (in this case, duties= helping sort through mountains of rubble so we could put the bar back together again) in order to throw some water on my face and change into a fresh set of clothes. I also took the opportunity to call my mother and let her know I was still alive... Pretty sure I wasn't making much sense to her, as my vicious hangover had coupled with my storm-shot nerves to produce a mental state not dissimilar to the early stages of Mushroom Fever. The clock struck one, and I was out the door again-- into the wind ravaged streets, ready to open up the Jackpot for the legions of slack jawed basketball fans who were willing to risk life and limb just to cheer on The Team in the comfort of a dank, smelly tavern.
But ah, what's this? Cop cars-- MANY of them, lights flashing, horns squawking. I tried to step off the front porch, only to have a uniformed do-gooder swivel his megaphone in my direction and bellow, "Back in your house, sir! This is a TORNADO WARNING!"
I shrugged-- Whatever and tried to step around him. A barrage of screeching sirens froze me in my tracks. The megaphone bobbed in my face. "Sir, the streets are unsafe at this time! There's another tornado on its way! Please return to your home!"
So I went back inside, sat in the electricity-free splendor of my living room, and waited for the patrol cars to pass by. I tallied up the day's events in my head:
1. Passed out drunk, 4 AM.
2. Woke up by tornado, still drunk, 8 AM.
3. Hopping around on the sidewalk (in my underwear) and hollering like a fucking goober, 8:15 AM.
4. Surveying and documenting the damage on my block, helping out neighbors and checking in on nearby friends, 8:30-9 AM.
5. Discovering that the Replay had been destroyed, 9 AM.
6. Crying about the Replay being destroyed, 9:01 AM.
7. Helping co-workers put the Replay back together, 9:01 AM- 12:30 PM.
All in all, I counted four solid hours of labor, and I hadn't even clocked in for work yet. It was shaping up to be a ong, thankless day.
The gawkers were still cruising the sidewalks when I returned downtown. I couldn't figure out what the fascination was... I mean, taking pictures of destroyed buildings is one thing, but where's the novelty in watching other people WORK? The entire time we were sweeping up glass, the bar was surrounded by rubbernecking jackoffs, popping their flashbulbs through the broken windows and entertaining us with great wisecracks like, "So, is this where I order a to-go drink?" and "I see you guys are OPEN today, haw haw." Worthless fucking wastes of sperm and egg, every last one of them. What's it like, neve rhaving to worry about anything, I wonder? What's it like to be invincible? Must be a nice existence; unfortunately, I'll never have that luxury. I'm a minimum wage shlub with two jobs and zero opportunities. But at least I've got a fucking soul.
Keeping it short, now: Across the street to the Jackpot. The power was down at the Replay, so everyone was counting on me for all their game-watching needs. They let me know this by waiting in a large group near the door and saying, "You planning on showing The Game today or what?" before I even had a chance to turn on the TV's. Got the bar set up in record time, powered up the big screen, poured some drinks, and tried not to think about the throbbing pain in my skull. All work and no sleep makes Gillaspie something -something... A popped some aspirin and drank a beer to chase the hangover away.
As The Game advanced to its logical conclusion, I began to see my patrons as more of a threat, an oppressive force united to suck the life out of me. My customer base doubled, then tripled. I was running back and forth between cooler and bar, tap wall and register... Mixing martinis at one end of the room while a gang of date-raping fratboys pounded their shot glasses against the counter, screaming, "Yo! Hey! Service over here! Hey!"
I spilled booze, then slipped in it. I glanced at the clock: Seven hours to go. The weather outside fluctuated between warm sunshine and murky drizzle, sometimes within a matter of minutes. I was offered a brief respite when Our Team defeated The Other Team and everyone paraded outside to beat their chests in the streets... But my relief proved to be short lived. Already, a new batch of hooting imbeciles was breaking through the door. Their numbers doubled, then tripled. I called out for help but there was no one to hear me. I was being overtaken. I was ALONE.
Jager Bombs. Martinis. A long island iced tea. Hey, bra, how about that storm today? Yo, dude, whaddaya think about all this weather? Didja watch The Game today?
By the time my shift ended, I was a wreck. My eyes watered, and my bones were made of rubber. I plopped down on a corner stool and nursed a stiff rum drink. My hands trembled so hard that most of the booze ended up on the front of my shirt. My entire body shook as I sighed. I was in no better shape than the Replay Lounge across the street. Only problem was, I didn't have a loyal army of employees working inside of me to patch my psyche into working order. All I had was booze, and lots of it. I continued to drink...
Later, walking home, I was overcome by the fantasy of living in a war zone. Street lights were out, the night sky was overcast with a slab of impenetrable black. Roots of upturned trees loomed over me like the fingers of giants. I passed a house with no roof, windows illuminated by the ghostly flicker of candles, and I thought, I could make it as a scavenger. I could live in this world. Bring on the fucking apocalypse... I'll live as a roach among men.
Home at last. The distant POP of a burst transformer followed me into the house. Sixteen hours before, I was glued to the door knob while watching chunks of condrete fire through my yard like missiles. Now I was laying on the couch with a cat under each arm, listening to the low rumble of patrol cars circling the block. Never having bought into the illusion of safety, I was more annoyed than assured. I popped half a valium to calm my shattered nerves and crawled into bed.
I crawled home from my duties at the Replay (in this case, duties= helping sort through mountains of rubble so we could put the bar back together again) in order to throw some water on my face and change into a fresh set of clothes. I also took the opportunity to call my mother and let her know I was still alive... Pretty sure I wasn't making much sense to her, as my vicious hangover had coupled with my storm-shot nerves to produce a mental state not dissimilar to the early stages of Mushroom Fever. The clock struck one, and I was out the door again-- into the wind ravaged streets, ready to open up the Jackpot for the legions of slack jawed basketball fans who were willing to risk life and limb just to cheer on The Team in the comfort of a dank, smelly tavern.
But ah, what's this? Cop cars-- MANY of them, lights flashing, horns squawking. I tried to step off the front porch, only to have a uniformed do-gooder swivel his megaphone in my direction and bellow, "Back in your house, sir! This is a TORNADO WARNING!"
I shrugged-- Whatever and tried to step around him. A barrage of screeching sirens froze me in my tracks. The megaphone bobbed in my face. "Sir, the streets are unsafe at this time! There's another tornado on its way! Please return to your home!"
So I went back inside, sat in the electricity-free splendor of my living room, and waited for the patrol cars to pass by. I tallied up the day's events in my head:
1. Passed out drunk, 4 AM.
2. Woke up by tornado, still drunk, 8 AM.
3. Hopping around on the sidewalk (in my underwear) and hollering like a fucking goober, 8:15 AM.
4. Surveying and documenting the damage on my block, helping out neighbors and checking in on nearby friends, 8:30-9 AM.
5. Discovering that the Replay had been destroyed, 9 AM.
6. Crying about the Replay being destroyed, 9:01 AM.
7. Helping co-workers put the Replay back together, 9:01 AM- 12:30 PM.
All in all, I counted four solid hours of labor, and I hadn't even clocked in for work yet. It was shaping up to be a ong, thankless day.
The gawkers were still cruising the sidewalks when I returned downtown. I couldn't figure out what the fascination was... I mean, taking pictures of destroyed buildings is one thing, but where's the novelty in watching other people WORK? The entire time we were sweeping up glass, the bar was surrounded by rubbernecking jackoffs, popping their flashbulbs through the broken windows and entertaining us with great wisecracks like, "So, is this where I order a to-go drink?" and "I see you guys are OPEN today, haw haw." Worthless fucking wastes of sperm and egg, every last one of them. What's it like, neve rhaving to worry about anything, I wonder? What's it like to be invincible? Must be a nice existence; unfortunately, I'll never have that luxury. I'm a minimum wage shlub with two jobs and zero opportunities. But at least I've got a fucking soul.
Keeping it short, now: Across the street to the Jackpot. The power was down at the Replay, so everyone was counting on me for all their game-watching needs. They let me know this by waiting in a large group near the door and saying, "You planning on showing The Game today or what?" before I even had a chance to turn on the TV's. Got the bar set up in record time, powered up the big screen, poured some drinks, and tried not to think about the throbbing pain in my skull. All work and no sleep makes Gillaspie something -something... A popped some aspirin and drank a beer to chase the hangover away.
As The Game advanced to its logical conclusion, I began to see my patrons as more of a threat, an oppressive force united to suck the life out of me. My customer base doubled, then tripled. I was running back and forth between cooler and bar, tap wall and register... Mixing martinis at one end of the room while a gang of date-raping fratboys pounded their shot glasses against the counter, screaming, "Yo! Hey! Service over here! Hey!"
I spilled booze, then slipped in it. I glanced at the clock: Seven hours to go. The weather outside fluctuated between warm sunshine and murky drizzle, sometimes within a matter of minutes. I was offered a brief respite when Our Team defeated The Other Team and everyone paraded outside to beat their chests in the streets... But my relief proved to be short lived. Already, a new batch of hooting imbeciles was breaking through the door. Their numbers doubled, then tripled. I called out for help but there was no one to hear me. I was being overtaken. I was ALONE.
Jager Bombs. Martinis. A long island iced tea. Hey, bra, how about that storm today? Yo, dude, whaddaya think about all this weather? Didja watch The Game today?
By the time my shift ended, I was a wreck. My eyes watered, and my bones were made of rubber. I plopped down on a corner stool and nursed a stiff rum drink. My hands trembled so hard that most of the booze ended up on the front of my shirt. My entire body shook as I sighed. I was in no better shape than the Replay Lounge across the street. Only problem was, I didn't have a loyal army of employees working inside of me to patch my psyche into working order. All I had was booze, and lots of it. I continued to drink...
Later, walking home, I was overcome by the fantasy of living in a war zone. Street lights were out, the night sky was overcast with a slab of impenetrable black. Roots of upturned trees loomed over me like the fingers of giants. I passed a house with no roof, windows illuminated by the ghostly flicker of candles, and I thought, I could make it as a scavenger. I could live in this world. Bring on the fucking apocalypse... I'll live as a roach among men.
Home at last. The distant POP of a burst transformer followed me into the house. Sixteen hours before, I was glued to the door knob while watching chunks of condrete fire through my yard like missiles. Now I was laying on the couch with a cat under each arm, listening to the low rumble of patrol cars circling the block. Never having bought into the illusion of safety, I was more annoyed than assured. I popped half a valium to calm my shattered nerves and crawled into bed.