An episode in Retail Sales: From "Goin' Crazy"

"Don't Ask Me, I only Work Here"

An episode in retail sales.

From "Goin' Crazy" my first autobiography written at age 25 in 1977. I posted the first chapter of my 1977 autobiography here on my blog in 2005. Links are below this entry and in the sidebar to the left of the main page of my blog. Chapter One was a recollection of the night after high school graduation, when my group of friends went "t-p ing" our favorite teachers' homes. The following is part of Chapter Two: September 1971. During the summer of 1977, I wrote a couple hundred hand lettered pages of my life from high school graduation through college in third person, as a roman a clef, with faked names, and the imagined thoughts of others in my life, including my parents, friends, and workmates. It was a pretty ambitious undertaking at the time, and was never finished. I frequently research the events, which I outlined prior to writing, in order to set straight my memory regarding the first 25 years of my life, since I was closer to the early events than I am now when I wrote about them in 1977. The following includes lots of dialogue, and recounts a typical episode in the worklife of "courtesy clerk" Michael Nichol Franklin in the year 1971. The city of Rosemont is Rosemead, Ca. "Rawlings Hardware" is really Ole's Home Centers, and of course Mike Franklin is me. (pictured in my Ole's vest, around 1971, when the first chapter of DrunkStory occurred as well.)

"Thanks for the help." The old gentleman smiled.

"Oh, that's okay. That's why I work here. Thank you!" he turned, half running back into the store. Before the call was repeated, he had trotted round to the back and asked the man for his pick up slip. "Hey, Slim," he called to an older boy just entering the warehouse, "You wanta help me with this sink delivery?"

"Sure, Where is it?"

Two months on the job and already MIke had learned most of the "ropes". He'd been hired in July as a "courtesy clerk" or box boy, although the joke amongst the boys who worked at Rawling's was that they were in fact, "slaves".

Rawling's Hardware Center stood on Valley Blvd., another Rosemont business street, where it nearly occupied fully one half the block. A family owned establishment since the 30s, the building had consisted of three smaller companies at one time, each with their own building, each of which was later joined together to form the hardware center. The inside ceiling heights were even different for each of the three former buildings, so the experience of being in the store was sometimes akin to being inside a small city in itself. The building was quite large, and a joke circulated around that by the time an employee walked from the time clock to the lunch room, his lunch period was already over.

The Rawlings family owned three other stores in Southern California, but to look at the interior of the Valley Blvd. store's interior, no one would have ever guessed the store was part of a chain. Aisles were always cluttered with merchandise, paint peeled from the walls, the upper parts of which were always grimy with soot. Rats sometimes patrolled the warehouse, and could be heard scuttling about on the tops of the visible water pipes coursing along the walls. Unlike most chain stores of the time, which were airy and clean, with big tan fixtures of identical shelving, Rawlings' shelves were sometimes made of wood, old and badly painted, and the merchandise displayed on them sometimes seemed to be as old as the building itself.

Mike found the place fun to work for, however. The employees always found the time to smile and were a mix of the neighborhood's denizens, and most of the customers had lived in Rosemont for quite a while, and shopped there often. Mike knew many of the regular customers by name.

"Hey, Mike." Slim whispered as they lugged the heavy porcelain sink back to the customer's car. "A few of the guys are goin' drinking after work. Wanna come along?"

"Oh, I'd love to, " Mike lied. "But I'm not 21."

"That's okay. Neither am I. You know Burt?"

"Yeah."

"Well, he buys."

"Maybe next time, Slim. I really gotta do something else."

"Okay."

Mike didn't tell the guy he'd never had a drink in his life. He was happy. He certainly didn't need to get drunk in order to be happy. One thing he got used to quickly while working at Rawling's was how to handle the other young men who worked there. The adults were easy. They were easily impressed by a guy who was going to college, and who had earned A's in high school. But most of the younger guys would never even think of going to college, which wasn't an option for most of them anyway.

In order to remain friendly with them, Mike had found he had to take somewhat risky chances to force them to "look up" to him. Mike took lots of chances, but tried to make sure none of them would get him in trouble. He was good at escaping "capture" from the roving managers within the long rambling walls of the building.  He considered himself a good worker, and gaining the positive attitudes of the senior staff was almost enough for him. Already, after only three months on the job, the boss always geve him the most responsibility, and he ate it up. But in between the hard work, which never seemed to really end when on shift, and which Mike really didn't mind, there was always time for fun and games.

Mike liked to imitate managers on the interstore phone system.

He also liked to kid the junior area mangagers by asking them inane questions as if he really didn't know the answers.

He held the record for the longest break at two hours and ten minutes. It had been a slow night.

He drew characitures of discernable employees on the chalkboard in the lunchroom when nobody was looking.

One time he and Fred Passman, a former high school buddy, painted and put a price tag on a piece of deformed styrofoam packing material. Then he asked a junior area manager to which department it belonged, so it could be returned to stock. It was during this time working at Rawling's that Mike coined one of his numerous catchphrases for life, and one which he would use for years to come: "Life is a joke."

"Courtesy clerk to the lumber area." the P.A. bristled with a bit of an echo.

"You got that sink in, Slim?" Mike asked, "Sir," he addressed the customer without missing a beat, "Would you please sign this slip, thank you?" To Slim: "I'll get the lumber call."

"Mike, slow down, you're going to have a heart attack."

"Oh, yeah," Mike turned his head as he made his way out of the swinging warehouse door, "My dad's had ten and he's still kickin'"

"Goddamn," Slim thought, "Someday he'll be president of this company. Somebody's got to notice him."

Mike grabbed the 3/4" pipe railing used as a handrail and nearly jumped down the concrete ramp from the hardware department into the lumber department, a large nearly open space with a roof higher than the others in the building. He bounded over to the cashier.

"Hello, Michael." Gloria, and attractive latina in her late thirties greeted him.

"Hi, what's up?"

"This lady would like you to bring in this panelling for her. She's returning it." The lady, a gray haired, dumpy woman of about sixty, stood outside with a permanent scowl on her face. MIke smiled widely and greeted her.

"Well, ma'am. Would you like some help?"

"Some help? This isn't the panelling I asked for, young man! Can't you people see?"

"Well, we'll try our best to set you up with the right panelling."

"See that you do!"

Immediately MIke realized he was going to have some trouble with this witch. He wheeled the heavy cart over to the panelling section. He noticed Gloria smiling sympathetically.

"Now, I'm not a salesman, but..."

"What, every time I come in here..."

"Hold on. I'm just a courtesy clerk. I don't really know the merchandise but I'll try to get you someone who does."

"Don't keep me waiting, young man!"

"Oh, I won't" Mike wished he could trip the load of panelling so it smothered the old lady. He walked briskly up to the lumber desk. "Jack, could you help..."

"I've got a customer now, Mike. Get to 'em in a minute."

Mike saw another salesman talking to someone on the phone, mounted on a pillar next to the panelling aisle. "Oh, Carl."

Carl spoke into the mouthpiece. "Well, okay, honey. We'll go to the Blue Goose...hold on, what Mike?"

"There's a lady over here who needs your help."

"Tell her to wait. I'm on the phone."

"Shit," Mike whistled through his teeth. Any other boxboy would have left the lady, especially this particular one, alone to her own devices. Mike figured he'd never make more than two bucks an hour if he didn't stand out as exceptional, so he returned to the woman, who was standing with her arms crossed tapping a foot on the floor.

"What took you so long?"

"Uh, ma'am, all the salesmen are busy right now."

"Likely story."

"But I'll do my best to find you the panelling you want. Now do you see it here in the aisle?" The aisle was about 15 feet deep, sectioned with four foot by eight foot panels stacked along it's length. Little wisps of sawdust made small tornadoes along the aisle.

"My eyesight isn't so good. I'm getting along in years, and my husband died two years ago. I have to do everything myself."

"I understand," Mike lied, attempting to picture the old witch hammering the large sheets of panelling to the sheetboard walls of her house."Now let's see. This style here is called..."

A voice interrupted. "Sir, could you tell us where the plumbing department is?"

"...Almond grain. Uh, it's up the ramp there, through hardware and garden supplies, and then left around the corner."

"Thank you."

"Thank you. And this one is Light Oak."

"That's a nice one. It's lighter than that one over there, isn't it?"

"Sir, could you help me?"

"Yes, I think it is."

"I'll take the..."

"The Light Oak?"

"Sir, excuse me. Do you have number 4 pine in 7 foot lengths?"

"Sorry, I don't work in this department, but I'm sure..."

"Young man, are you helping me or not?"

"Yes, ma'am. Hold on."

"Mike," Carl called. "I'm going on a break. Tell Sam or Jack to cover, okay?"

"Carl, could you...."

"Sir..."

"Uh, wait everybody. I'm a boxboy. That guy over there will help you with questions. Jack could you..."

"I'm busy."

"Young man?"

"Yes, let me get this piece of..."

"That has a blemish. So's the next one. And that one has a crack."

Mike thought about her failing eyesight. Now miraculously she seemed to have regained 20/20 vision. Mike wasn't finding it an easy task to try and balance each piece of 4x8 panelling as he flipped through them like a giant deck of cards. As he put the three damaged pieces aside, Slim dashed by.

"Mike, taking a break. Cover for me."

"Slim, could you..."

"Sir, do you know where the sale tar paper is?"

Mike removerd the returned panelling from the pushcart and noticed rolls of tar paper immediately behind the man who had levied the question. Above the rolls was a large sign reading "Sale Today".

"Turn around, sir."

"Wha...?"

"Turn around, and you'll find the sale paper."

"Why gosh. If it had of been a snake it would have bit me."

"Darn near would have killed you." Mike muttered under his breath.

"Young man, I have a doctor's appointment in seventeen minutes. Could you hurry up please?"

Mike hoped  that the old woman would suffer a stroke and die. "Just a couple of minutes more, there, we got it. Now let's get you out of here." He tried to hide the sarcasm edging into his voice.

"Excuse me, sir..." the new voice belonged to an attractive blonde. Mike looked up, but as soon as she spoke Carl was by her side. "Anything I can do for you, miss?" he smiled over at Mike.

"Fuck you Charley" Mike thought.

He maneuvered the heavy cart out into the parking lot. "Now could you tell me where you parked your car?"

"Let's see. I think it's over here."

After what seemed like hours, going up one row of cars then down another, she stopped short. MIke almost wished he had let the cart run her over completely. "Rawlings Customer Killed By Cart of Sale Panelling."

"Oh, no. I remember. It's at the other end of the lot."

After he loaded everything onto the top of her car, which of course was almost too small for the load, she offered him a tip.

"Oh, no ma'am. We aren't allowed to accept tips.'

"No, I insist." she countered.

"Okay, I guess it would be alright." Mike bravely smiled. She dropped a dime in his palm. On his way back into the store, he inserted the dime in a gumball machine, and then threw the candy at the cashier.

 "What did you do that for?" she asked.

The P.A. again cracked to life. "Attention Rawlings shoppers. It is now six p.m. and the store is closed. Our business hours...."

Mike pulled off his striped vest and dashed over to the time clock. After saying goodbye to the dozen gathered there, he rushed out to the car. Another day had passed in the retail industry, and after the past few hours, he sure was glad he was going home at last.

Book of the 1st Realization: A Personal Tale

THE BOOKS OF THE REALIZATIONS: A series of philosophical/spiritual essays

From the Philosophy section on my original website in 1999:  For years I have held to a belief system which incorporates lessons from life which I have learned. I call these lessons realizations. They lead to the final realization, from which humankind will embrace the Universal Mind. These beliefs are not new, and are not mine. They are realizations which affect everybody. With the Millennium upon us, I feel compelled to write down the history and origins of these realizations. This is a work in progress.

The Personal Journey to the Realizations is over for the writer in the book of the Fifth Realization.
From the beginning part of the foundation for AllThingsMike consisted of a philosophical discussion of existence and the existence of the Universal Mind, which supplants and replaces all religion and philosophical thought which has gone before. MFN 1999

The Realizations
the true story of faith and how it can be obtained.
by Michael F. Nyiri

THE BOOK OF THE FIRST REALIZATON

A Personal Tale

Many years ago, while much younger than I am today, one of my managers at a retail establishment I worked for which later went out of business said to me, "Someday when you get older, you'll come to the realization. You're full of spit and vinegar now, and seem to think you know what you want and where you're headed, but someday you'll find that you're wrong, all your dreams and wishes are exactly that, dreams and wishes, not reality, and when you reach this realization which comes with age, you will feel much better, and be much wiser."

I always thought, of course, that this gentleman had reached his realization, and it had taught him the wisdom of which he wanted to impart to me.

Years later, of course, I did reach the realization he was talking about, and I sighed and thought , "I think I might have known this all along,"

When I was much younger than that, my parents instilled in me a sense of greatness due probably to the fact that I always received good grades in school. My mother in particular always called me "her little genius". For years as a youth, my upbringing was such that I felt myself superior, a "little genius", and I felt I knew things, that I was chosen. Real life taught me differently, of course, and this early realization taught that misconceptions can be disheartening. All of a sudden I wasn't a "little genius" at all. I knew nothing. And that taught me more.

In the First Baptist Church where my family worshipped , we used to receive enlightening plaques and
spiritual knick-knacks out of a glass fishing bowl when we memorized certain Bible verses and stories.
I received many plaques and knick-knacks, The Church called the exercise "fishing". We were "fishers of men". By the third grade I wanted to be a preacher.

My father was not a well man. He had had about eight or nine heart attacks by the time I entered Junior High School, and he could no longer attend Church on a regular basis. When the old pastor died, and the new pastor wanted to raise tithes to put a new, "modern" facelift on the Church, he came to our house one evening to talk to my parents. Although my father couldn't attend services any longer, and my mother stayed home on Sunday to be close to my dad, a missionary friend of the family used to take my brother, sister and I to Sunday School and Church each Sunday. The new pastor explained to my father that since he hadn't attended Church for a while, he in essence owed the Church for his back tithes. I can still remember hearing the heated discussion from my bed.

I left the church that night. I was in the seventh grade.

Throughout high school, I believed I was an athiest, agnostic at best. My goal at that time, around 1968 and 1969 was to found my own Church, a church of the heart, dedicated to some fundamental belief which or course I didn't know about yet. I had just lost my faith in God, I foolheartedly believed. Because of man's greed, specifically the pastor's at our family Church, I felt I had lost a deep faith in my existence and my capabilities, I began my search.

I would preach to people at school that I wanted to found my own religion. I would base it on the spiritual exuberance then running rampant in the "Jesus Movement". Only it would not be just about Jesus. I felt as if Jesus was one of many great teachers throughout history, but the Christian religions were somewhat wrong in proclaiming him the one and only "Son of God." I felt another small realization, and planted a seed which has since grown astoundingly. It was an exciting time for me while in high school. During my life up to that point I had been completely sheltered, and with the explosion of "youth culture" on the college campuses , I felt now that I was a part of the rebellion, I became a "hippie" in spirit.

When I went to college in 1971 I still had a sense of family values, however, living at home, buying my father's car with my allowance, and paying my parents rent even though the college campus was fifty miles away. A realization burrowed up from my conscienceness in college, and this was another blow to the psyche detailing that all my high school teachers, quick to jump on the "little genius" bandwagon, had been wrong. Instead of A's as in high school, I received B's and C's in college. The professors in college treated me like just another coffee bean passing through the grinder of life. I didn't feel "special" anymore, and this small realization widened my vision of life. College was a much bigger pond.

My first real realization hit me like a hammer in 1972. When my mother suffered a bilateral stroke at 51while I was in my second year of college, I felt I had nothing left to live for. With time and emotional help from friends, I soon joined another church, a Pentacostal holy roller affair, and I tried to find a reason for existence. Then my father died of his 13th heart attack two years later. Life suddenly and seemingly without meaning changed for me. At twenty-one, and at a time when I felt an incredible need to experience the hedonistic pleasures of the secular world around me, I found myself without a familial rudder, fated to become my mother's legal guardian, in charge of her estate, and mourning the loss of this tight little womb into which I had always felt I had been placed.

If, in fact, I possessed a "genius" it seems to me now that that was the time to exercise this great knowledge and wisdom. I was still a kid, however. Children grow up too quickly these days. Our "baby boom" generation felt we would always be children. We called ourselves "flower children". I had to grow up, and I countered the responsibilities being laid upon me by slipping farther and farther into the hedonistic pleasures of sex, drugs, and rock and roll which were rampant in the youth culture at the time. With my father dead, and my mother a virtual vegetable without speech nor recognition (I thought), I made the dreadful mistake of leaving her hospital room for the last time. In 1974 she still had three years left to live. I never saw her again and did not attend her funeral in 1977. To me she had died at the time of the stroke. She wasn't the same. I kept searching for answers with religion, with drugs, with pleasure, with pain. I was lost, but I hardly realized it.

What I did realize was a need for connections in life, since my familial connections seemed to be ending. I had many friendships which kept me afloat. I couldn't find romantic love at that point, and I wrote many poems detailing my search for another half to complete my whole. There were Christian fellowship groups on one hand, and raucous Fraternity parties with college friends and buddies from work on the other. I was having my cake and eating it too. If I possessed "genius" at this point, I used it to juggle the various aspects of a double life. At work, in the retail industry, I first rose to a respected position as a department manager, then moved with the company to a new location in an area where the "youth culture" had been even more of an explosion than in my home town. The rewards of responsibility in the workplace served to fuel the hedonistic desires of my playtime. Old friends gave way to new friends, hardly "Christian" or spiritual in nature, and I dove into the fire of this newfound life with gusto. Playing with fire in this way had it's drawbacks however, and led to my second realization.

Next Chapter: Wisdom and Questioning or click here for the rest of the story.

Originally posted; November 20, 2009 11:37 AM

MFN: Cartoonist (1970-1983)

MFN: Cartoonist: 1970-1983

Back in 1969, I was the editor of our high school newspaper, "The Panther's Tale". The high school I attended was Rosemead High in Rosemead, California.  I wanted to have an editorial cartoon on Page 2 and we had a contest to pick a cartoonist, however only two people submitted their cartoons. We ran both of them, plus another cartoon from one of the staff members. The next year, when I was a senior, I took over the duties, and three of my cartoons ran in the paper. Following are those three cartoons, plus a couple of rather "racy" X rated cartoons (for language and situations) titled "The Exciting Adventures of Nimrod. Everybody can enjoy the first three. Only those who appreciate satire and are not offended  by the "f-bomb" should read the last two.

From 1970: The character in the first panel, representing the "Class of 74" is Arnold, my cartoon character from 1968. You will think he looks a lot like Tom Wilson's Ziggy. To that I reply: Ziggy looks a lot like Arnold, but he was published later in daily newspapers, and Arnold was created for my high school newspaper. I created Arnold before Ziggy appeared in comics. After Ziggy appeared, I stopped drawing Arnold. I do believe Wilson must have seen one of these high school papers and stole the character. Either that or we both had the same idea for a round headed guy with a big nose at around the same time. Sometime in the future I'm going to post a collection of my Arnold drawings. This is the first time I think I've shown him on the blog. You might notice that the guy on the skateboard is looking right at the crotch of the gal in the miniskirt. For some reason, this cartoon was not censored.

From 1970: The biggest thing happening on campus in 1970 was the efforts of a select group of students, including yours truly, to "bust" the dress code, which was pretty strict. Here is one of my editorial cartoons lampooning the hair length requirements, which stated that boy's hair could not be "over the eyes, ears, or the back of the neck." The guy in the cartoon is wearing an "afro" another popular hairstyle from the late 60s, early 70s, worn by blacks and guys with curly or "kinky" hair. Arnold appeared in all the Panther's Tale cartoons, and he's coming through the gate after running laps in this cartoon.

From 1970: This is the third and final cartoon which we published in the newspaper. Arnold is saying hi to Colleen, a  friend of my sister's, who was a grade behind me. She got a kick out of seeing her name in the paper. There were two more cartoons I drew for the paper, which were censored. I can't find them right now. One showed a guy getting an A for constructing a Lunar Module in metal shop. (We landed on the moon in 1969) The reason it was censored is because Arnold made a gun in metal shop. In the last cartoon,which didn't make it to the paper, a chemistry student is making moonshine.

OKAY STOP RIGHT THERE

WARNING: If you can't stand foul language and questionable humor, then don't read any further. If you don't mind seeing the "f-word" in print, and can laugh at humor which makes fun of dismemberment and drug addled youths, then click the images below, and a larger version of these comics which are more easily read will pop up in another window. The following strips were written when I was working in the retail industry, in 1978 and 1983.

From 1978: The Exciting Adventures of Nimrod. In the late 70s, I was quite a drunk and druggie. My best buds were Morgan and Steve, who worked in my garden department at Ole's Home Centers. Eventually I was fired from my position, ostensibly for "wearing a dirty shirt" to work, but in reality because we all did drugs (not at work, mind you, but after work at parties which sometimes caused us to 'call in sick'.) I'm really making fun of myself in this strip. I'm wearing a FedMart badge in the first panel, cause I worked as a manager at FedMart after being fired from Ole's. Steve and Morg were still my buds, however, when I didn't piss them off after a few too many beers, as in the episode recounted here.

From 1983: The Exciting Adventures of Nimrod at "Phlemco". Phlemco is a play on the chain Gemco, where I worked when I drew this strip. The chain's motto was "Membership makes a difference." I was with FedMart till the chain went out of business, and then I was a manager at Gemco. I never cut anyone's head off with a chainsaw, however. This is supposed to be humorous, in the style of Mad Magazine and National Lampoon.

Originally posted: November 18, 2009 6:32 AM

Meeting My Mortality: An essay

"Last Rites"
Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
Sunday, April 3, 2005 6:56 a.m. pdt

We breathe, we believe, we bother, and we broker
We experience, with exuberance, we wonder, and we wander
The human life is precious, and we rarely notice this
That God's Great Gift is just a fleeting brushing glancing kiss

Avowed to gaze into the sky and wonder why
We look to Heaven, ask the questions, eradicate our doubts
But when the reaper visits was there something we forgot
And do we ponder feeling in the ground as bodies rot

For hundreds of years the bodies disappear
Into the ground, with sacrament, adorned by elaborate memorials
Or else a simple cross, or star, or placard made of marble
And the living will visit, gaze at the stones, and marvel.

Astounding thoughts and reveries, epiphanies and silence
Mortality comes knocking on the door at night unawares
History calls up through the new cut grass
And as we breathe, we realize that this life too, shall pass

It was a morning so like any other morning. I got up before the alarm, as usual, at around four a.m., made my bed, fluffed the pillows, laid out the day's outfit, took my shower, dressed, and went into the kitchen to prepare my lunch. As I was making the day's sandwich, I heard what sounded like the trash truck grinding up the street. Since it's Monday, and not Friday, when trash is usually picked up on our street, and since the trash truck usually comes by later than four thirty in the morning, I was a bit perplexed, and moved from the sideboard in the kitchen to the dining area, where I pulled aside the drapes.

Living in a mobile home park, one doesn't usually hear large trucks rumbling down the narrow streets. The sound was a truck alright, a red pumper, pulling to a stop two homes from mine across the street. Also I could see an ambulance parked in front of my neighbor's home, and three police cruisers across the street. A few officers mulled around, and a couple of firemen were running from the pumper to the green mobile home across from mine, a little to the right of the block wall which is directly in front of me.

A lot of activity before five a.m. And there was no discernable fire. I live in a senior park, and somebody must have either had a heart attack, or worse. We hear sirens all the time. There are ambulances driving down the streets of the park frequently. I've gotten used to the fact that there are more than a few deaths which occur regularly. After all, some of these seniors are pretty far up there in years. This is the first time there has been activity of this sort right across the street however, in the nine months or so that I've lived here.

If it were three or four hours later, there would have, I'm sure, been a gaggle of neighbors with whom I could ask questions, and find out what was happening. As it was, I had to go to work, and my neighbor left in his car a few moments before I was to leave, so I surmised nothing had happened to his mother, who is my immediate neighbor, and in front of whose house the ambulance was parked.

I heard the ambulance's motor hum to life next, and it drove away, without any lights or siren. Of course this early in the morning I'm sure they wouldn't have run the siren anyway. Most people are still asleep. I would have to wait until after I got home from work to find out what happened.

At 4 p.m., upon returning home, I saw Carol, my neighbor, pulling out of her parrking space, and driving down the street. We waved at each other. There was no other activity on the street, so I walked up to her door after getting my mail. Her son Mike was standing on the porch. It was he who had left his house right before me that morning.

"Waht happened this morning?" I asked. "I'm guessing everything is alright with you and your mom?" Mike smiled, and told me the guy in the green moblie home across the street had died. He lived alone, and somebody had callled 911. His body had been taken away, and his son had been called. I had wondered all day who might have passed away on our street. I didn't know the deceased. In fact, I don't remember ever having seen anyone in or around the green house. Mike explained he had moved in a month or so before I did last February.

This incident got me to thinking. I've lost most of my circle of friends, and I live alone. I see my neighbor Mike about once or twice a week, and I rarely even see my other neighbor Sheila. I do work during weekdays, but I wonder what would happen if I were to suddenly pass away, say, on a Friday night when I didn't have to be at work till Monday. Since sometimes our place of business will wonder why somebody doesn't call in sick for two days, and depending upon whether or not one starts stinking quite soon after his or her death, it could conceivably be four or five days till my body was found.

This gives one cause for introspection.

I figure if I died on Friday night, even if I were watching my bigscreen at the time, since I watch in the dark and I don't play my tv loud at all, nobody would probably even guess anything was wrong. I usually don't get phone calls, and the only people who might call would be work, or the pharmacy if I had a prescription that needed to be picked up, or perhaps a friend, but this is unlikely, and if somebody did call, they'd just leave a message on my machine.

I'm on the internet, and could very well look up to see how long a body stays "ripe" before stinking, however, this isn't meant to be morbid. Let's say that five days pass. I would become one of those people who died alone and nobody cared. I don't have a will. (I promised myself that I would prepare one after Joel died because he didn't have one, but I've put it off. Doesn't seem that important. And of course it wouldn't be, to me, since I'd be dead!)

My neighbors don't know if they should call anyone. I'm sure most of the concern would come from my workmates. The family is dealing with Jack's stroke right now, but they would try to find someone to contact. I don't have my siblings addresses or phone numbers in plain sight. I haven't seen Daniel in over 10 years, nor Marijo in 20. We're not close siblings by any definition of the word. I do have their addresses and phone numbers in my computer somewhere, and possibly in my wallet. I don't know of any up to date documents where I 've listed "emergency contact". It's probably Joel, since we were each other's emergency contacts for fourteen years. (Yes, I got the call from the hospital that he'd passed away, and I was the one who had to call his brother and tell him the sad news.)

I guess I really never thought I'd be one of those who dies and is not remembered. I can't think of one, well perhaps one, maybe two people I know who'd even come to my funeral, if I had one. I do know I have a gravesite. My father bought plots for all the family when I was a child, but I don't even know where the paperwork would be. I've never seen it.

So, in light of what happened this morning, I think I have a little work to do, just to let someone who stumbles upon my dead body know who to call and what to do with the corpse. Again, I'm not trying to be morbid. I'm living in a place where I can wake up to the sound of fire trucks and ambulances, where death is a normal occurrence. It gets one to thinking, that's all.

I'm ready to "meet my mortality" by the way. I've lived a rich and full life. As I've written here many times, the reason I've lost most of my friends is because they're all dead. I'm not a really old man. These guys all died young. I wish I were closer to my family, but my parents died young, in their early 50s, and after that both my sister and brother and I split up. My sister and brother later got married and had children (who are grown now). I was a pretty die hard druggie in the late 70s and early 80s, and they didn't want crazy Uncle Mike around the kids, which was probably a good decision on their parts. I was possibly a bad influence. Now we all live in separate parts of California, which is a pretty big state.

I think I'll try to find out where I can sign up to donate my organs. My eyes are shot, but my ticker's still pretty strong. (I could die of a heart attack, I guess, since my father had 12  of those before the 13th killed him.) I have a couple of good lungs, and I never drank enough that my liver is useless. I probably have a lot of organs which could help others after I'm found in whatever state they find me, here in my mobile home after four or five days.

Oh, and I nearly forgot about the blog. I'm sure people will stop commenting on the "last entry" after about a week. Maybe I'll get one or two comments which ask, "I wonder what happened to that poet philosopher fool guy who left the really long comments?" I always write about how our websites and blogs should become our legacies. I'm paid up for a "lifetime subscription". Somebody told me that's really 18 years, so I guess my blog will stick aournd in cyberspace until about 2025 or so. (Unless Xanga goes out of business, God forbid.)

I hope somebody remembers me. And I hope there's somebody to remember the guy across the street who passed away this morning. I didn't know the guy, nor have I ever seen him. But he lived a life, and I'm sure he must have touched somebody at some time, during his years on the planet. God be with you, buddy. See you in the afterlife!.

(Sorry if this seems morbid. It's not really meant to be. You get to thinking about death after something like this happens when you're my age, even though I feel healthy and "young".)

"Irony"
Poetry by Michael F. Nyiri
1971 (18 years old)
 
I emerge from my cocoon
Into the world of freedom
Automobiles honking
Air brakes screeching
Sweepers sweeping
Buildings grasping the heavens
Antlike commuters in their bus
The marquee blinking
Streetlights dimly lit
People everywhere

I come into the world of light
From that of darkness
Flourescent light
Electric light
Artificial light
Light turning on
And I breathe the city air
Smell the tar after a rain
Cross the street in wonder
And get hit by a bus

Dear Misanthrope: My Life With Pat. Part 5

 
(My Life With Pat: December 1991-May 1995)
Begun 9/13/05 

1. Merry Christmas and Hello
2. 2 adults, 2 Kids, 2 bedroom apartment: 2 Close for Comfort
3. Away From the Gangs, Part 1: The First House
4. Away From the Gangs, Part 2: Bellflower and the Second House

5. The Garage

If one postulates about his life with any degree of introspection, he will find that there are many times when he can remember living in a dichotomy, where his happinesses and his sadnesses mix together in the salad bowl of existence with alarming frequency. Frequently, this can be caused because of someone we love. I can remember such a dichotomy in my relationship with Pat so clearly that I still have the bitter aftertaste of sour salad dressing in my mouth. I was smitten with her, that's for sure. I wanted to be her knight in shining armor, and I always felt she was the damstel in distress. The only thing wrong with the equation is that even though she needed helping, she never wanted any help. Even though I wanted to save her, she only wanted to drown in her own insecurities, and eventually saw my riding to her rescue as meddlesome behavior from which she wanted to be extricated. I always thought my life with her was hell, complete with a raging inferno of emotions and inconsistencies, but for her, this life was a similar hell, and she was attempting her escape without my knowledge, even as I kept trying to douse the rising flames.

Living with her, besides being scary, was always full of surprises, which upon introspection, really weren't surprises at all. We had moved to the house on 15th Street to keep Charlie away from the gangs. Now, two years later, the gang story was pretty much a moot point as we were living in a beautiful three bedroom rented home in Bellflower, miles away. Each seemingly disastrous or invisible turn of events was diverted, only to be replaced by another, and I found it difficult trying to keep up, so I ran on autopilot most of the time, praying that "normalcy" would prevail.

The mornings of the year 1995 dawned a bit brighter for me after two and a half years of this hell living with my girlfriend Pat and her two kids. I'd gotten pretty used to hell. We'd leased the house in Bellflower for a year, and had moved in right before the summer of '94. When Pat had "given" me my own space in the two car garage, which fronted the property, I hadn't realized this would actually be my sole living space for nearly the last half of our existence there at the time. I had caromed back and forth between fright and contentment for so long by that point that I had no idea Pat was essentially living two lives, and I wasn't even a part of the second one. I'd always been discouraged by not having any space in our relationship. By 1995, she wanted me out of her space as well, and the gift of my own room in the garage was as much a place for Pat to be able to dump me so I wouldn't see some of the more bizarre turns she was planning, unbeknownst to my naivete.

The Prizm began to have problems, and even though we were paying more in rent for the Bellflower house than for the one we had exited on 15th Street in Long Beach, Pat began to think we should buy a new car. She had her eye on a Chevy Astro, a small van which would have been perfect for the family. The kids were now both in high school, and Charlie was towering above me in height. As with all our endeavors together, there was to be little planning in our search for a car. We jumped in "feet first", driving around from car lot to car lot sampling the wares offered. After two weeks of looking, I showed Pat a large 4X4 Blazer on one lot, and surmised that this was the perfect vehicle for her. It was one of those "monster trucks" fashioned from the larger late 70s Blazers. We both had a rare pleasurable moment together, and while we would never really purchase a monster truck, the seed was planted in Pat's head, so when we spied a smaller late 80s Blazer, fire engine red, highlighted on one of the front rows of vehicles, both of us made the decision that this was the perfect "car" for the family.

The Blazer was sporty; not too large, but a lot larger than the Prizm. We traded in the Geo for a few hundred dollars at Worthington Ford, where owner Cal Worthington was semi retired, but his office still had lots of photos of the owner and his many "dogs Spot", zoo animals including elephants which he had used in his television commercials. After haggling with the salesman for a few hours, we drove away in the Blazer. I really believed Pat was happy for once. Of course I had volunteered to pay half the monthly payments, even though my name was not on the purchasing agreement.

I'd had a hip replacement operation when we had lived in the Long Beach house, and my hip was completely healed while we were in Bellflower. Both Charlie and Laura still bickered over the TV remote, so when I and Pat came home from work, I didn't even stay in the living room that much. Back on 15th Street, Pat had bought me a Lazy Boy recliner for my birthday, and this chair was still prominently displayed opposite my 32" televisoin in the living room. I'd spent more time reading than watching movies while in Long Beach, but in Bellflower, I forsook my recliner, and usually retired to my own "space" in the garage, where we'd carpeted the floor, and furnished with Pat's old daybed and my electronics gear. While Pat was in the kitchen, I'd go out to the garage, fire up my stereo, and dance by myself, happy that my hip didn't hurt at all.

Sometimes Pat and I would listen to music together. I was collecting CDs, usually country music, which Pat and I both enjoyed. We both slept together, and sometimes we even made love, however I got used to the idea that sex was pretty much a memory, and became used to Pat's weird sense of closeness, or lack thereof. I wrote poems for her which she never read. I naively thought we were doing better than ever, and I became blind to her constricting sense that things were closing in and stifling her, even as she acted like we were at the best point we had ever been in our relationship.

One afternoon, while sitting at the kitchen table having a beer or two watiing for dinner, Pat proclaimed that she was getting a second job. As with all her snap decisions, she didn't want a discussion of any change in her plans. She told me what was going to happen, as if it already had. "W-what..." I stammered, completely sidelined by this latest curve in our shared history together. We both made good money, and although the new Blazer was costing us a few hundred a month, I was sharing in the expense, and we both still had spending money. Using "Pat logic" she explained that she needed something "extra" in her life. The kids were pretty much on their own. Pat had never really had that much of a hand in their growing up, and they'd pretty much raised themselves. She'd never let me have any say at all in their upbringing while I was part of the picture. She had already secured a part time job with a local "Policeman's Association" asking for donations both on the phone and in person. I had been successful in my efforts to quash earlier ill fated job opportunities she wanted to add to her resume in our early life together, like "stuffing envelopes" which always proved to be a scam. However, I wanted to keep us seemingly happy, this latest endeavor didn't really seem to be a scam, and I really had no say in the matter anyway. Work was pretty busy, and while living with Pat, I was on her 40 hour schedule, instead of the 50-60 hour schedule I'd kept before we got together, since she was the driver in the household. Her part time job would take place after work, so I told her I was going to work more hours running the Panel Shop, and she could swing by and pick me up at 7pm after she got off. She seemed to agree to this arrangement.

The arrangement seemed to work for a while. She wasn't really paid that much at the Policeman's Association. I really had no idea why she wanted to work additional time in the first place. My staying after at work was simply so I didn't have to face her kids alone without her there. They were usually battling over their TV privileges after school when we would get home from work anyway, so by staying away from their quarrels, I could have a reasonable amount of peace. The washer and dryer were in the garage, so even though I had my own "space" out there at home, it was Laura's job to wash the family's clothes, and she was always coming and going, so my "space" was shared and not really all mine.

After a few weeks with my girlfriend leaving our shared job to go ring doorbells for the Policeman's Association, and me staying at work for an additional two or three hours with nobody else around, Pat had another heated exchange with me, making another of my decisions. I couldn't stay at work anymore after hours. She wanted to stay at her second job longer than usual, and having to drive back to our work to pick me up and then take me home to Bellflower was taking a toll. I didn't really need to stick around at work anyway. I was getting lots more work done, but it wasn't essential.

Love is blind. And although the flames of hell lapping at my feet throughout our three year existence together should have been enough to tell me I was in hot enough water, the blindness caused by my love for my wayward waif allowed me to tune out a lot of the more questionable aspects of the relationship. The year 1995 seemed to dawn bright and beautiful, but in fact, the brightness came from those flames, which were merely simmering, and would be shooting up over both of our heads in a few scant weeks. I was blinded by my love so much that during Pat's pleas to have a second life with a second job after hours, I had agreed, like a dog who has been kicked so much he starts to look forward to the abuse.

The hours my sweetie was away from the house after I agreed not to stay after at work began to grow. Sometimes Pat wouldn't return home till after 10 or 11 at night. I should have figured out something was terribly wrong when she would seemingly not come home at all in the evenings. I'd finally fall asleep, sometimes in the daybed in my room in the garage. She told me not to "wait up" for her. How naive could I have been? Charlie told me one evening that I was "pussy whipped". I agreed with him. It was true. I'd sold my soul for a relationship, and I had been living in this hell for most of the first part of the decade. Where was Charlie's mother as he and I would go out to dinner some evenings together? Neither of us knew for sure. Neither of us wanted to guess the truth.

My unread poems questioned why Pat didn't seem happy after all I'd given her. I questioned why I couldn't seem to find a "relationship" in our existence together.

On those rare nights we would actually sleep in our bed at the same time, I could feel her growing farther and farther away. We might be lying very close to each other physically, but sometimes I would feel as if the space between us was a deep chasm which I would never be able to cross. My bright Knight's helmet began to tarnish. My lips would move to speak but no words would come. Pat got upset at any little thing I would do for her, and I kept retreating to the garage more and more. On Friday nights Pat wouldn't even come home from her second "job". I was "pussywhipped" so completely that I never for a moment even suspected she was sleeping with her supervisor at the Policeman's Association. After a few weekends of "not waiting" for her to come home at all, I finally confronted her. Those bright days suddenly got darker, and the flames engulfed us completely. I had been burned as much as was humanly possible. Now I was burning up.

Coming Up: Chapter 6: The Escape