Author’s Note: It’s that time of year again for a short break so loyal Laughable Feast readers will be treated (or subjected) to a few weeks of summer reruns. Some of you have seen these golden oldies before, and may even remember them, but many haven’t so hopefully these posts from three or four years ago have stood the test of time. The summer lineup is as follows:
July 3rd – Discovering Lewis & Clark
July 10th – Romper Room
July 17th – The Doctor Will See You Now
July 24th – The Pink Slip
July 31st – Thumper
August 7th – Pick Up the Pieces
August 14th – Mad Man
August 21st – Lawnmower Man
August 28th – Dude, Where’s My Brain
I hope you all have a wonderful summer. We’ll be back with fresh cooking for the Laughable Feast table on September 4th.
The Pink Slip
It was quarter past three in the afternoon and the park was nearly empty. I brushed away some shriveled leaves and dropped my ass on the bleached wood bench, threading the needle between a patch of fluorescent green moss and a generous dollop of bird shit. The sun was taking the day off lounging on top of a thick grey mattress, and even though it was fall, the air smelled like winter.
It’s not like it was the perfect job you know. If there is such a thing. I’m aware there are people out there who know what color their parachute is, follow their bliss, crush it, and end up on Oprah’s list with a book exhorting everyone else to do the same. Those people give me a rash.
Normal people have shit jobs and that’s what this one was. I mean, does being an assistant manager at Olive Garden sound like the perfect job to you?
The general manager is a corporate bootlicker, the executive chef is a mediocre cook with a tall hat, the place is crazy busy and always understaffed, the eight assistant managers hate each other and keep their knives sharp, the rest of the staff hate the assistant managers, and the regulars are cheapskates whose only goal in life is to eat unlimited salad and breadsticks and then die in a never-ending bowl of pasta.
Perfect.
I shouldn’t be surprised they termed me. As you can tell I have a bad attitude. And I’ll admit calling Felicity the c-word in front of customers probably wasn’t a good idea, but she absolutely is. She’s the worst of the knife-wielding assistants by far. I once looked up felicity in the dictionary and you know what? It means intense happiness or the ability to find appropriate expression for one’s thoughts. I’ve often wondered if her parents appreciate the exquisite irony in their choice of names. Anyway, I’m glad I called her by her proper name, and I’m glad I got termed.
The sun slipped through a hole in the mattress and spotlighted the sick, dying Elm tree next to the bench, turning it into a giant, gnarly, gilded bird cage hanging over my head.
I took it to be a message of some kind, and the more I thought about not having to wear things I don’t want to wear, go somewhere I don’t want to go, and do things I don’t want to do, the happier I felt.
Ciao to the pesto-stained polo shirts. Goodbye garden of earthly agony. No more bitch-slapping people not doing their jobs and sucking up to everyone else. Those thoughts made me even happier. Fucking ecstatic really.
Suddenly, all the places I want to visit flashed through my mind like some Travel Channel show written, filmed, edited, and aired just for me. I’d love to go to Europe. Who wouldn’t? I don’t speak French and am very uncomfortable in unfamiliar places where they talk funny, but Paris sounds cool. I mean, the Eiffel Tower, Mona Lisa, and all those French girls sipping wine and smoking in sidewalk cafes? Ooh, là là.
Then there’s Rome. When in Rome, right? Italian girls in short skirts riding around on scooters living la dolce vita, what’s not to like about that?
And what about Thailand? They have pretty girls riding in rickshaws, plus I love Pad Thai, and the beaches are dope if there are no tsunamis. Or I could go down under. Aussies seem like real friendly folks putting an extra shrimp on the barbie and all, and they speak English kind of. Not sure about the girls but the Koala bears are cute.
Maybe I’ll just stick to the good old US of A. I’m familiar with the place and speak the language, and there’s plenty to see here too.
Okay this is what I should do. Pack up my shit, buy a supercool Airstream trailer, hook it up to my pickup, and hit the road.
Cruise around the wild west, stopping when I get tired, sleeping in my trailer or under the stars, eating at roadside diners, busking for a few bucks playing my guitar in historic town squares lined with palm trees and pigeons, meeting surfer girls and sitting around campfires telling stories that are partially true. Just living life. Those Airstreams are wicked expensive but that’s what high-interest loans are for.
Some celestial seamstress had repaired the torn mattress so the sun could resume its nap and the elm tree went back to being sick and dying. The kids would be home from school soon and I needed to pick up Tabitha at the clinic. We were just getting on top of the bills and the look on her face will kill me when I tell her.
I stood up and stretched my aching back. Maybe I’ll keep it to myself for a little while. I hear they’re looking for somebody at Claim Jumper.