Does anyone else know how egregious gas prices are? No, seriously. The price per barrel of oil fluctuates at a daily rate. Why? Because the so-called powers that-be profess it to be so. Liberalists and Green Parties wave an admonishing finger at the very notion of drilling on American soil (with the exception of Alaska), thus keeping us from weaning ourselves from suckling the teat of foreign oil. When the price per barrel goes up, not only do gas prices rise, but everything becomes more expensive. Oil is used in damn near everything. Production of plastics. Factories. Textile plants. Farms. Butchers. Bakers. Everyone everywhere relies on oil in some way, shape, or form. Interesting side note: How come when the price of gas goes down, the price of a gallon of milk holds steady at the price it was raised from the previous one. People gripe about how much gas is. But, at least there's a fifty-fifty chance gas will be cheaper tomorrow (statistics are bullshit, 7 out of 15 people know that. When you break it down, everything is fifty-fifty; either something will happen or it doesn't). That gallon of milk. Those flashy new kicks. A pack of smokes. All that other stuff doesn't fluctuate in price like gas, it just continues to escalate.
This is just a theory. I have no proof or evidence to back this up. But I believe that one of the main reasons gas prices undulate like the tides, is so that when we drive past a gas station, and see unleaded advertised for $3.86 a gallon, we smile and say, "Oh, look, gas went down." Then we cruise into the packed station at two miles-an-hour, wait for fifteen minutes before actually getting to use a pump, and fill up. I don't do that. But, apparently a lot of people do. I buy gas when it's slightly more expensive; it's an even trade-off for the time I save. In and out. Easy-peasy.
There's a scene in the movie, "I Am Legend", where Will Smith is driving down some street and passes a gas station that advertises a gallon of unleaded for over $6. And I'm guessing that was before the-end-of-the-world-as-Will-Smith's-character-knew-it. Just my opinion, but I really don't see someone changing the gas sign of their own volition as New York turned into Hell in a hand-basket. Six bucks for a gallon of fuel, and look what happened. I'm not saying there's any correlation between soaring gas prices and an impending viral apocalypse (fictional or otherwise). I'm just saying.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Monday, July 22, 2013
Shoes
They say you can tell a lot about a person from their shoes. I especially take the time to examine the footwear of everyone I meet. A flashy kick may suggest someone outgoing; an extravert. A modest loafer implies a modest soul (pun intended). But what about a dead man's shoes? Unless already picked out ahead of time, someone else choses the shoes we're buried in, cremated in, etc. But what about the shoes we die in?
The story I'm about to tell you is not based on a true story or inspired by actual events (I'll post more on the difference between the two later). The following is a true story:
Between my freshmen and sophomore years of college, I worked on the maintenance crew at MIS (Michigan International Speedway); the place for all NASCAR, IROC, and other races I can't recall at this time.
Basically, we performed regular grounds keeping, trash removal, etc. But, mostly, we built tire walls. Four or five tires stacked in a half-honey-comb shape; drilled through and bolted together. As long as I live, the stench of burning, dirty-rubber shall never be swiped from my olfactory memory.
Traditionally, MIS holds three main events per year (one in June, one in July, and one in August). During race weekends we mainly drove around on golf-carts (we'd open them up and adjust the governor to make them go twice as fast as intended). Hell, sometimes between races, the maintenance crew would go down into the infield ('Cause we had full access except into the pit during a race), and race our suped-up carts around the inner track. Drunken red-necks cheered us on from atop campers. I won -- once. But I didn't feel on top of the world. When you're in the middle of the pit in the perigee of the August sun you never do.
Even as I sit here writing this, my mind drifts back to fading days. But I deviate.
Our biggest job during race weekends was to make sure the bathrooms fully stocked (and working properly), at all times. Some people say cleaning toilets is a humbling experience. I say, try cleaning stadium-arena bathrooms (at a NASCAR event), all day, all weekend, in hundred degree heat, and in a structure fashioned from concrete and cinder-blocks. Then, when people talk about how humbling it is to wipe someone's ass, you'll just smile and nod, and know the truth; that eventually, we all gotta root through shit to make porcelain shine white. Or, something like that.
It got hot out there; sultry and muggy. People do weird things when intoxicated and under high-heat conditions. Unnatural things. Things that needn't be divulged via world-wide public domain.
Sometimes it got so hot people just died; literally dropped like flies.
Season ticket holders to MIS and other affiliate events sometimes "bussed-it-in." Which meant, that you could take a NASCAR sponsored bus that shuttled you to every event, kinda like how Deadheads followed the Grateful Dead around during the early '80s.
This one time, a guy (let's call him Joe, 'cause I don't know his real name), suffered an aneurysm or something, I don't know I'm not a doctor, although I often pretend to be one in real life. Anyway, he was in the bathroom of this bus, collapsed in this rinky-dink bathroom; with his corpse blocking the folding door. If you've never been in a bus bathroom, it's much like the facilities on an airplane. If you've never been in one of those, imagine a porta-John, but slightly smaller; more confined. And if you've never been in any of those -- start living! Anyway, the paramedics had to come and cut the door off just to get Joe out of there.
The maintenance crew I was working that day just so happened to be stationed the closest to the scene. So, we were pulled off stocking toiletries to post guard. See, once everyone else got off the bus, the driver pulled into maintenance headquarters, aka, "base." We had fully stocked carts, but we'd run out of supplies and have to return to the base to get more. Well, base was closed off while the paramedics retrieved Joe's body. So the carts drove up to the back gate (guarded by me and a few others), and told us what they needed. I should make this clear, we weren't inside the gate. We were outside. We'd radio in what we needed and someone else brought the stuff out; rendering our guarding the gate completely futile. But, the boss wanted us there anyway.
I wondered what kind of shoes Joe might wear. Sneakers? Boots? Flip-flops? But, by the time the paramedics carted him out, Joe had already been covered with one of those white, medical-sheets.
Now, I actually told you that story to tell you this story: The following month, at the final (August) race, I noticed something odd while restocking the bathroom. It was the middle of the day, and during the middle of a race, and on (what felt like), the hottest day of summer. We couldn't wait until the end of the day to re-supply toiletries, because soap, towels, and other sundries would run out. Each crew had a designated area with four to five bathrooms in their section. Each bathroom had to be checked and restocked every couple of hours or so. We didn't clean until the end of the day. Which somehow made it worse. We checked vacant stalls to make sure they weren't out of toilet paper. But, sometimes a stall would be empty even if the door closed. It's poor bathroom etiquette (for a janitor), to knock on a stall to find out if it's occupied. The best way to check was to just glance underneath the stall and look for feet. This could also be accomplished by glancing into a mirror at just the right angle (but only if there weren't a slew of people around the sink-area). I was in the very same bathroom I was a month prior when we got the call to return to base and guard the gate. In the very last stall were a pair of red sneakers with white trim. Fairly new. Slightly scuffed. Not just shoes. But feet, as well. You might be wondering how, over the years and over all the different pairs of shoes I've seen, how I could recollect this particular pair of footwear with perfect detail. It's because, every couple of hours, when I returned to that particular bathroom, and I glanced underneath that particular stall, I saw those same red Nikes with white trim. Slightly new. Fairly scuffed. I remember thinking, I hope they don't run out of tp in there. Hour after hour, the same thing. Those sneakers just where I'd seen them last, as if they a landmark of that specific facility. The previous race's events still fresh in my mind, I worried that the owner of those red Nikes might have kicked the proverbial bucket while taking their last ride upon the porcelain throne. But, for some reason, I didn't tell anyone about it. To this day, I don't know why. Was I scared? If so, what was I afraid of? That there would be a bloated corpse? Or maybe by the time I actually relayed my suspicions to someone, those sneakers would be gone, and I would be the victim of taunting and ridicule. People would think I was a nervous Purvis after what happened during last month's race. Whatever the reason, I decided to wait until the end of the day. When it came, I remember standing there, in front of the stall. Just standing there. Someone asked me what I was doing. I don't recall my response. I remember being filled with uneasy anticipation, until the point where I was nearly swaying back and forth. I swallowed the acrid tingle rising in the back of my throat and glanced underneath the stall. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No slightly scuffed red Nikes. No feet inside. Nothing. Still, I cautious of opening the stall door, but I did.
To this day, I don't know what happened. Was someone really in there all day? Why? Had they fallen asleep (or, more to the point, passed out)? Was it a ghost? Were they the shoes of a dead man? A trick of the mind? I don't know. Perhaps I never will.
Yes, it's true you can tell a lot about a person from their shoes. And I've met a lot of people and examined cornucopias amounts of footwear, most of which, I've long since forgotten. But those sneakers, those red Nikes with white trim; fairly new, slightly scuffed, I will never forget.
The story I'm about to tell you is not based on a true story or inspired by actual events (I'll post more on the difference between the two later). The following is a true story:
Between my freshmen and sophomore years of college, I worked on the maintenance crew at MIS (Michigan International Speedway); the place for all NASCAR, IROC, and other races I can't recall at this time.
Basically, we performed regular grounds keeping, trash removal, etc. But, mostly, we built tire walls. Four or five tires stacked in a half-honey-comb shape; drilled through and bolted together. As long as I live, the stench of burning, dirty-rubber shall never be swiped from my olfactory memory.
Traditionally, MIS holds three main events per year (one in June, one in July, and one in August). During race weekends we mainly drove around on golf-carts (we'd open them up and adjust the governor to make them go twice as fast as intended). Hell, sometimes between races, the maintenance crew would go down into the infield ('Cause we had full access except into the pit during a race), and race our suped-up carts around the inner track. Drunken red-necks cheered us on from atop campers. I won -- once. But I didn't feel on top of the world. When you're in the middle of the pit in the perigee of the August sun you never do.
Even as I sit here writing this, my mind drifts back to fading days. But I deviate.
Our biggest job during race weekends was to make sure the bathrooms fully stocked (and working properly), at all times. Some people say cleaning toilets is a humbling experience. I say, try cleaning stadium-arena bathrooms (at a NASCAR event), all day, all weekend, in hundred degree heat, and in a structure fashioned from concrete and cinder-blocks. Then, when people talk about how humbling it is to wipe someone's ass, you'll just smile and nod, and know the truth; that eventually, we all gotta root through shit to make porcelain shine white. Or, something like that.
It got hot out there; sultry and muggy. People do weird things when intoxicated and under high-heat conditions. Unnatural things. Things that needn't be divulged via world-wide public domain.
Sometimes it got so hot people just died; literally dropped like flies.
Season ticket holders to MIS and other affiliate events sometimes "bussed-it-in." Which meant, that you could take a NASCAR sponsored bus that shuttled you to every event, kinda like how Deadheads followed the Grateful Dead around during the early '80s.
This one time, a guy (let's call him Joe, 'cause I don't know his real name), suffered an aneurysm or something, I don't know I'm not a doctor, although I often pretend to be one in real life. Anyway, he was in the bathroom of this bus, collapsed in this rinky-dink bathroom; with his corpse blocking the folding door. If you've never been in a bus bathroom, it's much like the facilities on an airplane. If you've never been in one of those, imagine a porta-John, but slightly smaller; more confined. And if you've never been in any of those -- start living! Anyway, the paramedics had to come and cut the door off just to get Joe out of there.
The maintenance crew I was working that day just so happened to be stationed the closest to the scene. So, we were pulled off stocking toiletries to post guard. See, once everyone else got off the bus, the driver pulled into maintenance headquarters, aka, "base." We had fully stocked carts, but we'd run out of supplies and have to return to the base to get more. Well, base was closed off while the paramedics retrieved Joe's body. So the carts drove up to the back gate (guarded by me and a few others), and told us what they needed. I should make this clear, we weren't inside the gate. We were outside. We'd radio in what we needed and someone else brought the stuff out; rendering our guarding the gate completely futile. But, the boss wanted us there anyway.
I wondered what kind of shoes Joe might wear. Sneakers? Boots? Flip-flops? But, by the time the paramedics carted him out, Joe had already been covered with one of those white, medical-sheets.
Now, I actually told you that story to tell you this story: The following month, at the final (August) race, I noticed something odd while restocking the bathroom. It was the middle of the day, and during the middle of a race, and on (what felt like), the hottest day of summer. We couldn't wait until the end of the day to re-supply toiletries, because soap, towels, and other sundries would run out. Each crew had a designated area with four to five bathrooms in their section. Each bathroom had to be checked and restocked every couple of hours or so. We didn't clean until the end of the day. Which somehow made it worse. We checked vacant stalls to make sure they weren't out of toilet paper. But, sometimes a stall would be empty even if the door closed. It's poor bathroom etiquette (for a janitor), to knock on a stall to find out if it's occupied. The best way to check was to just glance underneath the stall and look for feet. This could also be accomplished by glancing into a mirror at just the right angle (but only if there weren't a slew of people around the sink-area). I was in the very same bathroom I was a month prior when we got the call to return to base and guard the gate. In the very last stall were a pair of red sneakers with white trim. Fairly new. Slightly scuffed. Not just shoes. But feet, as well. You might be wondering how, over the years and over all the different pairs of shoes I've seen, how I could recollect this particular pair of footwear with perfect detail. It's because, every couple of hours, when I returned to that particular bathroom, and I glanced underneath that particular stall, I saw those same red Nikes with white trim. Slightly new. Fairly scuffed. I remember thinking, I hope they don't run out of tp in there. Hour after hour, the same thing. Those sneakers just where I'd seen them last, as if they a landmark of that specific facility. The previous race's events still fresh in my mind, I worried that the owner of those red Nikes might have kicked the proverbial bucket while taking their last ride upon the porcelain throne. But, for some reason, I didn't tell anyone about it. To this day, I don't know why. Was I scared? If so, what was I afraid of? That there would be a bloated corpse? Or maybe by the time I actually relayed my suspicions to someone, those sneakers would be gone, and I would be the victim of taunting and ridicule. People would think I was a nervous Purvis after what happened during last month's race. Whatever the reason, I decided to wait until the end of the day. When it came, I remember standing there, in front of the stall. Just standing there. Someone asked me what I was doing. I don't recall my response. I remember being filled with uneasy anticipation, until the point where I was nearly swaying back and forth. I swallowed the acrid tingle rising in the back of my throat and glanced underneath the stall. Nothing. Absolutely nothing. No slightly scuffed red Nikes. No feet inside. Nothing. Still, I cautious of opening the stall door, but I did.
To this day, I don't know what happened. Was someone really in there all day? Why? Had they fallen asleep (or, more to the point, passed out)? Was it a ghost? Were they the shoes of a dead man? A trick of the mind? I don't know. Perhaps I never will.
Yes, it's true you can tell a lot about a person from their shoes. And I've met a lot of people and examined cornucopias amounts of footwear, most of which, I've long since forgotten. But those sneakers, those red Nikes with white trim; fairly new, slightly scuffed, I will never forget.
J.S.F
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