“The vampire is going to bite me?”
Greg paused for dramatic effect, and also to think up his next line of BS.
“No, Tommy, the vampire will not bite you; I see that clearly.”
“Really?”
“Yes, Tommy, and not because he’s a sissy–he is indeed not a sissy–but because you are a hero.”
“I’m a hero?”
“You are a bona fide, certified, classified hero, and the vampire will be afraid of you. Gruptach the Wagner will be downright, out-a-sight afraid of you.”
“Then…how will there be a bulldozer accident in my future?”
“The bulldozer, Tommy, is not afraid of you. The vampire, though too frightened to bite you, will have no regret sending his devious devices your way, stopping at nothing to bowl you over–to flatten you, making you easily devoured by his bloodsucking fangs. But I see you acting swiftly, Tommy. The hero won’t allow that bulldozer to touch you.
“The accident, Tommy, will be the bulldozer falling into a ravine, into which it will attempt to knock you over. In your swift action you will dodge the ten-mile-an-hour bulldozer, just as it plummets over the edge. And in your triumph, Tommy, you will see the explosion wipe away all obstacles that threaten your dream–your destiny of crossing paths with the beautiful woman.”
“Wow, are you sure?”
“Of course I’m sure, Tommy! I am a Psychic Friend. I know the future of your path to the future. You cannot begin to underestimate my ability to convince you of these ironclad predictions. What I’ve told you today, I stand by in the vicinity of one hundred percent, with a hundred percent probability of definitive possibility.”
Tommy lapsed in temporary silence, then quickly piped up with an anxious breath.
“So what must I do to prepare for this vampire attack?”
“You must eat three cloves of garlic a day, then attempt to kiss a beautiful stranger. This, Tommy, will also be the gateway into ushering your dream into reality–the dream to discover and stand close to the beautiful woman I have predicted. When you lean in to kiss her, that is the moment she will notice you.”
“Wow, okay, Psychic Friend. I can do this.”
“Of course you can, Tommy, as I have already seen it. Now go, you have a beautiful maiden to lay eyes upon.”
“Thank you, Psychic Friend.”
“No, thank you, Tommy. Thank you for being a hero. Now will you be paying with Visa, MasterCard, or American Express?”
A few days later, the supervisor summoned him to his office to discuss a call involving a vampire and a bulldozer. Although Greg had steered the phone conversation in an absurd direction to make things interesting–and why wouldn’t he? His customers were idiots–the supervisor (and lead psychic) didn’t find it so amusing when the caller named Tommy complained about a severe injury he had incurred while crossing a demolished sidewalk.
“He said you told him he wouldn’t get hurt by a bulldozer,” said the supervisor. He had a twitch in his eyes and a frown on his face. “And yet, somehow he did anyway. Care to explain?”
Greg was dumbfounded. Never in a moment had he thought there would be a bulldozer in Tommy’s future.
“I was just…”
“Mr. Agnew wants to sue us for fraud. He stated, with conviction, that his psychic advisor informed him, with absolution, that he would dodge an oncoming bulldozer. I’m sure you can imagine his surprise when he, in fact, did not dodge the oncoming bulldozer.”
At first Greg wanted to laugh at the man’s ridiculous misfortune, but instead felt angry over this seemingly odd coincidence.
“It was just a joke, Mr. Freedman. Who really takes this stuff seriously?”
“Well, evidently, Mr. Agnew takes this stuff seriously. And also, evidently, so do I.”
And the rest of the story segued into to a speech about ethics, emotional abuse, and the fact that the Psychic Friends had no room for practical jokers, so Greg had once again found himself trudging through the unemployment line.
Part 3: Like Most Kids
In a normal world Greg wouldn’t have minded that the job market was infertile. He grew up in a simple home with three kids and two parents sharing the limited commodities that included two bedrooms, one bath, a small living room with a single sofa and beanbag chair, and a kitchen the size of a closet. And though he had endured cramped living conditions in his youth, he didn’t let it bother him. Carrying riches around was a dream he didn’t know he was supposed to have.
But then came public school and with it the conversations of other lives beyond his manufactured, as his father had once called it, front door. He listened to his blond-haired, blue-eyed classmates brag about having their own rooms–big rooms with lots of toys–and TV rooms attached to living rooms, with living rooms attached to dining rooms. But he had never seen these fabled establishments in person, so he didn’t know how to become jealous of his friends, an emotion that, he had learned in the third grade, was required for growing up. Even though he had tried to imagine life with spacious luxury, he just couldn’t grasp the concept. Everything seemed okay as it was: two siblings snoring away at bedtime, people yelling through closed bathroom doors that it was their turn to shower, shared family meals around the tiny living room, and watching an old wood-frame television that sat on the floor and had tuner knobs for channel adjustment. That was the life Greg had understood in his early years, and to his assumption, the life he thought he would always accept.
The problem, however, was that, as he got older, educators made bigger deals about college, and Greg realized halfway through high school that he would have to conquer the university realm, and more importantly, the realm of finance, if he were to survive the future. School further taught him that if he were to remain happy in life, he had to provide an environment that he and his future family could use to make friends and enemies jealous. That meant bigger pursuits for bigger paychecks, and bigger homes for bigger egos. Whatever his parents did to scrape a living from, it was obsolete.
Ultimately, this new way of thinking had brought him before the gates of college, ready to break the competition in half. But he had no idea what to compare himself to. He figured his first step was to make more money than his parents ever had because they had never made enough to fill a penny jar. But he wasn’t sure how much more he had to pursue. Plucking through his memories, he realized he had to make at least as much as his classmates’ parents had made. But to win the competition against them, he had to surpass their income. That left him with the question of how.
The third and final problem to his fortune-seeking dilemma was that, as he grew up, he’d heard that girls only liked guys with money. Sure, there was a time when this information had no meaning to his life. But life had a way of throwing curveballs into his comfortable realm of interests. During his early years in junior high he had made the startling discovery that, despite his ironclad beliefs that spoke to the contrary, he actually liked girls. It was a strange realization to wake to one morning, considering he had just gotten through defending his point about how yucky they were a few weeks earlier. But there it was haunting him–laughing at him. And, as his hormones grew and the years to follow whispered advice in his ears, he came to realize that to win the heart of any great beauty, he had to strike it rich because the pretty ones wanted only rich guys, according to what he had heard.
So, having these problems compounded during the start of eleventh grade, he realized he had to do something quickly to enter college. From there he also had to think of a plan to rake in the cash so he could live happily within the will of society, not miserably, like he was sure his parents had lived.
After he had chosen a campus to attend, he plowed into his first and greatest obstacle–to figure out how to pay for it. He didn’t have enough money to get him through the first four years, nor did his parents have it, so he had to scour the Internet for options. His teachers told him multiple times about scholarships and federal grants, but for some reason he c
ouldn’t get any. There were a couple of scholarships he applied for, but fell short of winning because other people in his class had found ways to outsmart him. He also considered grants and loans, deciding later that the road to riches would’ve looked bad had he gotten there through pity. So, after much deliberation, he decided to work for it.
But, there was the problem that his jobs never worked out, so he barely scraped enough money for his entrance fees. How he’d manage to stay enrolled, he didn’t know, but he was determined to strike it rich, so he endured economic trials as much as he needed to get to his place of desire.
Of course, he had hoped that burning desire and the drive to win was enough to get him there. Many nights he’d fall asleep, telling himself that it was enough. But, even as he repeated mantras of success in his head, he knew what he really needed to become rich and pay for all of his classes without batting an eye was a lot more money. If he had that, he wouldn’t need to keep lying to himself about all of those other wishful things.
Part 4: Traffic Ticket
When his position at the Psychic Friends Hotline came to an end, Greg decided to change gears and head for something less unconventional and more competitive. His first inclination was to apply at a local fast-food joint, but rationalized that fighting for cashier or line cook status wasn’t that spectacular of an endeavor and neither would the final result be profitable. So he resolved to look for work at the city football stadium where he’d apply to become a janitor.
At first he thought it was a smart decision–for a total of two minutes. Then he remembered that his father had made a living doing exactly the same thing. So he U-turned in the middle of the street in protest of his momentary lapse of reason. It was a risky move for his clunky 1986 station wagon, but his wheels held on to their axles, and he breathed a sigh of relief when he straightened out and realized that he was still alive and upright. However, his illegal maneuver went noticed by law enforcement, and the blue and red lights flashed in the rear view mirror just a few seconds later.
If Greg were running any sort of lucky streak, this sure wasn’t that time. As the squad car pulled him over, he clamored in his mind for ways to get out of receiving a ticket, but wasn’t sure how thick his charm ran. He knew of people that had gracefully eluded tickets before, so he tried to recall their countless advice. Unfortunately, as the nerves in his stomach rose, and as the damage a ticket would’ve caused his financial pursuits took root in his thoughts, all his plans for a smooth exchange went blank. And, as the smug officer with a handlebar mustache strutted over to his window, Greg lost all sense of prediction about how the conversation would go, which, incidentally, started off badly:
$$$
The officer stood at the smudged window, gesturing him to lower it. A moment passed before Greg realized what the cranking of the man’s hand had meant. Nervously, he fidgeted for the rusty handle.
“Good afternoon,” said the slick looking police officer with toothpick dangling from his lip when the window slid halfway down. “May I see your license and registration?”
Greg nodded, but didn’t say anything. He was too preoccupied with the number of times sweat dropped from his forehead to realize he was poking around the wrong pocket. When he noticed how empty it felt, he frantically searched for his other pocket, which he managed to find by the slight weight on his leg. The cop noticed his sudden shift in behavior and sported a twitchy smile.
“Whoa, no need to be nervous. Just need to see the cards. It’s a simple request.”
“I’m not nervous,” Greg spat. “I just don’t want a ticket.”
Greg shoved his hand in the weighty pocket and found his wallet buried deep.
“Well, no, I didn’t think you did. Don’t know of many people who ever really want a ticket.”
Greg removed his wallet and fidgeted around the top before opening it. Once the interior opened its maw, he jabbed his thumb against his license and fumbled it from the center pocket. As it slid away from his credit cards, the license slipped out and tumbled wildly to the floor.
The license landed close to his feet, but was too far to reach while he was strapped in his seatbelt. He deliberated a moment whether to remove his harness while an officer of the law stood just inches away. But he resolved that there was no way he’d recover his information if he’d kept the seatbelt intact. As Greg clicked at the safety release button, letting the belt escape into a stationary position, the police officer tapped his ticket pad with his pen.
“Sir, are you fit to drive?” The officer’s head rolled on his neck.
“I’m fine, officer,” said Greg, pawing around the floor. “My license fell on the floor. That’s all.”
“Well, you seem to be exceptionally nervous. You sure you’re not trying to hide anything from me?”
Greg shot him a furtive look.
“Of course not. I just dropped my license.”
“Sir, you don’t need to develop an attitude with me. A simple ‘yes’ or ‘no’ will do.”
“I’m not…I’m not developing an attitude. Sorry.”
Greg finally made contact with his license and abruptly shot upward with it displayed prominently in hand. The officer lurched back at Greg’s sudden movement.
“Here it–”
But Greg’s grip failed as he returned to an upright position, and once again the license escaped his hand, this time flying out the window, nearly hitting the officer in the eye. The officer watched stone-faced as it flew past his neck and landed on the shoulder of the highway.
“Okay, now see if you can show me your registration without trying to take my head off.” The officer’s patience was wearing thin.
As the officer bent over to confiscate Greg’s flighty license from the street, Greg reached in his glove compartment to search for his registration card. It had been a while since he’d last seen it, and he could only assume it was at the bottom of the large stack of receipts and envelopes taking up most of the room. He stuffed his hands inside the papered mess, searching hastily through each section of trash, forgotten CD jackets, and even a copy of a Braveheart word search magazine, until he managed to find his target. Only, every sheet of paper he rummaged through seemed stuck to the next, which made locating the registration card a painful task.
After a minute or so of twiddling his thumbs, the officer cleared his throat. Greg felt the hairs stand on the back of his neck as the officer’s hot breath blew through the window. In his increasing nervousness Greg pulled out every piece of trash from the glove compartment and scattered it like a fan across his passenger seat–every article that wasn’t stuck to something else.
“I’m waiting,” said the officer.
“I’m looking,” said Greg, almost at a shout. “I haven’t had a chance to sort through this stuff yet.”
“Would you like me to help?”
At this point Greg was tempted to just drive off–to escape this police officer’s annoying reliance on sarcasm–but he remembered that doing so would’ve risked him more than a ticket, so he stomached the man’s yawn of a voice for just a little longer.
“I’ll find it,” he said. “It’s in here somewhere.”
And, after another minute of searching, Greg finally found it stuck to an old faded drugstore receipt that he had collected three years earlier.
“Here it is.”
Careful not to fling it at the cop, Greg clutched the card between his thumb and forefinger, passing it over to the now impatient officer. The officer took it and smiled.
“Now that wasn’t so difficult, was it?”
Before Greg could respond, or even think to respond, the officer strutted back to the patrol car with his driver information in hand. He noticed in the rear view mirror the officer speaking into the transmitter from over his shoulder. Unwilling to watch the man’s actions or expressions Greg shoved everything back in the glove compartment and slammed it closed. Then he refastened his seatbelt and waited. When the cop finally came back, he wore a smile
on his face.
“Sir, it appears that your registration expired two months ago. Do you have anything more recent in that…hellhole you call a glove compartment?”
Greg’s heart sank at this news. He knew there was something he had to do around his birthday but couldn’t remember what.
“No, officer. That’s what I have.”
The officer nodded and began scribbling stuff on his notepad as he spoke.
“Then I suggest you go and update your registration as soon as possible.”
A moment later the officer ceased writing and calmly tore a sheet of yellow paper off his notepad. He flung it at Greg.
“Now then,” he continued. “I’m citing you for the illegal U-turn I initially pulled you over for. That’s a dangerous place to be changing direction, so I can’t in fair conscience let you off with a warning. Secondly, I’m citing you for your expired registration because two months is way too long to be lazy about taking responsibility. Thirdly, I’m citing you for your uncouth attitude toward me. You have to understand that an officer of the law deserves respect, not rudeness. I hope that if you should ever face another of us again, you’ll have a better attitude. Fourthly, I’m not citing you for this, but in the future I’d suggest you calm down because I’m this close to searching your car for contraband. Frankly, I think both of us have better things to do than to wait for me to pick your junky car apart, so be calm next time. And with that, drive safe. If you can.”
Greg sat dumbfounded as he looked over his citations. The cost would undoubtedly sink him into the negative financial zone. As he sat there and marveled over his bad luck, the advice that a friend had told him long ago finally entered his mind. Her advice: always remain calm, polite, and have everything ready before the officer reaches the driver side door.
Part 5: eBay, or Desperate Measures
Greg stood before court to deal with his traffic citation the same day his rent was due. It was doubly painful because he still hadn’t found a job to replace his last one. He had searched high and low for someone to break him out of his financial funk, but none were looking for a guy with his qualifications. Some had given reasons. Most hadn’t. Of the ones who’d spoken, the managers had remained polite, the same way a doctor would remain polite when telling his patient that his cancer has spread throughout his body. They hadn’t necessarily thought he was useless; they just couldn’t afford to train him. Something about saving face while the economy was still tolerable. A few had also considered testing him, but they had been willing to offer him only minimum wage doing things that degraded him as a human being, like sign spinning. Even then they had humored him. They really hadn’t been interested in paying him to do anything. In the end, he was visibly unskilled in most applications, according to his job history, and no one had believed he was competent to prevent setting fire to their businesses. So Greg was forced to sweat his moment of financial fleeting as the judge banged the gavel and ordered him to pay the cashier. Of course, he asked for a job on the way out, but the judge offered him an odd glance instead.
Shell Out Page 2