30. Current Events

If this isn’t the country you know, what country did you know? What did it look like to you last week, last month, last year, your whole life?

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I grew up in Northern Indiana in a town of something like 50,000 people. Perhaps five miles south of the house I grew up in was an even tinier community called Osceola. I have no memory of a time before I associated the name of that community with outright racism, and the Ku Klux Klan in particular. There, as late as 2001, when I was still in high school, a local Grand Dragon was making headlines and neighbors uneasy for hosting nightly symposiums where he and “sympathizers” would gather to “shoot guns, play games, and burn crosses.” We’ve always said that Indiana is the south of the north, and it’s true: less than 100 miles east of Chicago, the third largest city in the nation, the KKK flourishes. This is a knowledge I grew up with, one that prevented me from ever separating the images of white men assembling in sheets and hoods I saw in history books or the sound of Billie Holiday’s voice as she sang Black bodies swinging in the southern breeze from my present existence. The knowledge kept me, as a child, from an ability to watch Mississippi Burning or American History X without suffering night terrors and fueled a scholarly interest that bordered on obsession in slavery, the Jim Crow era, and the Civil Rights Movement. How does anyone interpret American history as anything other than an indictment, for the record, against whiteness? It is a fact that as a child I had frequent, Roots-based nightmares about slavery. That I hung a poster of Martin Luther King, Jr., over my bed, a totem to ward off white devils.

In junior high a boy in my class told me he would never have sex with a black girl or even want to see one naked. This was the same year that Shawn Berry, Lawrence Brewer, and John King kidnapped James Byrd, Jr., and beat him before chaining him to the back of their pick-up truck and dragging him for two miles to his death.

The notion that there could ever be “two sides” to a story involving white supremacist IS a racist notion. The President has basically said, “Whoa, let’s slow down, maybe they have a point.”

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Yet David Benioff and D.B. Weiss still want to make a prestige drama about the drama unfolding in our streets. I’m sorry, I mean they want to make a prestige drama that speculates, What if the slavery were still a thing?

At work not long ago I said that black men were out here getting shot simply for driving cars and a white girl who was mad about her diet said, “Oh, only for driving cars?” In a similar vein, a few days later, a different white girl put her forearm against mine and declared herself darker than me. Virtually every day someone accuses me of being sassy.

Over the weekend, a group of white supremacists, neo-Nazis, and Confederate traitors to the Union — not all of them bad people, according to the President — gathered in Charlottesville, Virginia, to protest, apparently, that Jews and black people and people of color exist. One of them ran down a crowd of counter-protesters with his car, killing Heather Heyer. This week on Facebook there are actual people defending all this as a matter of free speech.

Sometimes I think there is no such thing as history, only current events.

29. Selfie #7

This is my favorite song right now:

 

JANAE: Why’s it called Drew Barrymore?

ME: Beats me, except she makes a cameo near the end of the video.

Listen, you know I love me a messy girl with big hair and and even bigger voice. If this were 2002 and I saw SZA’s debut album (there’s also an EP from last year) amongst the new releases at the FYE that used to be at the University Park Mall in Mishawaka, Indiana, I’d have bought just simply for the cover art. I’m totally here for streaming music services like Spotify and Apple Music (I subscribe to both, because I like to throw my money way) because it’s super fucking convenient to just have the complete discography of Mariah Carey always at my immediate disposal, and really, the $23 or whatever it is those two subscriptions cost me per month is pocket change compared to the hundreds of dollars I used to spend on compact discs each month. Still, some of my favorite albums of all time are ones I discovered by accident, purchased on a whim because I happened to see the CD on a rack at some record store and responded in some way to the cover. But I haven’t bought a CD in a years.

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As it happens, I first heard SZA on Rihanna’s Consideration, the opener of her 2016 album Anti. The song, co-written by and featuring SZA, has all the spunk, sass, and cunning lyricism she pushes to even more gratifying extremes on CTRL. Most easily classified within that burgeoning sub-genre of music known as “alt-R&B” (which I think means R&B that ostensibly “hip” white kids have decided is cool, re: Frank Ocean, The Weeknd), CTRL in fact resists labels and categorizations without quite eschewing them completely. There are, certainly, heavy elements of R&B throughout; inspirations from hip-hop are also prevalent, and there are strong whiffs of soul jazz, indie rock, and mass-appeal, radio-friendly contemporary pop. (A girl I know who has absolutely zero taste in anything, hearing Love Galore for the first time, pronounced it, “A really good song.” She’s not wrong — it’s a slick, sexy jam that contains some of the album’s baddest and most innovative lyrics, but it’s minimalist production is firmly rooted in the now.) It’s this perfect (if unruly) combination of influences that make CTRL such a pleasure. It’s specific and unique, happy to suggest all sorts of identification yet refusing to pick just one.

On the album’s inaugural track, Supermodel, SZA sings over a grungy electric guitar about, according to the Genius-powered “Behind The Lyrics” function on Spotify, “an ex-boyfriend who did her wrong.” Her vocal delivery here (and elsewhere on the album) evokes songstresses like Amy Winehouse or Macy Gray with hints of Lauryn Hill and Nicki Minaj. “I could be your supermodel if you believe,” SZA sings on the hook, “If you see it in me, see it in me, see it in me.” Its poignant, somber sentiment is juxtaposed against the graphic aggression of the verse, in which she declares, “I’ve been secretly banging your homeboy” and taunts her estranged lover with, “How am I so easy to forget like that/It can be that easy for you to get like that.” Here and elsewhere on CTRL, SZA reveals herself straddling the delicate balance between the fast-talking, smart-mouthed bad chick who’s down for revenge sex and sharing dudes on “The Weekend,” and the one whose loneliness might push to put up with the bullshit. The way SZA fuses these apparent contradictions together with such grace, cohesion, whimsy, and cool, reveals a creative mind as messy and exciting as the album itself, and I’m here for it.

What these tensions apparent contradictions reveal is the mutifaceted nature of a personality, the textured quality of existence. SZA knows herself; she’s in her own head, rhyming about the Netflix series Narcos –her penchant, as she sings on “—” for “dirty boys,”

28. An undated entry from a journal I kept in August and September of last year

At lunch on Tuesday S and I were talking about blow jobs. S said he liked to get them and while he didn’t hate to give them, he said he wasn’t exactly crazy about it. I said I was exactly crazy about giving them. We were at LePeep. It was mostly elderly people and the people who look after them, only not-quite elderly themselves, so we were trying to keep out voices down. There was a table nearby full of men in business suits and expensive watches–S said they all had a very “Republican vibe.” Or maybe it was, “conservative vibe.” In any case, we’d smoked a joint at my apartment, S and I, before walking down to LePeep, and we were feeling pretty high by the time we got there, and S hardly ever smokes so he kept laughing and speaking more loudly than necessary. One of the conservative-looking men–the only black guy–turned in his seat several times to look at us.

27. Short essay on eating out

I do not enjoy eating in restaurants because I work in one and I cannot bear to participate in putting someone else through it.

When I do eat out, I tip extravagantly. I’m the friend who checks your credit card receipt and has zero qualms about calling you out for leaving less than twenty percent or who just leaves an extra five or ten dollars on the table just in case. I always try to tip in cash because I know anything left on a credit card is going to get reported and split three or four ways between three or four other staff members who also aren’t getting any practical hourly wage.

When I’m working and people tell me I gave them excellent service it means nothing to me. All it means is that I fulfilled whatever haphazard, half-conceived idea they had about what their dining experience should be, which usually means modifying dishes until they are practically unrecognizable from a dinner they’d have made for themselves at home, only consumed in a setting where for an hour and half they get to confuse themselves for royalty and their servers for servants, apathetic to the messes they leave for others to clean up. The rest of what most people expect when they go out to eat they make up along the way, only deciding that the price of their meal entitles them to something at the point that they realize they don’t have it. And often it is that one intangible, formerly unneeded thing down to which comes the server’s entire night. So you enjoyed yourself. Good. So you were well-served. I’m glad for you. Can I go home now?

26. Some lame things that have already happened to me today and it’s only ten am.

The Ancestors were speaking to me this morning, and they were saying, “Stay yo ass in bed, child.”

Mornings have always been a personal struggle. For most of my life I was not a morning person. All through high school I struggled to get out of bed each morning, sleepily groping for the snooze button on my ringing alarm clock a dozen times before finally summoning enough will-power to peel myself from my mattress and feel my blindly in the morning light into the kitchen, where I’d drink coffee straight from the spout. I was the kid stumbling into homeroom several minutes after the final bell had rung, grasping a to-go coffee and rubbing sleep out of his eyes. In college, naturally, I arranged my schedule so that none of my classes were before noon–telling myself, of course, that a later start to my day meant a few hours’ buffer in the mornings that would be perfect for finishing up any homework I’d inevitably neglected to tackle in a timely manner, but knowing damn well it was because even though I was a Serious Student and Committed To My Education, I didn’t want it interfering with my habit of staying up late watching Mean Girls (ON FUCKING DVD) or reading fourfour.typepad.com and chatting about it online with my friend Charlé from the comfort of our separate dorm rooms. After college I waited tables for a while, and that was perfect because the earliest I ever had to go in was usually eleven o’clock. Then I fucked up and got a job in a public library about forty minutes from my apartment, which meant I had to get up at about six am to get there by 8:30, which rarely happened. I got “talked to” weekly about my “truancy,” and that early call time definitely factored into my decision to leave the library after a few years.

Now that I’m older, I don’t mind getting up early (meaning early for me, which is like nine or nine-thirty), but I still don’t like to go anywhere. I’m back to waiting tables now, which is a job I’m technically super proficient at but which doesn’t suit my personality (or my interests) at all EXCEPT in the since that my shift never starts until 4 pm. That’s one of the approximately four things there are to like about my job, ranking just below “cash in hand” and “shifts that last an average of five hours” but just above “atmosphere among staff of sexual fluidity.” (By “atmosphere of sexual fluidity” I of course mean that there are two ostensibly straight male servers with whom it is fun to trade sexually suggestive barbs as they fondle my rump in the server station.)

Anyway, I’ve worked out a schedule over the past couple of years. Each night I pass out drunk go to bed anywhere between midnight and two am, usually falling asleep to the sound of a VHS tape whirring and squeaking in the player, practically drowning out the on-screen action because these things are fucking antiques, bruh. Who needs a Better Image sleep machine when you’ve got a TV/VCR combo from 1993 groaning rhythmically at the foot of your bed? I keep the alarm clock on my iPhone set to three times: 8, 8:30, and 9 am. I’m still a big fan of riding that snooze button like its a surfboard and I’m Kate Bosworth in Blue Crush (underrated, btw), but I’m still kind of an idiot where my phone is concerned so I’m always hitting the “stop” button instead of the “snooze” button, and setting it to go off at three different times helps with that. By 9:30 I’m usually up and tripping over my cat Bobby Brown while I pull on whatever clothes are crumbled on the floor closest to me and either stumble toward the kitchen to make coffee or stumble out of my apartment, grabbing the biggest, most-light-blocking pair of sunglasses I own, and heading down to Chicory Café to get my coffee to-go. “Grande coffee to go, please, dark roast,” is about all the conversation I can manage first thing in the morning; then I return to my apartment where I like to browse the Internet while watching the Today show until 11 o’clock or so, when I usually try to get to work on something.

Anyway THE POINT IS today did not go quite like that. Or it did, but with disruptions–which is sometimes worse than if things just go wrong altogether. I’m not someone who is in interested in the semblance of normalcy; I want normalcy. I want my schedule the way I like it and I don’t want to deviate from it in the slightest.

some lame things that have already happened to me today

  1. Well, my cunning system with the alarm clock didn’t matter one fucking iota today because they’ve been paving the street I live on, which means that each morning bright and early they’re out there with their jackhammers and their street cleaners making all sorts of ungodly noise, and I’m a poor person who doesn’t have central air and the window unit is in the living room which means I have to keep my bedroom window open WHICH MEANS there’s absolute no buffer between me and the cacophonous noises down on the street. Noises that are keeping your from your allotted amount of beauty sleep that you can’t control because no way you’re going down there in your short shorts and kimono and head wrap and morning breath and yelling at a bunch of construction workers who would probably laughingly drown you in cement if you did, are really the worst, and one of the worst ways to wake-up. (The worst way to wake up is probably to a rapid pounding on your door and an unfriendly voice shouting “POLICE! OPEN UP!” which happened to me last week, in connection with the street resurfacing and my Scion XA that was still parked on it.)
  2. Now, there were no signs when I got home last night saying anything about not parking on the street, as there had been the past few days, so when I realized what that infernal racket waking me up was, I flew into a panic, certain I’d rush downstairs only to find that my car had been towed. Yes, panic: I could feel it pooling in my gut like hot acid, because look ya’ll, I AIN’T GOT NO MONEY TO BE GETTING SHIT OUT OF IMPOUND. Plus I’m not sure I’d even know how to go about doing that if I did have money. So obviously, I’m freaking the fuck out because even though I don’t really like driving or care about cars, I got places to go and South Bend is neither pedestrian friendly nor does it have adequate public transportation. All of the many places I absolutely have to go that aren’t within walking distance–therapeutic trips to Target to spend money I don’t have on things I don’t need, for instance, or to my weed dealer’s house–flashed through my mind as sprang out of bed and threw on some clothes.
  3. I’m sort of frantic and half-cognizant in the mornings anyway, barely functioning, but considering how dire the situation was, I was extra-clumsy, and I stubbed my toe (HARD) on a 12 lb hand weight I don’t even know why I have because I’m definitely not into fitness. (Impulse purchases are myjam.net). THE UNIVERSE: 2, ME: 0.
  4. After cursing the idiot who left that fucking weight right in the middle of my walking space (me) and grumbling to Bob about how fucking rude and inconsiderate it is of the city to commence this work at such an unreasonable hour, I hurried downstairs. Thankfully, my car was where I’d left it in the night before, and I got it in and drove the few blocks to Chicory for a cup of coffee. I was glad that there was no line of faux-happy “professional types” in their business casuals not bothering to look up from their emails to order their double no foam lattes with skim milk or whatever shit they drink, but whatever blessings I thought the universe was sending my way were quickly subsumed when I saw that the barista on duty was the one I’m certain hates me, probably because I never tip more than the change from the three dollars I give her for my $2.64 coffee. When she informed me that “We’re out of dark roast right now. Do you want to wait or is medium okay?” I knew the world was out to get me. Medium was most definitely not okay but I told her it was because the only thing I hate less than coffee that isn’t a nice, robust dark roast that gives the shakes after three sips is waiting around for anything. I begrudgingly accepted it, slightly suspicious that home girl was lying to me.
  5. Back at my apartment, sipping the sub-par coffee while my friends Al Roker, Dylan Dryer, and Jenna Bush rattled on about some new app that helps you hook up with people who are dopplegangers of your favorite celebrity crush, I navigated to newyorker.com because I’m an intellectual, only to discover, after clicking on the latest by Jia Tolentino, that I’d met my number of complementary articles for the month. Say what? But I have a subcription! (Sort of.) WHAT IN GAY HELL, I muttered, checking to make sure I hadn’t logged-out by recently purging my browser history after sifting through all the porn to find that piece I read in The Believer last week made me feel like a pervert. I hadn’t. The option to purchase a subscription or link my current one only confirmed that the day I’d been fearfully awaiting had arrived: the library I used to work at had figured out that during my tenure there I’d been using the online benefits of their subscription to the magazine. Needless to say, they cancelled that shit. I attempted to get around the paywall by opening the page in an incognito browser, but I didn’t have any luck. (Which is really weird because usually that works, right?) I sat sadly at my computer, wondering what Jia had to say about From The Mixed Up Files of Mrs. Basil E. Frankweiler and why–WHY–life is so endlessly awful.

I should probably just cut my losses, play it safe, and go back to bed.

Here’s a picture of Bobby Brown lookin’ all dandy in an ascot:

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25. Selfie #6

The worst thing about summer is that everybody wants to do “outside things.” Seriously. Summertime is all about entertaining Caucasian nonsense like requests to spend the day “at the Dunes” ( 😦 ) and having dinner with people who think it’s fun to dine al fresco. It’s not. Whenever I eat outside I’m too distracted by protecting my meal from the requisite Old Testament-style swarm of flies/wishing I’d brought my sunglasses with me/hoping I put on enough deodorant to enjoy myself, and I can’t think of a worse way to spend a ninety-five-degree afternoon than scalding my feet on a hot beach and trudging up some giant mountain of sand. Just the other day, a friend included me in a group text attempting to set up a date to go rafting on the river here. Her heart was in the right place–I’d have bitched for weeks if I’d discovered they’d all gone river-rafting without me, even though it’s not something I would ever actually do–but seriously, rafting? On a river? Like who am I, fucking Meryl Streep? No thank you. Please delete my number. I’m perfectly happy sitting inside where there is air conditioning and all the marijuana and HGTV a depressive, antisocial, habitually non-joining single gal could want.

SOME OUTDOOR ACTIVITIES I FIND ACCEPTABLE:

  • Walking six blocks to the library
  • Walking three and a half blocks to the nearest liquor store that also has my brand of smokes (Parliament Lights)
  • Smoking a cigarette anywhere smoking indoors is not allowed (everywhere)
  • Browsing clearance racks at Shoe Carnival when they put them outside
  • Garage sales

Is seasonal affective disorder even a thing in summer? Somebody help because I’m too lazy to Google it and also I have to avoid at all costs any situation that might result in me going down a WebMD rabbit hole and inevitably diagnosing myself with at least fourteen fatal diseases. (It’s a thing.) I’ve been more depressed than usual these past few months and really wishing hard that I had some fucking health insurance so I could get back into therapy but also so I could do perfectly normal-people things like go to the dentist or have my fucking eyes checked–but thinking like that only makes me more depressed because here I am wishing for the regular things in life. It’s depressimg to sit around thinking grown up things like, Wow, I really wish I had health insurance so I could go to a doctor, which I haven’t done in about a decade, or, Damn, if I could make even 40k a year I would be SET. I used to have big dreams. Now all I dream about is dreaming on an actual mattress and not this foam pad bullshit I got from IKEA eight years ago, futilely topped with three mattress pads.

Last night, for example: I was reading in that bed/watching Chelsea and I paused to take an inventory of the furniture in my budoir: a small white bookshelf I got from Salvation Army a few years ago which houses my oddly-robust VHS collection; a weirdly-designed end table I can barely describe that a former roommate “gave” to me when she moved that has actually has part of it broken off because I dropped a mirror on it not too long ago (don’t ask); on that desk, my TV/VCR combo thing from probably 1992; an end-table with a magazine rack on the bottom that I got from Goodwill; and my bed, which is full-size and depressing. Suddenly, I hated all if it.  It’s all junk, I thought. I said it out loud: “Junk. Just a bunch of junk.” It’s not the bedroom of a thirty-two year old man with a college degree; it’s the bedroom of some transient hipster who is prepared to leave it at any second.

Anyway, that got me thinking about this guy I dated for a hot second last year. He was about my age but he lived in a house that  he owned, where he had all sorts of grown-up things like a home-security system, a sectional sofa, and basset hound named after an early-season Project Runway contestant. In his bedroom, he had what I call “an actual bed”–the kind that require, for instance, a box spring and not the sad slats of wood spanning the width of my bed own bed frame. He had dozens of pillows and sheets that felt like caramel on my skin. He had real furniture that nobody else had ever owned but him and a hot tea selection that rivaled those of many restaurants I’ve worked in. The first time I ever went over to his place, he showed off by giving me a full tour, and I didn’t blame him, considering his tour included two “guest baths” and one guest-bedroom, a study with an antique executive-style desk and one of those kitschy green and gold lamps, and something he referred to as an “eat-in kitchen” where French doors led out onto a fabulous patio with a hot tub. I couldn’t help but imagine giving him a tour of my tiny one-bedroom apartment: here’s the living room/my office/place where I keep my books/room where the window-unit air conditioner is; here’s the bedroom/place where my clothes are strewn everywhere because I don’t even have a fucking dresser, I’m that much of a child (actually, that’s unfair to children, because when I was a child, guess what? I had a fucking dresser); through this door here that everybody thinks is a closet because it’s in the God damn living room is the master bath, which doubles as the guest bathroom, isn’t that fun?! I wouldn’t even bother to show him the kitchen, it’s so pitiful. It was clear right away, standing on his gleaming, “original, but I had it restored” hardwood floors in his actual dining room where the table was set in a way that suggested six other people would be joining us even though no one was, he just always keeps it set like that, that I would have shut this shit down, and pronto. I mean, my God: I got my couch for free after the old woman who owned it died, which she probably did on the couch itself, the disgusting the stains I can’t even bear to think about only confirming that when you die, you soil yourself.

I tried to put a noble spin on it, of course. Here was a man who had his shit together, who actually owned things of value, who went on actual vacations, whereas the most valuable thing I own had been my Macbook Pro until I decided to spill an entire cup of coffee on it last December, and the last vacation I took was three years ago and I just went and stayed at my friend’s place in Chicago for a week, smoking weed out of her Pax and spending too many problematic dollars at H&M (I know, I know). He deserved someone on his level, I said, by which I meant, someone in his tax bracket. I could only bring him down. I think I was convincing, and we quickly stopped seeing each other.

 A FEW WAYS IN WHICH I AM NOT A GROWN-UP:

  • Three of my favorite TV shows of the past few years are Scream on MTV, Supergirl on the WB, and Wilderness Vet on NBC
  • I don’t have a dresser
  • My refrigerator is completely empty except for: a bottle of mustard; a probably-expired jar of mayonnaise; a probably-rotten bottle of something called The Skinny Wine Thin Zin, Flavor That Flatters that somebody left here whenever I was last in the grips of a manic episode and invited someone over that I would never drink yet haven’t thrown out; a container of Parmesan cheese
  • The freezer is even worse: a bag of ice that’s been in there since last summer; four empty outshine Popsicle boxes; an unopened tub of cool whip I’ll probably remember is in there randomly one night in the near future while I’m watching The Net on VHS and eat all of it; an empty ice tray; a frozen pizza I bought several months ago before I realized that my oven had stopped working, a situation I haven’t yet resolved with my landlord because my kitchen has been FILTHY and I’m too embarrassed to let anyone see it but too much of a mess to clean it; a plastic grocery bag, contents unknown
  • I will never have what is called “an organized closet”
  • My bank account is regularly over-drawn
  • I am secretly 100% okay with eating fast-food multiple times a week
  • I smoke in bed
SOME RECEIPTS:

 

24. Incidentals–7/10/17

Often I find myself pining for the good, old, carefree days of my 1990s childhood, when Will Smith seemed a trifle more down to earth and you could smoke in restaurants. I miss those days, both as an erstwhile fan of the Fresh Prince and as someone who works in a restaurant and hates himself just enough to enjoy a nice Parliament every ten minutes or so now and again. I’m old enough that I can remember when going out to eat meant deciding whether you wanted to wait forty minutes for a table in the non-smoking section, where families dined peaceably and breathed clean, invisible air, or be seated immediately in the smoking section, where the patrons hacked bits of lung and trachea goo into their chicken Parmesans and dates were obscured across tabletops by the gray skrim of expunged smoke hanging between them. Even when I was too young to be a smoker myself, I thrilled whenever I dined out with a relative who smoked, or whenever my parents were willing to risk shortening their children’s lives in exchange for shortening their wait time. I loved the smoking section. The second-hand smoke bothered my eyes and dried out my nasal passages and left me blowing slime-yellow snot into tissues for hours after leaving, but I’m sucker: I totally bought into all those ads glamorizing cigarettes (back when there was such a thing as cigarette ads), showing impossibly cool camels shooting pool in Ray-Bans and backward baseball caps, too dapper for words in a tuxedo and black tie. I’d look at those ads, glossy in the pages of my mother’s fashion magazines, enraptured by the glamour they promised, and I guess I’d think to myself something along the lines of I wanna be that camel? Who knows. I also had phase in high school where I collected pictures of writers I admired smoking cigarettes (by “collected” I mean that I searched for these images online and printed them out behind my boss’s back at my after-school job at the local library), which probably didn’t help matters–or did help, I guess, depending on your feelings about things like heart disease and lung cancer.

The point is: I loved the smoking section. I loved the grim faces everyone had on (smokers always look grim; it’s not because they’re cranky, it’s because smoking is repulsive and you can’t help but make a repulsed face when you do it, that’s just facts). I loved the people who didn’t bother to put out their cigarettes if their food happened to arrived at an inopportune time, who were talented enough to smoke and eat simultaneously. I loved the old women with their mile-long 120’s who were still enough (because they were dying, I know realize) to keep the caterpillar of ash growing at the end of it from falling to dust on the table top. I loved the atmosphere: dirty, stinky, and with just a hint of macular degeneration. And even though it’s *heavy sigh* probably for the best that the prohibition against cigarettes is in full swing pretty much any where a queer boy of color could go without getting lynched or gang raped by six guys in an ’97 Ford-150, four of whom are named Jeremy, there comes a moment (or nine) during every shift I work where I find myself wishing there were clouds of smoke for me to walk through just so I don’t kill the woman at table twenty-one who is apparently going to die anyway if I don’t get there quickly with her fourth iced tea (with extra lemon!).