7:00 in the Morning: A Crack Addict and Cold Rain

A couple of my closest friends think it's hilarious that I recently took a job cleaning condos around the city. I don't know, maybe they're right. I guess it is kind of funny--the thought of me as a maid. Perhaps it's not like enough of us middle (me) or upper-middle (not me) classers don't think of people that clean as some type of servants. So that's what I've been reduced to become in this doggy-dog piece of crap economy: a servant.

I can't lie: labels and status and status through labels do nothing for me; they really never have. So if me partaking in a min wage manual labor job makes me a servant, then I guess that's what I am. It must be what I am, despite my lofty aspirations of becoming a comfortably paid writer/educator and my expensive, extensive history with higher education and degrees. Jinnene the molly maid servant.

What I laugh at regarding this job, however, is not the irony involved in the labels. No, it's that I didn't foresee that it would be perfect fodder for my writing pursuits. I mean, the women I encounter as co-workers at the tiny cleaning company are the pricelessly unlikely types to cross my path if not for this job. But you really can't understand what I mean unless I tell you.

Wednesday, 7:16 or so in the morning. It's February 11th, and it's shitty as hell outside. Rainy and cold and dank and insipid, especially when you know the entire day will consist of lugging a cheap, cumbersome vacuum cleaner, mops, a huge duffel of cleaning supplies, and a bucket with even more supplies up and down a variety of twisty, pisser staircases, or down a variety of different streets, all the while, the whipping streams of rain biting into your face as you think: By joe, my friends were freakin' right--this is hilarious: I am a servant and my life officially sucks.

But before all of that, you meet up with Audra, your partner for the day (daily cleaning teams are comprised of two people). Audra is 1/2 mexican and 1/2 black. She is overweight and has a giant, silver pierced stud protruding from her lower lip. She wears glasses and has a warm smile. You have no problems with her, yet you wouldn't exactly ask her out for drinks. You're not soul mates or anything. After all, you and she speak in completely disparate languages: she employs a vernacular that consists of saying 'mines' for 'mine,' 'dat' for 'that,' and 'husband' for 'boyfriend,' but maybe the latter is a cultural thing. Either way, you are from opposite sides of the tracks, and you don't know what you'd care to share with her.

Unfortunately for you, as it's 7:16 in the morning and you've barely gotten through 1/4 of the hazelnut coffee in your stainless thermos, Audra disagrees. You see, even though you've only known her for a couple of days, she wants to bare her soul with you. She proceeds to tell you, once you've gotten into her car upon departing the company's office in Lakeview, about how she had a 'rough' night. Turns out her 'husband' has been addicted to crack for five years. She and he have been living together in a tiny, scrapped-up studio apartment on the south side. He's been lying to her about smoking crack, and she has (unknowingly) been driving him to the sights for his drug intake, thinking these sites were places where he would work and make money to help her pay the rent.

But not so. Instead, he would use the small sum of money that he did make selling newspapers on street corners to scrap for crack tablets; Audra even spotted these tablets, or 'white pills' as she called them, in an old cigarette box while she and he fought in the street yesterday. Their fight consisted of her suspicions of what he had in the cigarette box, knowing it was crack and asking him to show her, he denying that the crack tabs were in the box, saying it was only cigarettes, and to keep out of his shit. Only after she wrestled with him, she took possession of the box, shook the box, and out into her hand, popped these 'white pills'.

She's telling you all of this, with vivid detail. You're thinking about how she would make a really fucking aces writer; that she calls up some pretty interesting details. She's not like the large majority of the population that flap the jaws incessantly, spouting out snippets of stories that are nauseatingly boring. No, Audra knows how to select her particulars, and she cooks up a good tale. But then again, you've never actually talked to the accomplice of a crack addict ever in your life; and for a second, you wonder which is more true: that you have lived a sheltered life, or that you really know how to choose your life adventures.

Either way, you're also thinking: thank GOD ALIVE that this not my life. Thank GOD ALIVE I was born into less suffering (not that Audra is suffering because she is who she is, but she sure makes less money than you ever have, and you can only imagine that to be associated, if not in love with, someone who is addicted to crack, someone who is 48 years old, by the way--to Audra's 24 years old--can only bring about its own string of suffering). One more thing you're thinking: this is going to be a long fucking day. You think this because you've only been in the car for 15 minutes, and listening to her story is exhausting.

You think this again (that you're exhausted) after Audra turns to you and says: 'See, Ja-neen, I rilly think of you as ma friend...because you listenin ta me rot now. Yeah...you ma friend.' She's nearly in tears. She doesn't know what she will do because she just kicked the 48-year-old crack addict out of her tiny tattered studio, and then he broke in in the middle of the night. And she kicked him out again, but she doesn't feel safe; she thinks he'll steal her things, or bring dangerous people around. And on top of this: she loves him and she's heartbroken. How could she not see that he was using? Jesus Christ.

That's what happening with her. But you're thinking: Fuck, I hope she doesn't ask me for my phone number before the end of the day. And that thought, that you feel that way, that you don't want to be her friend, depresses the hell out of you. Still, you keep your cool and do your best to give her advice. You're parked on Harrison street in Audra's black Pontiac Sunbird or whatever the shit it is. It's raining like hell and you really don't want to clean; you barely slept a wink last night thinking about your own problems (who knows what they are). It's raining and you're telling Audra that she should disassociate herself completely from the addict. You say that he won't learn anything if she continues to offer him a pillar for support. He will never learn to clean up if he doesn't figure it out for himself. And furthermore, she's only hurting herself by allowing him to pull her down.

You can't believe this. Again, your friends were right: how hilarious. And reader, you might not see the humor in this. It's certainly not funny that there are people out there who love users. For god's sake, who hasn't cared about someone who has had a drug problem? But oddly enough, a crack addiction, at least to you, seems like such a high grade of rock bottom (ironic choice of words), if only because of its highly addictive, not to mention physically damaging, nature.

Eventually, as you consult the red numbers of Audra's digital clock, you tell yourself what you have told yourself many many times since you started this job: it's just a job. One day, you will be writing what you love and teaching what you love to people who care (much like you do already, but now it's only part time, and you wish you could do it full time). Right now, you need this gig. But later, one day, you might have some beautiful condo (not unlike the ones you clean), and you'll be free of these bullshit min wage jobs that consist of cleaning toilets and inhaling noxious chemicals and having chats on crack. One day. One day not too far in the future. But for now, the goal is to pay your bills. And you will. But first, you need to work. And that's what you're about to go do.

And the Award Does Not Go to: Mr. Douche

Previously, in Satoko's article, I mentioned the term 'douche bag'. I don't know what the literary protocol is on that term; that is, do we write it as two words or what? But now I'm just being neurotic, so we'll move on. 

So right, I described this guy who I dated for a second as such. A 'douche bag'. But this morning, as I was delivered from the world of sleep to awake, I realized that perhaps it could be useful for future endeavors if I try to become more sensitive as a writer. So I'll define the term 'douche bag'. 

A 'douche bag', or 'DB' as some like to call it, is typically a guy, if not always. He's usually someone who thinks, like the 'tweetle-dees' (another loose term I cooked up to replace 'douche bag') at my bar last night, that diamonds are important--and that knowing about them is important--only because women like them; only because they have great monetary value; only because they represent a certain level of status. For instance: if you see a woman with a giant, obnoxious rock on her finger, you automatically assume that she has a husband who has a lot of money (regardless of whether or not he got that money legally). Or you assume he's a douche bag, or a sentimental douche bag, because he saved for years of his life to give this diamond to a girl who will end up leaving him in a couple short years. But now we're deviating from the point.

A douche bag is someone who, like my aforementioned date, thinks that he understands people. He thinks he knows the most important things about the world. And fine, in his own, individual reality, I suppose he does. But he doesn't, oops. He's someone who thinks people at bars or restaurants want to hear what he's saying, even though they've never seen him in their lives. In truth, they simply want to have a drama-free evening out with their significant others, or close friends. 

Douche bags typically like to make money for the sake of doing it. For instance, I'm sorry to say, but while bartending at Whiskey Blue for years of my life, which is situated in Chicago a mere set of steps from the notorious Board of Trade, I have served countless traders. And from where I was sitting (or standing, as it would go), many (and a painful amount of many, like so many it was more close to MOST) traders are douche bags. My dad would agree. If only because they make more money than they need to make, and it fucks up the economy. Right on, dad. I love you.

Douche bags don't really take a look at themselves. I know this is how a lot of us are. And I understand that it's scary; scary as fucking hell, to really delve into your soul and see what you are. To try to find meaning in life's events, or people's actions, especially if they're you're own. But if we're interested in trying to make the world better, I don't see that we have another choice. Unfortunately, many of the douche bags will never see this. It's sad. But now I'm moving onto another topic.

The thing is, at the time of these dates with Steve we'll call him, I knew he was what I would call a douche bag. I mean for Christ's sake, the dude was wasted and I had hardly had a drink. What was he trying to prove? Or hide? Or was he just an alcoholic? If so, that's another story entirely. Douche bags can tend to be tacky on dates, that's another thing. They also can tend to assume that the women they are with actually want to sleep with them, if only because they are so stuck on themselves, they can't see it any other way.

So that brings me to my next point. Douche bags think a lot about themselves. A shit load. But people don't like people who think about themselves and only themselves. It demonstrates a level of ignorance and lack of compassion. These people cannot be trusted, like many politicians, because they are not really thinking of the interest of the common man. It makes me nauseous and sad. And I said in Satoko's (god bless her) article that it depressed me to see 'Steve' last night; doing so reminded me of the number of douche bags out there. 

Still, I hope for the best for Steve and for other douche bags. Maybe one day they will see the light and stop doing things that are void of great meaning when considering the bigger picture. Maybe not. Either way, I'm infinitely grateful to have been born a woman, and not a douche bagette. Douche bagettes exist too, but that's another article. Anyhoos, I just didn't want you to assess that I wasn't a conscientious writer. I mean it's not like I called Steve a douche bag for no reason. 

Satoko Minagawa is My Valentine

Before I get started here, might I just say: I really don't see what the appeal of a diamond is. As we roll into that crusty hallmark holiday people know as Valentine's Day, I hear about these things more than I'd like to acknowledge. Tonight I am bartending at the swank spot that I occasionally do, and these two tweetle-dees at the bar are fawning over my dear friend's wedding ring (she's sitting there keeping me company). She continues to mention how in several years, she's going to get it upgraded. My question is: who the fuck cares?

That's A. B is: why is one of these tweetle-dees a guy that I just happened to date for a second several months ago? That's right, we ran into each other tonight. He showed up out of nowhere, just when I took comfort in the fact that I would never see him again. 

It made me feel dirty and depressed to see him. Partially because of the flippant nature in how our stupid interlude ended after a couple of over-drunk dates (over-drunk only on the part of him, which makes it even more depressing. 'Hey babe, I'm too drunk to be hot and sexy, but you know you want it.' Right. 'Actually dude, you're a douche bag, and I'd rather lick the dust off my shoes.'). Sigh. And partially because I ended up having sex with him. It was that kind of one-time-and-one-time-only sex where it's over before it begins because it's so awkward and insignificant and lame and fast and regrettable. But that's neither here nor there.

So here they are, looking at her ring and talking about how much it's worth and what she'll do to get it upgraded and blah blah blahbety blah. This is when I started thinking of those stupid advertisements I've been seeing on tv that run to the tune of: 'Love your loved one too much not to show it? Why not give her a diamond?' I feel nauseous even writing this. And no, I'm not a hater because I am single. Actually, I'm pleased as punch to be single. Maybe that's why I usually drop the men I date like hot pototoes--because after a couple dates, they start to make me feel like the world is closing in on me. 

And so you can imagine how much I love Valentine's Day. But the truth is, I'm not such a Valentine's scrooge. I think it's cute how there's pink and red hearts in all the retail store windows; and people are not only talking about diamonds, but they're also talking about what they're going to do with their loved ones; where they will go to dinner and such. It's actually quite refreshing: the thoughts of entertainment and love in this god-forsaken economy. But I did set out to talk about diamonds, didn't I? 

I did, but I don't care about diamonds. So let's talk about something that I do care about. I care about Hello Kitty. A lot. Over the years, people who are important to me have come to understand my fixation on the Japanese icon, and as a result, have gotten me all kinds of paraphernalia; from t-shirts to toasters to miniature picture frame magnets to ballet-slipper wall hangings to sugar dishes to compact mirror sets from when I was eight years old...and the list goes on. My favorite most recent Hello Kitty acquisition is a rubbery pen (a girl's true best friend, not some fucking diamond) with a little charm on the end of it and, oh of course, a tiny little diamond etched in the charm. Brilliant. 

So could Hello Kitty be my valentine? Sure, she deserves it. She has brought me so much joy over the last twenty to twenty-five years. But really, if I had to say who my real valentine would be, it would be Satoko Minagawa. She was this beautiful, gentle, silky black-haired Japanese girl from my first grade class in Ann Arbor, Michigan. She was my best friend, and she didn't speak much English, but I loved her. She had me over after school and she taught me to play piano and her mom would make me this delicious Japanese soup. And she gave me Hello Kitty pencils. 

I haven't spoken to Satoko in over two decades, but I will never forget her. I wonder if she is in Japan right now. I wonder if she is talking with her husband about diamonds. I'll bet she doesn't even want one, or ever has, for (Japanese) Valentine's Day. I'll bet she still collects Hello Kitty. I sure do. I will forever. If I could send my old friend a telegram, I think I'd ask her to be my valentine. It would probably be on pink Hello Kitty paper. She would respond: 'sure...yes' on a different-colored Hello Kitty paper. And then I would sigh and say to myself: 'Satoko Minagawa is my valentine.' With her, who needs a diamond?