Fake 'til You Make It

Previous to last Tuesday, I had been oh so stuck on my project and, at the time this was due, still didn't know which direction to take. But everyone knows the only way to fix inability is to keep trying. So I put my fingers to the keyboard and wrote this:

Quiet. That’s all I need is some peace and freaking quiet. My roommate and his stupid friends are sitting around my Great Grandma’s antique dining table, doing the ‘manly’ thing: getting wasted and talking shit about girls. Idiots. I asked them twice to shut up—have some respect for those of us trying to do something productive in our lives—but no. So, I decide to throw my books, keys, phone into my bag and leave.

The walk is peaceful. Sun feels warm on my bare arms, which seems surprising for early March. I find myself in a comfortable pace, hearing nothing but my own thoughts and the birds chirping in the distance. Campus is abandoned, well, except for that dog fetching like a good boy for his owner. Oh, and those eager flower children, tying their slackline. I smile, mostly out of mockery, coupled nicely with a dash of ignorance. *add more here* Hand me a cup of coffee, and this moment would be perfect.

Before long, my feet make their way to the library. The door proves to be heavy, as if to say, “Hey. Whit. Forget homework. Stay outside, enjoy your afternoon, and live worry-free for a few hours. I’ll be here tomorrow.” I pause, consider this idea and its appeal, but proceed any way.

Inside, silence. My body moves into a little victory dance. Before I can get to my favorite part, someone notices and just has to ask, “What the hell are you doing?” Instantly frozen, face six shades of red (all at once), I reply with a squeaky “Nothing!” and bolt.

I’m unsure if embarrassment and shame or the ever pressing desire for seclusion brought me here, but the third floor of Renne welcomes me like a long lost friend.

End note: Do not fret my dear friends! I have since discovered an intriguing topic and am on the long, twisted road to writing.

A Day Late and A Dollar Short

I've been spinnin' my wheels...
     wheel in the sky keeps on turnin'
Trying to choose something I love...
     love me, love me, sayyy that you love me
Sometimes, too many options makes it tricky...
     tricky to rock a rhyme that's right on time
And I'm still undecided.

Potential Project: Attempt to discover any varying reasons behind getting a tattoo.

Primary Research: With permission, spend an evening or two or ten at the shop where I get work done. Talk with clients, artists, the friend(s) that tag along for the ride, etc.

Secondary Research: History of the art, traditional symbolisms

Interesting Subject: I have many tattoos myself and have always been curious as to why someone might have a seemingly obscure object inked into their skin.

Questions: What motivates the desire to be tattooed? Is this generational? (Would that be more interesting to explore?) At what cost will people have this done? (Other than the obvious permanency.) What do family members think? Does the client care?

Should I go more broad than this...or even go with this at all…

All Good Days End With Chocolate

5:34 a.m.

My key fits perfectly in the lock. With one swift turn, I hear the deadbolt flip and the door swings open. Security alarm beeps that ear-splitting sound.

Beep-ding..BEepp-DIngg..BEEPP-DINGG.

Enter the code to turn that damn thing off.

I head to the front of the store, dragging my feet, jonessing for coffee. Light switches are found and my eyes have a difficult time adjusting. Count money, assemble slicer, make coffee. The aroma fills the store as I put clean dishes away from the night before. I keep a close eye on the clock, knowing customers will be waiting for me to open at the top of the hour. Before flipping yet another deadbolt, I grab my soy milk from the refrigerator to doctor a cup of Columbian Blend.

There’s something so serene about this time of day, sipping my joe and enjoying the silence.

But, alas.

The clock brings on the storm. I see headlights outside the front window and reach for my keys. Co-worker Miranda greets me at the door with a pan of eggs, followed by Bill, looking for breakfast.

9:47 a.m.

It’s a busy morning. Amidst breakfast specials, I’ve made sandwiches for the case and worked on the bank deposit. All the regulars come and go; we ‘shoot the shit’ like old friends, although, in perspective, I haven’t known them long. Help has arrived, so I take a moment to enjoy a little breakfast, refill my coffee cup for a third (maybe fourth) time. From the kitchen outside, Miranda brings in the soup of the day—Asian Vegetable Beef—and sticks around to chat while giving her creation a final stir. She decides to add a dash more of the secret Asian Sauce, but spills in the process, leaving a trail of spicy goodness on the counter.

I quickly wipe up the mess as more customers pile inside, looking for lunch.

11:15 a.m.

Crickets.

A once chaotic atmosphere has become quiet, which gives us a chance to play catch up. I pull the foods from the refrigerator necessary for a successful lunch rush, unwrapping and slicing as I go.

Turkey, Ham, Pastrami.

Cheddar, Swiss, Provolone.

Pickles, Tomatoes, Onion, Lettuce.

All makings of a great sandwich.

As time passes, more patrons file in and the line-up on the other side of the counter begins to look like one at a police station. I tell my customers so, and they all laugh. One woman looks fairly uneasy; I’m guessing this is her first or second time here. She opens her bag of Doritos and begins to snack as she waits to be helped.

“Ah, ma’am?” She hasn’t looked at me yet. “Ma’am?” Her head turns. “You can’t do that here. We have a strict policy on eating items before purchase.” The look on her face is one of horror, mixed with embarrassment. Within seconds, I can’t stifle my laugh any longer. “I’m sorry, I just couldn’t resist. Is there anything I can get for you?”

Still unsure, she replies, “Medium broccoli salad.”

I smile, scoop her request, and move onto the next customer. Even though this woman may have thought, “Gee, she’s a little nuts,” she’ll be back, looking for harassment.

1:59 p.m.

Again, quiet. The afternoon shift has started, which means I’ll be leaving soon. I mentally prepare a list of projects for them and, as I walk by in search of pen and paper, take a peek at the sandwich case. Those poor girls. They’ll be making sandwiches for a few hours as it felt like most everyone in the valley stopped in today. Finding appropriate utensils and a place to write, my list comes to life:

o   Chop cherry peppers

o   Stock chips

o   Wipe out bottom of cooler and fridge

o   Make salsa for tomorrow’s breakfast

That should be enough to keep them busy. One of the girls prepares to go to the bank, taking the deposit and a list for change.

“Wait!” I shout a little louder than I should, but she freezes in motion, so, mission accomplished. “Grab a ten from the till and stop at the store for a few limes, would ya? You’ll need them tonight.”

All I get is a look of puzzlement, so I continue, “For salsa.”

Confusion evaporates.

She leaves, looking for citrus.

2:23 p.m.

Home.

Peace.

Quiet.

Looking for a nap.

4:31 p.m.

Front door slams and I wake with a start. His footsteps, heavy up the stairs, make me cringe with every thud. Thoughts of getting up fill my head, but my body protests. Just five more minutes. I can hear him swinging his keys—that kid loves the sounds of them jangling together—and he makes his way to my bedroom door. His voice carries well through our poorly insulated apartment, threatening to make a commotion if I don’t come out of my room. I imagine his fist as it hits the door with every pound and irritation sets in.

“Enough already.”

Pounding stops.

Reluctantly, I dig my phone from the sheets; scan missed calls and text messages. Nothing important.

*sigh*  

Another threat comes from the other side of my door.

“Coming!”

With effort, I make it to my dresser. The scent of delicious food wove its way into the fibers of my clothes, which now smells almost offensive. As I change, the roommate becomes increasingly impatient.

“Let’s GOOO! I’m HUNGRYYY!  We’re gonna be the last ones there!”

“Ben, I swear…” Emerging from my sanctuary, I see he didn’t even drop his keys.

“Ready?”

And we’re off, looking for our friends.

7:04 p.m.

Breadsticks? Tasty.

Most delicious pizza? Mmhmm.

Cherry beer? Oh yessssss.

Being the loudest, most obnoxious table in the joint with your closest friends? Looking for trouble.

8:42 p.m.

Stuffed like turkeys, Ben and I sit on the couch. We’ve been home for a while, enjoying the thuds our neighbors call music, not really saying much. Just when I’m tempted to call it a night, he jumps from his comfy spot and runs into the kitchen.

“I made these today,” he says, fumbling with something on the counter.

Curiosity gets me and I follow. Not even two steps onto the hardwood, a plate is shoved in my face with a big, mouthwatering brownie sitting on it.

“For me?”

“Yep.”

I have to stop myself from drooling and start…looking for a fork.

Just Another Day in *%&$^# Paradise

Let me preface my piece with a few lines of explanation:
I realize this is not a complete draft. It took some time to sift through my ideas. A few trial writings, a ton of coffee, and one night of shitty sleep later...when I woke up today, I knew exactly what was to be done. The past few hours of my precious time have been spent bangin' it out on the keyboard, only for the library to have a FREAKING power outage slash fire alarm. (Friends, I kid you not.) Do you think I hit the save button even once since I had started to finish this piece? No. Idiot. And standing in the freezing cold for over 20 minutes didn't help my now foul mood.
Needless to say, this is what you get. I will be spending the remainder of my evening recomposing the rest and hopefully it proves to be as good as the original.
Maybe Jesus thought my work was garbage.
Or maybe Karma is a bigger bitch than I thought.

Living the Dream (working title)

5:34 a.m.

My key fits perfectly in the lock. With one swift turn, I hear the deadbolt flip and the door swings open. Security alarm beeps that ear-splitting sound. Enter the code to turn that damn thing off. I head to the front of the store, dragging my feet, jonessing for coffee. Light switches are found and my eyes have a difficult time adjusting. Count money, assemble slicer, make coffee. The aroma fills the store as I put clean dishes away from the night before. I keep a close eye on the clock, knowing customers will be waiting for me to open at the top of the hour. Before flipping yet another deadbolt, I grab my soy milk from the refrigerator to doctor a cup of Columbian Blend. There’s something so serene about this time of day, sipping my joe and enjoying the silence. But, alas. The clock brings on the storm. I see headlights outside the front window and reach for my keys. Co-worker Miranda greets me at the door with a pan of eggs, followed by Bill, looking for breakfast.

9:47 a.m.

It’s a busy morning. Amidst breakfast specials, I’ve made sandwiches for the case and worked on the bank deposit. All the regulars come and go; we ‘shoot the shit’ like old friends, even though I haven’t known them long. Help has arrived, so I take a moment to enjoy a little breakfast, refill my coffee cup for a third (maybe fourth) time. Miranda brings in the soup of the day—Asian Vegetable Beef—and sticks around to chat while giving her creation a final stir. She decides to add a dash more of the secret Asian Sauce, but spills in the process, leaving a trail of spicy goodness on the counter. I quickly wipe up the mess as more customers pile inside, looking for lunch.

You Are What You Eat, So I've Heard...

"When we do right, nobody remembers. When we do wrong, nobody forgets."

Bandanas and leathers, Sportsters and Fat Boys, no helmets.
Wind-blown hair, well-worn boots, Ray-Ban shades.
Ragged clothes, imagined reek of pot, concluded don’t-give-a-shit attitudes.
Bona fide badasses.

These boys and their old ladies are hardened, weathered from a chosen life on the road. They look beat, yet loving every second of it. I would hate to meet any one, or ten, of them in a dark alley, and still, this lifestyle is so...cool to me. The fact that Bill Ray, photographer, was able to capture The Hells Angels is fascinating, really. I feel like I’m getting a sneak peek into the daily life of this gang, even though the photos were taken nearly 50 years ago.
34 images in a series give you plenty to view. I looked through them three, maybe four times, and saw something new in each one, every time. Only the first is in color and the last doesn’t give any hint as to the nature of the six friends sitting around the table. The arrangement seems purely random, which fits with its subjects. Naturally, a story is being told, even if only bits and pieces are given at random. There are holes, holes that allow a viewer to fill in details. My imagination ran wild with assumptions. I couldn’t possibly try to tell those stories with confidence; I’m not a bona fide badass. But I’ve sort of met one.

It was the summer of 2011. I was working two jobs, one selling food (which I still do), another selling bikes on the weekends. Five minutes before closing on a Friday afternoon, an older gentleman sauntered in the shop, looking like hell. His face was cherry-red, beard split in two from the ride, and he carried himself with a kind of audacity I’ve never seen before. I said hello to him, and got nothing. Not even an acknowledgement of my presence. Rude. Getting that suspicious feeling in my stomach, I kept a close eye on him. Then he eventually turned his back to me and my jaw hit the floor. This man’s jacket looked very, very similar to ones seen in the photos taken by Ray—perhaps that’s why the series struck such a chord with me. Right in front of me was a true Hells Angel. (This, and some of his story, was later confirmed by a coworker.) He didn’t stay long and I was chipper in my farewell. Not once did this tough guy look directly at me or speak a single word. And that, frankly, sent a chill down my spine.

The photos in the series don’t give me that sort of feeling. There’s a message here: look how real we are. On my fifth or sixth viewing, I started to read the captions under the photos and admittedly, that really helped with the holes, maybe even changed my perception.

Bandanas and leathers, Sportsters and Fat Boys, no helmets.
Wind-blown hair, well-worn boots, Ray-Ban shades.
Ragged clothes, imagined reek of pot, concluded don’t-give-a-shit attitudes.
Bona fide…misunderstood softies?




http://life.time.com/culture/never-seen-hells-angels-1965/#ixzz1lfBE8IKJ

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