Never cut off your hand to spite your wrist.
March 3rd 2008 01:59
RSI
Nothing Land
(Novella Version)
Chapter 2 ...cont
(Novella Version)
Chapter 2 ...cont
After a while, regardless of why I never got a job as a dishwasher, I gave up trying to get one. And applied for something I wasn’t overqualified for. Waiting. Not standing around waiting. Table waiting. Due to my people skills. Interaction mainly. And listening skills. The ability and skill to listen to every word a customer said, process it, take it seriously. And respond. If necessary. Or if the opportunity presented itself. The ability and skill to ask pertinent questions about what people were interested in. Themselves. Making them feel important. Like they were the only person in the world. Confirming their own opinion of themselves. From an objective outside source. Making them feel like they had my full attention. Which they did.
That was back in the days before I lost faith in humans.
Back before people started boring me shitless. Which coincided with the time I realised how interesting I was. And didn’t need anyone.
I should have got a business card when I was waiting. Kevin Mader. Waiter. It would have saved a lot of time. I got a sore hand and wrist from writing down my phone number on scraps of paper for women and gay men who warmed to me because I took a genuine interest in what they were saying about themselves. Every word.
If a female customer saw a gay customer pinch me on the arse. Which they did regularly. She’d whisper to me things like, “What a waste that would be.” If gay customers saw a female customer pinch me on the arse. Which they sometimes did after a couple of house wines. They would say openly, “He’s one of us. Leave him alone.”
Waiting is a much higher-skilled job than washing dishes. Mainly because it involves interacting with people. And any job that involves interacting with people means you need to at least be an amateur psychologist. It helps if you’re a mind-reader, and expert in reading body language. If your dream in life is to be tortured or crucified by arseholes, working with people is for you. It might explain why God became man. Heaven was too enjoyable?
No wonder I got rejected for dishwashing jobs. People could see I was made for better things.
Hardly anyone takes a genuine interest in anyone, any more. Not until they’ve had their say. And sorted their own life out enough to have a bit of spare time to take a genuine interest in other people. But not too much. Or for too long.
I think being selfless frightens people. It makes them think about how long they’ve been selfish for. And how long they’ve thought about nothing but themselves. Even parents. “My kids mean everything to me,” mothers will say. “They’re my whole world.” That’s what they say at cafes while their kids are in day care. And what they write on their internet dating agency profiles. So they can find a man to be with while their kids are a day care, instead of sitting around with their catty friends sipping cappuccinos. While they talk to their real friends on their mobile phones. Or text them. About how selfish the other women at the table are.
For most people, the realisation they’ve led totally selfish lives is all to frightening to think about. It would mean taking a good look at themselves. Not in a mirror. Selfish people do that enough as it is. Through someone else’s eyes. Or shoes. Just cut a hole in the end of the shoe. And who wants to do that? Not cut a hole in a shoe. Take a good look at themselves? Not many people.
People all need someone like me to teach them how to go about it. Kevin Mader. Waiter, Listener and Asker Of Questions. And Life Coach.
Life Coach is probably the job I’m most qualified for.
It’s a wonder I got a job as a waiter. Being over-qualified.
Being qualified to be a Life Coach and not being one might explain why I ended so many lives prematurely. My need to do something I wasn’t overqualified for. Express myself. Reveal my talents to the world at large.
Innate talents and acquired ones. Ones I acquired through my innate talents. Qualities like sound judgement, intuition and perception about people’s potential (or lack of it). Shouldering responsibility. Working unsupervised. The ability to make executive decisions. By myself. Without consultation. The hard calls. Like terminating someone’s future. In person. Not on the phone, mobile or via email or fax. Without suffering any guilt. Because it had to be done. For the common good. Of the company. And its shareholders. The courage to stick to my convictions. The perseverance to follow a task through to completion. And meet deadlines. Like garbage day. For the disposal of the bodies. And the willingness to get my hands dirty. With blood. Not dirt. None of this delegating or handballing the irksome tasks to inferiors. A hands-on Life Coach. That’s me. “It’s my regrettable duty to inform you I have to terminate your life.” Whack.
There’s no use flogging a dead horse once it’s bolted.
If grandma wasn’t eating, she was watching television. Although she could do both at same time. And usually did. Most women can multi-task. They think it’s a quality that proves they were meant to be in the workforce. Men think God made them like that so they could keep their eye on more than one child at the same time they do the dishes or the washing, and pine interiorly for them to come home from work for an all-night session in the bedroom.
The most common sperm depository the first time a man ejaculates is his own underpants.
When technology is a bit more advanced you’ll be able to have television screens implanted onto the back of your eyelids and be able to watch TV while you sleep. Or, instead of false eyelashes, you’ll be able to buy false eyelids. Digital wide-screens. Or they’ll put a TV chip into a contact lens or your bifocals. For people who prefer to fall asleep with contacts in or their glasses on.
People can’t live without television. The day is fast approaching when they realise they can’t sleep without it.
Grandma’s television was responsible for dad and mum meeting.
That’s one story I do know about my mum and dad before they had me. How they met. (And the story of the tragic woman with the Jelly Babies). I learnt it because my mum told it. Not to me. To other people when I was around. Listening. Like usual. She generally told the same two stories. How her and dad met, and the Jelly Babies story.
Every time Vicki did mum’s hair, mum told her the Jelly Baby story. Vicki was a hairdresser. One of those ones who comes to your house, and makes the whole house stink. Reek of colour.
Women love repeating themselves. The older they get the worse they get. It’s like something biological inside of them says, “Start preparing for dementia now. Start repeating stories on a daily basis.” But I wouldn’t know. I’m not a doctor. Let alone a gynaecologist.
I could have become a cliché doctor though. Got a PhD in cliché analysis. After doing an undergraduate, post-graduate and Masters in sayings. And had a business card: Dr Kevin Mader. Cliché Analyst. And corrected people when they addressed me as Mr Mader. “It’s Doctor Mader.” I could have handed them a business card. And added a cliché at the same time. “Christ is both doctor and medicine.” But not explained it. Or referenced it. Just give them something to think about. Or Google. It’s easier than exercising the brain. Get their brain ticking over. Mainly so they took me seriously. As someone who was an expert in his field.
Grandma’s telly went on the blink one night. During the news of all things. A disaster while disasters were being shown. A tragedy while tragedies were happening. Or had recently happened. Or happened decades ago. And it was just archival footage. An occupant of a caravan in shock while a whole country was in shock. And outraged. Without being consulted about how they felt individually. Just told by a TV reporter they were in shock and outraged. Told by the TV how they all collectively felt. In a third world country without television. Unable to express their shock electronically. Or digitally. And needed a TV reporter to express it for them. Regardless of whether or not they knew the shocking, outrageous event had happened in their own country.
“The residents of the Whyalla Caravan Park were all in shock and mourning today after a long-time resident’s TV blew up. A spectacular pop was ‘heard’ by eye-witnesses.”
And grandma started hyperventilating. Big time. “What big hyperventilations you have, grandma.” Like, as if the primary cause of hyperventilation for people living in poverty in a first world country was not knowing what was going on to people living in real poverty on the other side of the world in a third world country.
People say they wouldn’t invite people into their house they didn’t know. Or didn’t like. But they do it all the time. Every time they turn on the television.
And they have arguments with their TVs. Thinking they’re arguing with the person on the TV. Not because they can’t distinguish between reality and virtuality. But because that person has expressed an opinion they don’t agree with. And they’re so livid, they lose all reason. And they want that person to know that. But the person on the TV keeps expressing the same opinion because TVs not truly interactive. And TV stations have programming schedules. Which people allow to dictate how they run their lives. My work planner. TV Guide. And why not? The television dictates how a room is set up in most houses. But the person on TV isn’t there at the time, half of the time. Or three-quarters of the time. Hardly ever? Live TV? With a delay function? The person on the TV probably said whatever opinionated thing he or she is ‘saying’ hours ago in a pre-recorded session. But the person watching the TV ends up telling the person on the TV he or she is a moron. Bravely. To his or her electronic face. Even though that person is probably at home. In an upmarket address. Away from all the yelling. Enjoying the luxuries of life being on a TV reporter’s salary affords a person. While the person watching them on the TV while they’re at home, is aggravated. At their downmarket address. Aggravated by that person. By what that person said. Shouting at the TV, not the person. But no matter how angry the person gets, he or she wont turn the television off. To get rid of the person they never should have invited into their house in the first place. The person who wouldn’t visit their house in person. Because it would be below his or her dignity as an employee of the electronic media. And the person ends up hating the person on the TV. Hating a person that person will never meet. And because the person hasn’t had a chance to tell the TV person in person, they tell a real person. But not in person. On the phone or via text or their email address. And the person wastes another hour of life on hate-mongering. Precious time which could have been spent interacting agreeably with people in person. People in the same room. The ones the person doesn’t interact with because the television is on. “Shsh. The TVs on. I want to hear this,” becomes just plain “Shsh” after a while. You miss too much if you speak. It used to be, “Wait till the ads are on.” But now they make ads better than TV programs. Deliberately. To stop people communicating with each other for the entire night, not just every five minutes or so for a few seconds.
The most educational aspect of TV is it teaches people to hate. People. The ones closest to them.
According to mum, grandma put on such a a fit and turn when her telly went on the blink, she stopped eating for over a full minute. While her body digested. Mum liked telling any story about grandma that painted her in a bad light. Most people are like that. It makes them feel superior. Better than others. Moral theologians say it makes you worse.
If I hadn’t done what I did, I would have made an excellent moral theologian. Spent my life distinguishing the rights and wrongs in others. Pointing out the subtle distinctions. And correcting them. Or giving advice on how to correct them. While I stood above them all. A moral, moral theologian. With a business card: Kevin Mader. Moral Theologian. “I right your wrongs.” And an office. With the same thing written on the door. Or been known as ‘the creative moral theologian’ and had a business card: Kevin Mader. Nit-Picker. “Free Criticism”. With ‘constructive’ in fine print. On the back of the card.
And made an absolute fortune writing self-help books. For others.
I would have put local psychologists and psychiatrists out of business. By charging less. Not giving better advice. Only $99.95/hr. I’d still get the patients to come back time and time again. To make more money. Even if I could fix their problems in one visit by being honest.
As a moral theologian, I could justify not fixing people on their first visit, even though I was capable of it, better than a psychiatrist or psychologist could, because I’d take the soul into account. Not treat people like they didn’t have one. Or separate the body from the soul, as though they’re not intrinsically interconnected. Until you die, that is. Or tell them rubbish like there was three people living inside of them – a child, teacher and parent. It only gives adults an excuse not to turn up to P&T meetings at school. “I’m busy at my own parent and teacher meeting with my inner child.”
The rubbish people believe.
As a moral theologian, I’d have exorcised them with Holy Water and a crucifix. “Forget that rubbish about three people living inside you,” I’d have said. “You’ve got a legion of devils inside you. They got bored living inside the psych’s head. Their work was done. The psych is confirmed in evil. Damned. A reprobate.” I’d have simplified things a bit for them. Given them some peace of soul. After convincing them they had one. By driving the demons out. Not made them leave in a more confused state when they arrived.
But not on the first visit. Unless I had a special on: This week’s special. Get completely fixed in one visit. Exorcisms 10% off. Hurry. Offer ends Friday at 5pm. Free copy of The Exorcist, and a Linda Blair spinning head plastic toy, for the first five phone appointments. Ring now. On my toll-free number: 1800 Exorcism.
I envy dumb people. They don’t have to use substances to shut their minds down. Only to kick start them.
This story about grandma’s faults, The day mum’s telly shit itself, was mum’s favourite. It’s really the start of the story: How I escaped living with my mum. It’s not another story. They’re one and the same story. Just with different titles. Vignettes that make a novella.
It was the first time the caravan had been quiet. Ever. Usually grandma had the television volume turned on full. Not so you couldn’t speak. So you couldn’t think. Just in case people down the back end of the caravan park couldn’t hear theirs? What if they were watching another channel, though?
There was a stripy canvas annex on the caravan. Faded olive-green and white. Standard civilian issue. I don’t think it would have been possible to camouflage grandma.That was mum’s ‘room’. Mum had her own television. Mum lent her mum her telly, and took grandma’s life-support system to the electrical doctor for a life-saving operation. She took it to the electrical shop where my dad was finishing his apprenticeship.
And that’s where they met. And how.
Mum carrying her mum’s telly like someone in a television war movie bringing an injured soldier back to base. And dad working on a telly behind the counter like someone in a television medical drama.
“It’s on the blink. Bung. It just blew up. I don’t even know if it can be fixed.” That’s what mum told dad before they were mum and dad. When dad was just Leon Mader, the single apprentice electrician. And mum was Joy Tresize. “Nothing’s unfixable,” dad said abruptly. In that loquacious way of his. While he barred up. And smiled. He was referring to electrical items. Not marriages.
I reckon this was one of those love-at-first-sight meetings. Mum denies ever loving dad but people lie all the time. To themselves mainly. It’s their way of practising to speak to other people. Even parents. It’s their way of practising to speak to their kids. It’s people’s way of convincing themselves they’ve never done anything wrong. That they’re morally superior. They either blame circumstances or someone else. If they’re religious, they blame God. Mum blamed dad.
Me? I blame grandma’s television.
Whether or not mum ever did love dad (and she wouldn’t know herself), she fell ‘in love’ with him that day. Even if only fleetingly. In that way desperate people ‘fall in love’. They see all the surface stuff. The heart makes such a fuss, the brain shuts down temporarily. Desperate infatuation. The prime cause of marriage. Men stop masturbating for a few weeks, and women hide their ‘toys’. But they don’t get rid of them. And men don’t cut their hands off. To spite their wrists.
“It’s Dr Mader. Cliché Doctor. PhD. In cliché analysis. Here. Take one of my cards. And remember, never cut off your hand to spite your wrist.”
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