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hustlebonezzzz · 4 years

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Capstone Introduction

Hello and welcome to my online portfolio!

My project showcases five pieces that I feel are representative of my versatility and strongest skill sets in writing. I have included a deep dive, a profile, a short story, and some personal narratives. I wanted to present pieces that I had the most passion for and enjoyed the most.

The overall intention in compiling this collection is to engage readers with fun pieces on a variety of different subjects. The subjects represent my own personal interests and experiences, and I hope that readers would get a strong sense of who I am and the type of writing to be expected from me. When thinking about the way I wanted to represent myself through this project, I naturally wanted to pick pieces that aligned with my interests. Personal narratives tend to be my go-to oftentimes, however, I wanted to show that this is not the only form of writing I am capable of completing. So, I included a short story to expand and give more variety to my portfolio as a whole.

When creating this portfolio, the biggest hurdle I encountered was actually sitting down and cracking down on writing. I’ve had a healthy dose of procrastination throughout my entire academic career, but this semester has truly been something else. I believe this was mainly due to leaving campus and switching to a fully online platform. I also became bored with my own style of writing, and the passion felt like it was fizzling out. Writing a brand new piece that could be anything I wanted it to be sounded fun and easy, but later turned out to be more difficult than I previously imagined. I felt that I had a lot to say, but didn’t know how to put it on the page in a way that is palpable, organized, and fun to read.

Further, I think what affected the quality of my writing the most was creating pieces knowing that I would have the chance to revise, and not giving my all the first time around. In the end, this was very counterproductive to myself and the quality of my finished products. There was a lot of time allotted between each assignment, and I didn’t use that time as efficiently as I should have.

Despite these hurdles, I believe that I have created pieces that have a lot of relatable qualities. I don’t think my way of thinking is very different compared to others in my age bracket, and I feel that most of my pieces are targeted at those around my own age for the most part. I believe my writing works in this way.

Additionally, I really like putting myself on the chopping block. I don’t think that I am particularly extraordinary compared to the rest of the 7 billion humans on the earth, but I feel that is where a lot of the appeal comes in. I enjoy reading works from people that are raw and unfiltered, and I take a lot of inspiration from that. I hope that shines through in my portfolio.

Naturally, there is still plenty of room for improvement. Sometimes, I feel I slip into conversation mode too hard at some points. The inner monologue of my mind doesn’t always translate well onto the page. This leaves the grammar and verbiage of my work to sound awkward, verbose, and less refined. I have plenty of ideas running through my head, but when it comes to putting it into words, it can become lost and jumbled. This also had led me to struggle with finding effective ways of transitioning from point to point. Many times, I use the basic transitional words instead of weaving in thoughts to connect ideas.

I also have a tendency to repeat the same words and phrases over and over. For instance, I love overusing the words “just” and “really.” This is a habit I am still trying to break to make my writing sound tighter and cleaner.

Needless to say, a lot of the downfalls in my writing come from not seeking help when I needed it. There were many fantastic resources available to me, and I did not utilize them the way I should have. I believe this would have turned some of the pieces that are good into something great.

Additionally, I tend to base a lot of my work on my own personal experiences. I think this method is effective in a lot of instances, but sometimes I felt that I needed to step away and reconsider formatting everything from my own worldview. Questions I asked myself particularly with my newest piece were: So what? Who cares? And who would read this? I take great pleasure in writing about things I find interesting, but sometimes I struggle to find the overarching purpose of the narrative. I don’t want my pieces to be specifically about me, but more to use myself as an example.

In the end, I have learned that my personal writing style leans towards being more relaxed and conversational. My personal voice remains a strong part of many of the pieces I create. I like writing about pop culture and my own experiences with it, and I hope to expand beyond that as I grow as a writer. I have also learned that I can have tunnel vision with my own pieces, meaning that readers might perceive my work differently from the way I do. With that said, I think I have a better understanding now on how to write for a bigger audience outside of just myself.

Being a part of the writing certificate program has allowed me to discover and hone in on what writing I love to do the most. I was initially terrified that there would be no place for me here and that my writing was mediocre at best. With the help of the extremely encouraging professors and instructors in this program, I realized that this was not the case. The course that had the greatest impact on the direction and perception of my writing was “The Art and Craft of Writing for New Media” taught by Bryn Lovitt. The workshopping section of this course is a strong example of how workshopping should operate in the classroom. Presenting and reading your piece aloud to your peers is nerve-wracking, but I can say that we were all taught how to respectfully give constructive criticism that is actually helpful and thought-provoking.

With that said, having the opportunity to explore avenues of short stories, poetry, screenwriting, and new media writing, has also aided me in discovering where I fit in the writing landscape. Participating in real workshops and getting constructive feedback from peers and instructors helped me see my writing in a different light. It can be difficult to imagine how others will perceive your own work, or at least be perceived as the way one intends. The workshopping element in many of these courses has refined that way that I access my own writing, and I think I am more aware of my own personal shortcomings. Not only that, but I am more aware of how to address and rework aspects of my writing that I feel fall flat at times. Before, I never knew where to start or what was even wrong with my essays.

The most important takeaway from this program is that writing is whatever you want it to be. For a long time, I have crafted pieces based on prompts and specific format guidelines. Writing feels much more boundless and freeing now than it ever has.

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hustlebonezzzz · 4 years

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We need to talk about Courage the Cowardly Dog

In what seems like a stream of relentless plagues, wildfires burn around the world, billions of desert locusts swarm and threaten African crops, and of course, COVID-19. How could we forget about COVID-19? The bright side of a world-wide pandemic is that this quarantine has provided ample time to revisit shows the shaped my childhood. When I was a kid, Courage the Cowardly Dog was my absolute favorite, hands down.

The title sequence explains the show perfectly:

“We interrupt this program to bring you… Courage the Cowardly Dog Show, starring Courage, the Cowardly Dog! Abandoned as a pup, he was found by Muriel, who lives in the middle of nowhere with her husband, Eustace Bagge! But creepy stuff happens in Nowhere. It's up to Courage to save his new home!”

And that’s it. Crazy stuff happens, and Courage is left to try and save the day. As I watch it now, I can’t ever picture a show like this being aired today. Many times I’d catch myself thinking, “They let this air??” Some of the episodes are straight-up disturbing or tear jerking

An episode that is both disturbing and tearjerking is “The Mask.” This episode tackles subjects such as same-sex relationships, domestic abuse, and sexual assault. These elements are heavily present within the episode, yet are veiled behind a funny children’s show. The veil is lifted when viewing the episode with adult eyes, and it becomes a realistic animated drama.

The beginning of the episode starts with Courage relaxing outside his home and minding his own business. Suddenly, a frightening masked individual walks onto the scene and beats Courage, all while proclaiming a hatred for dogs. This scene is hilarious as a child for the sheer slapstick humor element.

The masked figure smashes Courage with a sink because “Dogs are evil.”

We later learn that the masked individual is a cat named Kitty. Kitty hates and beats Courage because he is a dog, and she associates all dogs with an evil dog that is keeping her best friend captive in an abusive relationship. Her best friend is a bunny named Bunny, and her abusive boyfriend is called Mad Dog. Mad Dog is a thug.

Courage, being the gentle and kind soul he is, decides that the best way to get Kitty to leave him alone is to save her best friend Bunny and show that not all dogs are like Mad Dog. So, in the dead of night, Courage sneaks out and goes to the rundown industrial zone where Bunny is being held captive. A car with blaring hip-hop music comes to a screeching halt in front of a building with busted and boarded up windows. Courage watches and cowers behind another car while Mad Dog aggressively pulls Bunny out of the car. Her facial expression is empty and sad. They enter the building and Courage spies through the window. Mad Dog is upset that Bunny is visibly unhappy, and suspects that she’s thinking about her best friend, Kitty.

Although we don’t see it, Mad Dog decides to beat Bunny up for thinking about Kitty and not being happy with him. We are only left with this frame:

Bunny is shoved into a pot after being beat by Mad Dog.

As I watched this scene, I was in shock. As a kid, you just assume that he throws her around and roughs her up a bit before throwing her into a giant pot with dirt. Hell, this scene might even be funny to a child. Now, this appears to be an obvious metaphor for feeling dirty or soiled after being sexually assaulted. Bunny was not just being beat up. This episode also does a great job of showing the psychological manipulation that is a part of an abusive relationship. While yelling at Bunny, Mad Dog says “I told you to forget her! I take you from a two-bit joint and make you a class act and you want to make me second rate!” It’s incredible how Mad Dog tries to manipulate Bunny into thinking that this life is the best she could ever get as he screams at her in a dirty, run-down apartment.

The emotional manipulation only continues as Mad Dog tries to comfort her afterwards, asking why things can’t be like the good ol’ days when she still loved him. He makes it seem as if it is her fault for being clearly depressed because of this physically, sexually, and emotionally abusive relationship.

Mad Dog tries to comfort Bunny after lashing out on her for thinking about Kitty.

By the end of the episode, Courage the cowardly dog saves the day and breaks Bunny out of her prison. Kitty and Bunny are reunited and run away together by hopping on a train and never looking back.

Bunny and Kitty embrace each other after finally being reunited

So yes, this series has always maintained a creepy and provocative vibe throughout its duration, and undoubtedly has some dark themes and screwed up moments intertwined. These subverted themes only become more prevalent the older you get. You don’t notice these surreal elements as a child, and I don’t think you’re supposed to. I certainly didn’t see anything wrong with “The Mask” in my youth. Yeah, of course I felt sympathy for Kitty and Bunny, but there was a happy ending and that made it all okay for me. I saw the slapstick humor of it all, which is the kind of humor that really resonates with kids. It is a vital part of most children’s programming. Without it, this show wouldn’t be for kids, that’s for sure.

“The Mask” of course isn’t the only episode that touches on sexual abuse. In “Freaky Fred,” Muriel’s creepy barber nephew comes for a visit. Fred speaks through child-like rhymes and always ends it with how he’s been very “naaaaauuuughty.” Naughty is said in a way that is all too sexual, uncomfortable, and violating, whether you are a child or an adult. The innuendo behind the uttering of “naughty” becomes more apparent to a mature audience.

In this episode, Fred the creepy barber corners Courage in the bathroom and forcibly shaves his pink fur, all while confessing to his compulsive urges to force himself upon others and shave off their hair. He recites a poem about his first victim while doing so: “This dripping here, this droopy curl, unfold sweet memories of a girl, whose tresses, oh they’d twist and twirl, and tempt me to be… naughty.”

To put it bluntly, it seemed like this scene was mirroring sexual assault based on the dialogue and the overall mood portrayed. Fred likes to force his apparent hair shaving fetish onto anyone who is vulnerable that he can get alone. By the end of the episode, we find out that Fred was committed to a mental institution and escaped. The authorities show up to Courage’s home and take him back.

Fred’s character design alone only points to him being up to no good, and the smile never leaves his face.

Fred gazes menacingly at Courage before proceeding to forcibly shave his fur off.

If sexual abuse is on the table for this series, they certainly wouldn’t shy away from covering parental abuse. In the multiple episodes that feature Eustace’s mother, the audience comes to learn why Eustace’s character is a crotchety old man who takes joy in tormenting and scaring Courage. Throughout all of the episodes, Eustace yells “Stupid dog!” at Courage. It’s even a part of the opening title sequence. When Eustace’s mother, Ma Bagge, is introduced, we quickly notice that she is just like Eustace. She constantly yells “Stupid boy!” at Eustace and berates him at any chance she gets. For the first time ever, we feel sympathy for one of the most hated characters on the show. Eustace’s whole shtick comes from being mean and cranky. It all comes together and we see that Eustace is but a product of his mother’s emotional abuse, a cycle that we often see in the real world. Other episodes detail his painful childhood, showing that deep down, a mean and cruel old man is not who he truly is. Episodes show that throughout his entire life, he constantly tried to win the love and affection from his mother, however, she always found fault in him and he was never good enough.

Eustace presents gifts to his mother, Ma Bagge, in hopes of winning her approval.

As said previously, many of the episodes aren’t dark and twisted on the surface from a child’s point of view, but an episode that is heartbreaking whether you are a child or an adult is “Remembrance of Courage Past.” This episode details Courage’s origin story. We see that Courage once had loving dog parents that adored him. Courage’s parents take him to the vet, but in a strange turn of events, his parents are locked in a rocket and blasted into space by the sadistic veterinarian. There isn’t really any rhyme or reason, the vet is just plain evil. The vet asks to speak to the parents in private, and Courage is ushered into the waiting room. He later hears his parents crying out for help and he sees them being carried away in a net by the vet. Baby Courage follows them and sees his parents stuffed into a rocket. Baby Courage is unable to save them because the veterinarian notices that he is in the room and begins to chase him. Baby Courage escapes through a shoot that leads to an alleyway. From here, he watches the rocket blast off and waves goodbye as he cries. This is where Muriel finds him all alone and adopts him as her own.

Left: Courage’s parents cry out for help from inside the rocket.

Right: Muriel finds Courage all alone in the alley and takes him in.

Seriously, this episode is so sad. We learn that Courage wasn’t truly “abandoned as a pup.” Courage deeply fears losing his current family because of how his real parents were ripped away from him. It was a tearjerker then, and it still is now. Now, he simply can’t bear the thought of ever losing his family again. This motivates him throughout the entire series to save his family no matter what the obstacles and no matter how scared he is.

Now all of the episodes that have been covered thus far were terrifying in their own way, yet there is one episode that continues to linger in the minds of its viewers. The episode in question? “King Ramses Curse.” But why this episode?

First, a quick plot overview: Courage finds an ancient artifact in their yard. It turns out to be a cursed slab that was stolen from a museum. The police were hot on the museum robbers trail, so they ditched it in Courage’s yard. A resurrected King Ramses appears at their home to retrieve it. However, Eustace found out earlier that day that the slab is worth millions and won’t let King Ramses have it back, despite King Ramses threatening to send 3 plagues, each worse than the last.

King Ramses first tries to drown them, and for a kids show, I’ll admit that it’s pretty intense, but expected at this point. I audibly uttered “Now that’s a curse” as I rewatched. The next plague is just forcing them to listen to a really bad song, bringing the humor element back in and giving a break from the horror. Back to the horror, the last plague is a swarm of locusts that destroys everything in its path. In the end, Eustace refuses to relinquish the slab as Ramses menacingly looms over him. The episode concludes with Eustace being trapped in a sarcophagus, crying out for help. But the unfolding of these surely traumatic events isn’t what scared me as a youngin’.

So why did this episode scare so many children including myself? Simply put, the visuals.

King Ramses, was a 3D-animation overlayed on a 2D-background. Frankly, late 90s and early 2000s 3D-animation was a little creepy looking in general. The art of 3D-animation was still a work in progress. Hell, Disney and Pixar were still trying to perfect it with Toy Story.

King Ramses stands outside the home of Courage.

Courage the Cowardly Dog had a highly experimental animation style considering the time in which it aired, 1996-2002. The animators didn’t stick to only 2D-animation alone, but instead incorporated elements of live-action, claymation, and 3D-computer animation, amongst other things. The show really had a knack for mixing mediums. What made this show so generally creepy was the way the mixed mediums didn’t fit in with the familiar 2D-animation style. It was unexpected and unsettling.

Left: Example of live-action element

Middle: Example of 3D-computer animation

Right: Example of claymation featured in the show

While revisiting Courage, I can’t help but notice how this series hones in on the feeling of helplessness and life’s unpredictability. These aspects are part of why this show can be a bit traumatizing to young viewers. Yet this series still shows the value of hanging in there no matter what and doing the best you can despite the circumstances, just like Courage the cowardly dog.

At the end of the day, elements like the underlying adult themes and the visuals made Courage the Cowardly Dog stand out when it first aired, and it's a show that continues to stand out against the ever changing social landscape. Comedy and horror aren’t synonymous in most of today’s cartoons. It’s been nearly 18 years since the last episode of Courage aired, and 18 years since Cartoon Network has aired a new horror cartoon. That alone is telling. Courage the Cowardly Dog was truly a product of its time and still sparks debates today with its gloomy narratives on society. Cartoons like this are so special because there may never be anything like it again. Even the creators were surprised that they got the OK to air the show, and I’m grateful that they did.

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hustlebonezzzz · 4 years

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Short Story: Integument

“Is it safe to be getting your face that close?” I said with hesitance.

Locke was down on all fours, marveling at a large Eastern brown snake sunbathing in the center of the almost desolate road.

“Don’t worry, mate,” Locke said in his thick Australian accent, looking calm and confident while his eyes and the snake’s were locked onto one another. “Out where they belong, snakes are gentle as can be.”

I squatted down and snapped a photo of the surreal Kodak moment unfolding before my eyes.

“Everyone gets the wrong idea about snakes,” said Locke. “Most run into snakes when they’re scared and cranky, but that’s not the true nature of a snake,” His charismatic words paired the Australian accent somehow lessened the tense mood of the situation.

In all my experience as a wildlife photographer, Locke had been the most hands on I’d seen. Although his face couldn’t have been more than three feet from the snake, I trusted his judgement. I had never seen anything like this. I put my focus back into shooting the scene instead of worrying about Locke getting bit by our first accidental run-in with a snake. Looking through the viewfinder of the camera and zooming in, I couldn’t help but admire the look of the brown, wet looking scales that laid atop its thick, muscular body. This snake blended in perfectly with the dusty brown landscape that surrounded. From behind the safety of my zoom lense, I focused on the snakes small head, finger half pressed on the shutter, waiting for the right moment to snap a photo. Snakes have a way of constantly looking pissed off even if they’re not. The brow of this one was permanently furrowed. The snake flicked its tongue and without a hesitation, I fully pressed the shutter. *Click*

“Got it,” I said to myself. A small moment, a fraction of a second, captured forever.

“Jude, are you ready to bag ‘em up?” Locke said, still refusing to avert his gaze from the deadly reptile.

“Ready when you are,” Jude said assuringly. Locke slowly backed away and stood up. Getting three feet away from the face of a deadly snake seemed like a showboating move on the surface, but I could tell that Locke was genuinely marveling at the creature like it had been his first time ever seeing one.

Jude handed him the three foot long metal snake hook, and they both assumed their positions on each side of the snake. Jude manned the cloth snake bag, which was clipped to a metal hoop to prop it open. He held on to the end of the metal arm that extended from the hoop like a cane. Then, with impressive ease, Locke used the snake hook to guide the Eastern brown into the cloth bag. To my surprise, the snake seemed at will to Locke and slithered into the bag without putting up a fight. Locke seemed to be the natural snake charmer. Jude began to twirl the metal arm to twist the bag shut.

“Nice work, boys,” said Locke. “Now let’s get this girl off the road and on her way”

Back in the jeep, I could still feel the effects of the adrenaline from our encounter with our first snake of the journey, the most poisonous in Australia as Locke would later point out. I sat in the back, laying my head back against the leather headrest, watching the the scenery of the Australian bush pass by as I reflected on how I got to this exciting point in my career. This was my second time being hired by NatGeo as a freelancer to shoot photos to go along with a magazine article. This article was a feature on the top ten deadliest snakes in Australia. My very first assignment had been to take photos of snails, a low-stakes assignment compared to now. I remember my early days of photographing weddings and taking senior portraits to barely scrape by. My young ego had a hold on me then, and nothing was more agonizing to me then than shooting senior portraits. My family had sorely questioned my choice of pursuing a career in photography, and the debt I had after pursuing a degree in photography made me question how worthwhile it was. But I can say that I ruthlessly hung in there no matter what, hammering my way through my twenties to build my nature and wildlife portfolio in hopes of getting some sort of recognition. I’m so glad I stuck to my guns, and I’d be lying if i said I wasn’t at least a little bit proud of myself. My parents are just happy that I didn’t get a degree to photograph families at Sears.

“Most people ‘round here run over the poor things if they ever see ‘em laying in the road like that,” said Locke, bringing my attention back from my daydream. “She’s lucky that we ran into her today!”

“That she is, that she is,” said Jude. “You still make me nervous every time you get yourself that close to a snake.”

“Hahaha, if I’ve learned anything, snakes are the least of my worries, it’s other people that pose the real threats in life. Snakes are easy, their intentions are laid out for all to see. People are harder, they pretend to be your friend first before they strike.”

“Sounds like you’ve been burned in the past, eh?” Jude said with a chuckle.

“Well, haven’t we all?”

Jude began twisting the volume dial on the radio, a news broadcast now filled the jeep.

“It’s been approximately 72 hours since 42 year-old Zara Rumburg of Darwin went missing. There are no possible suspects and there is no current evidence of a struggle in the home of Rumburg, where she was last known to be. Her car was parked in her driveway at the time of her disappearance. We cannot conclude that this is a kidnapping, but we encourage all Darwin residences to take precaution and report any information that could lead to the recovery of Zara Rumburg.”

Jude clapped both of his hands together. “Nice to know that there’s a looney roaming the streets of my hometown.”

“It’s probably someone she knows, that’s usually how it goes, right.” I said.

“See what did I tell ya, they get close to you and then they strike. Our next stop is actually just right outside of Darwin,” said Locke.

“A man named Tom called about a possible desert death adder” said Jude. “Highly venomous, Chris, so keep your wits about you or you’ll be good as dead.” he said half jokingly.

“Oh don’t scare ‘em like that Jude, we have nothing to worry about as long as we’re precautious.” said Locke.

“You guys are the ones with the dangerous part of the job,” I said with a laugh. “I get the easiest part of it all.” I grabbed my large DSLR camera and checked the battery life and made sure the settings were correct for the third time to make sure to prevent any possible camera mishaps. This assignment, if shot well, could do a lot for me as far as building a reputation.

I was the only one in the trio that didn’t have an extensive background with reptiles. When I first received the offer to shoot this assignment, I thought they might have us traveling deep into the bush, but I soon found out that most of these snakes can be found in many Australian suburbs, where city meets country. In a way, our mission was to kill two birds in one stone. Locke and Jude would perform their service and remove snakes that had found their way too close to people and release them back into the wild, and I would photograph it all. My part of the job was straight forward. The magazine wanted photos that illustrated how many of Australia’s most dangerous snakes can wind up close to humans, and that’s exactly what they were going to get.

Locke, or Dr. Locke Beckett for formality's sake, was a zookeeper at the Taronga Zoo in Sydney, specializing in reptiles. Dr. Jude Cornell also shared a love for snakes, and was known in Australia for his toxicology research with snake venom. He served as Locke’s right-hand man for this trip, and had anti- venom at the ready.

After continuing to drive for about a half an hour, Locke turned the jeep onto a gravel driveway and pulled up to a trailer sized house resting on stilts, three feet above the ground. A small plastic playground set up for toddlers stood in the grassy front yard.

“I reckon the snake is cooling off under one of those tarps under the house.” said Jude. “Perfect place for it on a day like this.” Today had been especially sweltering, and we had all sweat through our shirts from our first encounter with the Eastern brown. Regardless, we were all anxious and eagerly hopped out of the Jeep to hopefully encounter the death adder.

“Crazy to think that there are children playing alongside deadly snakes.” I said as we approached the small porch attached to the house.

“Snakes are just a part of everyday life here in Australia. They’ve been wandering around here a lot longer than we have.” Locke said with enthusiasm.

Before we could reach the porch, a stocky, older man walked out onto the small porch. He reminded me of Santa with his trim snow white hair and beard, along with his firm-looking pot belly that was accentuated by his neatly tucked in t-shirt.

“G’day gentlemen! I bet you’re here about my snake problem.” said the man.

“In fact we are!” replied Locke. “I’m Locke, this is my partner Jude, and here we have our photographer, Chris.”

“Nice to meet you all, I’m Tom. I appreciate you comin’ out to help me get rid of the feller. Scared the hell out of me when I saw it a couple days ago”

“Absolutely, of course! So now the question is, where can we find it.”

“Down in the cellar in the backyard over here.” Tom motioned with his hand for us to follow him.

“I wonder how it found its way down into the cellar.” Jude wondered aloud.

I had seen cellars attached to houses before, but a cellar with doors parallel to the ground in the center of a backyard was new to me. The doors had rust around the handles and hinges, with dark green paint blistering off from being directly in the sun day after day. The more I thought about it, there was no evidence of any space large enough for a snake to find its way in, and looking at the contemplative expression on Jude’s face, I could tell he was thinking the same thing. But my knowledge of snakes was limited to say the least. I’m sure there are more ways than one for a snake to find its way into a cool, underground cellar.

The doors creaked as Tom pulled them both open, revealing a set of concrete steps leading down into the cellar. This thing was more like a bunker than anything. The cool air of the cellar hit like a wave, and offered a moments relief from the sun’s rays.

“Looks like a bit of a tight fit down there.” said Locke. “I think it might be best if I go down and have a look first and locate the snake.”

Jude and I both agreed, and remained at the opening of the cellar. It was hard to view what was going on from our angle. The bunker-like room extended to left at the base of the stairs. The cellar didn’t have superb lighting from what little I could see, and Locke used his pocket flashlight to get a better look. The one thing I did notice was that Tom seemed to become increasingly uncomfortable as time went on. His eyes kept darting back and forth between the house and the cellar. As strange as it seemed at first, I could understand why one might become uncomfortable. It wouldn’t be a great day for Tom if someone was bit by a venomous snake on his property. Jude seemed to quickly take notice to Tom’s behavior as well, and promptly began the small talk.

“I’m actually from Darwin, born and raised. We actually heard something about a missing woman from here earlier on the radio.”

“Oh yes, indeed. You know, it’s funny that you mention that.” Tom turned and motioned to the only other house about a mile down the desolate gravel road. “The missing woman actually lived just down the road there. Crazy. Sweet woman, she was. Recently widowed actually. She’s got a sad story to tell. But that’s for another time.” Tom said with a coldness.

“Oh jeez, that is crazy. I don’t know if I’d feel comfortable staying here by myself after that” I said. Tom remained silent, and I wondered if I had said the wrong thing.

Luckily, Locke returned to the surface a moment later.

“I couldn’t find anything down there. He must have found a way out. My bet is it’s under your shady house. I saw a rodent scurrying around when we were walking up earlier.” said Locke. “Shade and food on a day like this is exactly what a snake needs. If you don’t mind, I’d be more than happy to take a look.”

Tom paused for a moment, glancing back again at the house.

“Sure, sure! That’d be great. But first, why don’t we go inside for a moment and have a drink to cool off. You all look like you need it. I made my special fresh lemonade this mornin” said Tom.

None of us could argue with that logic, and we all proceeded to walk into his home. As we followed Tom into the house, my eyes were met with the head of a dingo, a dead one, hanging directly ahead of the front door.

“That’s sure a statement piece you’ve got here.” I said with a smile.

“Like it eh? Did it myself.” Tom said as he walked into the kitchen.

I soon noticed that the dingo wasn’t the only taxidermied animal in the room. The living area was chock full of different furried animals. A wombat, a fox, and to my surprise, a koala. There were several other small to medium sized mammals erected around the room. The koala was somehow perched onto a thick, long stick, standing upright out of a large terra cotta pot, making the taxidermied koala that much more uncomfortable to look at.

“Wow, you’re pretty good, they look so real.... I’ve heard taxidermy isn’t the easiest thing to do.”

“It’s a passed down art form.” said Tom. “My father taught me everything I know.” he said with pride in his voice.

I saw Jude quickly shake his head in disapproval at the sight of the koala.

“Have you ever heard of the Koala Protection Act, Tom?” Locke fired quickly at Tom, with an air of seriousness replacing his upbeat demeanor.

Tom began to chuckle, a small grin escaping his lips. “Calm down, Locke. My father passed that one down to me, and his father passed it down to him. Got the papers to prove it if you’d like to see”

A wave silence fell over the group for what seemed like an eternity, but in reality was only about three seconds.

“I don’t think that will be necessary.” Locke solemnly replied.

Tom’s half smile still remained. “Well anywho, let me get that lemonade. This way into the kitchen, gentlemen.”

We followed Tom through the small door frame. Although small, it was clean and quaint, a nice contrast to the living room full of dead animals. Photos of a young boy and girl were hanging on the fridge, along with silly crayon scribble drawings. Must be his grandkids. The kitchen opened up to a small nook, with a table and two chairs placed along the window. Locke and I took a seat at the table while Jude leaned up against the counter. Looking out onto the plastic playset outside, I thought back to the idea of children playing so close to something that could kill them with one bite. Their small bodies wouldn’t stand a chance. An adult has at least a little bit of time before the ill effects of the venom fully set in.

The clanking of glass cups roused me from my thought, and Tom began pouring lemonade from a glass pitcher.

“You know, taxidermy isn’t as easy as one might think.” Tom said, looking in my direction.

Oh god. I thought we were leaving this topic behind.

“Yeah? Why do you say that?” I immediately regretted my choice of words. Asking him to tell me more probably wasn’t the wisest choice.

“Well,” Tom said as he loaded the the tall, sweating glasses of lemonade onto a dainty metal tray. He began to walk towards the table. “There are many elements that go into successfully preserving an animal's body, Chris.” His eyes flicked up to meet mine. The quick and unexpected eye contact was enough to send goosebumps up my arms.

“Really now?” I responded, pathetically trying to terminate a conversation that I wasn’t sure how to shut down.

Tom exhaled sharply, and I could tell my attempt to end the conversation was not about to work. He set the metal tray onto the table. Upon receiving my glass, I couldn’t drink it fast enough, and I was the first to finish. I didn’t realize how thirsty I was until my lips hit the sweet liquid. Delicious. Locke and Jude downed their beverages just as quick, and its smooth, sweet tartness seemed to be enough to lighten up the mood for a moment or two.

“Taxidermy only preserves the skin, you see.” The mood quickly reverted to awkward and tense. “ You don’t have the organs, fat, muscle, and cartilage that help form the true structure and shape of the animal. The skin is removed and then mounted on a mannequin in the shape that resembles the animal. That’s the hard part of it all. It’s not the stripping of skin from an animal, it’s creating that perfectly shaped mannequin for the skin and fur to lay atop. It’s a meticulous process if I do say so.”

The small grin on Tom��s face still remained. It was really starting to piss me off, that smugness of it all. It made his taxidermy talk seem out of spite towards Locke and Jude, as if he was trying to push their buttons, and it seemed to be working. Locke and Jude looked annoyed, but I didn’t take them as the type who easily lost their cool. He was probably just some crazy old kook after all.

“I never knew that about taxidermy.” I said.

I turned my back to the window to face Jude and Tom. The heat must have taken its hold on me, because nauseousness began to wave over. Downing a highly sugared drink probably didn’t help.

“Hey Tom, I’m sorry, but would you mind if I had a glass of water?” I said.

“Not a problem. You look faint, mate. Here, hand me your glass.” said Tom, eyes looking upon me with uncomfortable intent. That smug smile still remained.

I reached to grab my glass, but knocked it onto the linoleum floor with the backside of my knuckles. I watched the glass crash to the ground- I was more out of it than I thought.

Tom casually walked over to the corner of the kitchen and grabbed a broom and dust pan. He began to calmly sweep up the glass. I guess I wouldn’t be getting any water from him today.

“You know gentleman, I have a taxidermy bucket list.”

A wave of confusion and fear rolled over me. What the hell was he talking about?

I watched as Locke began to lean up against the wall, as a faintness grew upon him as well. Suddenly, Jude crashed to the ground, his head narrowly missing the corner of the small table.

“What the fuck is going on?!” Locke yelled with his last bit of energy.

I was passing out, we were all passing out, and before I had the chance to tumble out of my chair, I crossed my arms on top of the table and rested my head atop. My limbs felt so heavy to lift. I could hear glass crunching. I lifted my head to look forward at Locke, only to see that he was fully slumped against the wall with eyes shut.

“I only.. one species... left to attempt on my… list… the most difficult...”

The words began to sound more and more warped, like an adult speaking in one of those Peanuts episodes. I kept fading out further and further, and there was nothing I could do. I couldn’t stand, speak, or understand what was going on around me. All I could do was give in to the overwhelming drowsiness.

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hustlebonezzzz · 4 years

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Funeral Directing: The Art of Death

Patrick Wendt was in the business of death. To put it in less daunting terms, Mr. Wendt was a funeral director, and had been a part of the Wendt family business since his early childhood. The business runs deep, Pat being the sixth of seven generations to run the funeral home. His nephew now takes the reigns, becoming the seventh generation to run Wendt Funeral Home.

Illinois oldest funeral home run by a single family had its beginnings in 1866, with J. Robert Earler, a German immigrant, opening the first Wendt funeral parlor in Port Byron, IL. From there, the business continued to be passed down generation after generation. It became a rite of passage. These days, Pat is settled down and retired after a full career funeral directing.

As I pulled into the secluded cul-de-sac to meet Patrick, I came to a crawl, finally stopping in front of a quaint pastel yellow home. I had ten minutes until our interview, and my anxiousness and anticipation grew. I only knew what was provided on the Wendt website, detailing the long history of the parlor. I was impressed to say the least, and wondered what an entire life dedicated to this field could make of a man. I’ve had my fair share of funerals in the past, and even the ones for those of which I vaguely knew were hard. Seeing people in deep grieving is always hard, despite whether you are close to them or not. The one thing I did know was that Patrick was very familiar with this and had undoubtedly gone through this process over and over.

I waited for the right moment to walk up to the house, but the front door swang wide open and who I presumed to be Mr. Wendt stared directly at my car. This was my cue and it was time to make my move. I made my way to the door, and he welcomed me with a warm smile and told me to call him Pat. I began to relax. He wore a pastel yellow polo, matching the color of his house, and his full head of snow white hair was neatly combed. Upon entering, I couldn’t help but take note of the impeccable neatness and simplicity of the home. We took our seats in the living room, a space that felt oddly familiar to me. It consisted of two padded armchairs, a couch, coordinating side and coffee tables, and an area rug. My eyes locked onto the box of tissues perfectly centered on the coffee table, and that’s when I knew. The living room in many ways mirrored a funeral parlor, from the tissues to the style of furniture- though it was a much brighter and cheery version.

I asked Pat to start from the very beginning, and he began to recall fondly of his early interactions with the family business.

“When I was ten- maybe nine, I can distinctly remember my father getting all of us up, taking us to the funeral home at 6 O’Clock in the morning and shoveling off the driveway,” Pat said.

A plan had been laid out for Pat and his brothers. According to Pat, “It was get married, go to mortuary college, and live in the apartment above the funeral home.”

After the death of his father in 1967, Pat with his two brothers became partners to run the funeral home. His third brother got out of the business altogether and moved to Florida. Pat’s time with Wendt Funeral Home shined through with his passion and vast knowledge for the field. He spoke with a calm confidence that invoked a sense of expertise, and he was quick to acknowledge that things have changed between 1967 and now- most notably the cost.

Today, “A typical, what I would call traditional funeral that involves a visitation, a service, and transportation to the cemetery, will run you between $8,000 and $9,000.” Pat said. “Depending on the casket and services we can get it as low as $5,000 in some cases.”

Pat noted the old way of pricing funeral costs, saying “Funerals used to come in package deals. You paid for the funeral based on the price of the casket. But every funeral included a hearse, a limousine for the family, a lead car, and occasionally a pallbearer car.”

He then explained that this changed when congress created a policy in hopes of reducing the cost for the consumer. The policy made funeral directors separately charge for each item and service they provided, as opposed to a one-price package deal.

Pat said that “this forced funeral directors to account for and really figure out what the cost of every item was to the last nickel. So then a funeral director had to look at it like, well the casket cost me $600… typical retail markup is twice, or three times that… By the time we got done, it ended up costing the families more because the funeral director was actually focused in on what the cost was to them.”

As much as funeral directors were against the government getting involved with their businesses, the fact of the matter was that it greatly increased profitability.

“It’s typical. When the government gets involved, it gets screwed up.” Pat said with a laugh.

This created a temporary boom in the market. But as traditional funeral costs soared, the popularity of cremation grew and the boom began to fade.

“Not so much today, but back in the day these were businesses that usually made a handsome living. There's no denying it.” Pat said.

Now, Pat sees the funeral industry taking a turn and said he can foresee the industry to evolve into exclusively removal and cremation services. In 1967, cremation services totaled 4%. Today it makes up 45%.

“That doesn’t mean funeral homes per se are going to go out of business, but there's going to be an alternative that just deals with cremation.” Pat said.

On the topic of cremation, Pat shared some not-so-common knowledge information about the process. It turns out that cremation doesn’t just incinerate the body into ash, as many might assume. According to Pat, “Everybody assumes that the fire turns you to ashes, and it doesn’t. They come out as bones. And then they run you through a grinder.”

Even more, some never return to pick up the remains of their family members. Pat said that “After six months to a year, the remains are surrendered to the county to be put in a common grave. The county makes a note of where the remains are at if anybody decides to go visit.”

As the majority of America continues to transition to cremation over burial, Pat remains firm that “this change is driven by the cost partially, but I see it more as a change in societal norms… the tenderness of their mercies are starting to decline is where I’m coming from… And again that’s part of society not worrying about how they bury their dead.”

I pressed Pat further on why he thought the tenderness of their mercies were declining. Before he spoke, he clasped his hands in his lap, and a look of contemplation washed over him. Pat had been gentle and careful with his words throughout our conversation, a skill acquired through a profession that required just that.

Pat continued after a moment, saying that he knows things have changed for the worst in his eyes because “People don’t show up dressed for a funeral. They walk in, they’ve got their 36 oz mug with them, and they’re in cut offs.”

Pat raised his hands up in a half shrug, conveying without words a “What can you really do?”

In the end, Pat admitted that he understands why many families opt for cremation over burial, his main point being that “From a transportation standpoint, families can live all over the country. People have jobs, and it can be difficult to get everyone together for a funeral. Typically when that happens, we cremate them and we’ll have a service later when they can arrange a time to get together.”

After talking about his past and the logistics of running a funeral home, I finally asked him what it really takes to be a good funeral director. Pat replied, “You have to have empathy for everybody. You have to be able to put yourself in their position, number one. You have to be good at communication so people know that you’ve got their best interest at heart. I’m not equating them to the clergy, but you are meeting them at the worst time in their lives, and it’s up to you to guide them through.”

When I was anxiously sitting in my car an hour prior, I thought I might perhaps meet a hardened and desensitized man. I’d assumed that a career like this would require a good amount of going through the motions day after day. After we said our goodbyes and I had left, I began to think about empathy and what it really meant to empathize. On an individual level, dealing with our own emotions is taxing enough, but to share the feelings of another during “the worst time in their lives” as your job… I can only imagine it’s a hard labor of love. After my hour with Pat concluded, I realized how wrong I was with my preconceptions. Pat wasn’t desensitized; he had mastered the ability to feel.

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hustlebonezzzz · 4 years

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A look back on my past hairstyles

Hair is a strange thing. It is a social phenomenon of self expression that can communicate a meaningful message to the world around us. The inferences we make based on someone’s hair is huge. Religion, gender roles/sexuality, socio- economic background, or even political leanings, are just a few examples. Hair is a tool of individual identity, and we are obsessed with hair in our modern culture. The time and money spent on hair is grand. At any given store, there are whole aisles dedicated to hair care and maintenance. I’ve even seen hair dye at the gas station. Sometimes, I think about how before hair dye, people had to live with their graying hair. There was no hiding it. These days we attach others peoples hair to our own head, get hair transplant procedures to prevent thinning, and most importantly, we alter our hair chemistry with harsh chemicals.

In my own experience, I never thought I had very much going on with my hair throughout my life, at least as far as being meaningful. However, as I sat and thought about all of my past hair styles and choices, I realized that my hair played far more of an emotional role than I had ever imagined. It still does. A bad hair day can ruin any day, honestly. So without further ado, I present my visually dated descent into madness as shown through my past hairstyles.

***

Ages 0-5: At this point in life, societal expectations of hair was not on the radar. You were busy being a kid and not caring.

6-11: The bob/bang combo haunts you. Mom has taken all creative liberties over your hair and has decided that this haircut is IT. You are not completely self aware yet and still have yet to care. You’ve barely brushed it these past five years anyway. It’s just hair, right? Right… But what’s this? At age 11 you look in the mirror one day and think “this.. looks oddly familiar… oh no, oh god, *gasp* I look like COCONUT HEAD from Ned’s Declassified!” You decide to live on the edge and say fuck it! You sweep the bang to the side, slightly. A new era of hair is in the making. Remember that self awareness we talked about earlier? It is arriving.

12: Mom decides that it’s time for a bang trim and you are back to square one. You do not oppose the supreme Authority and her desire for the bang. You also chemically alter your virgin hair for the first time. Mom convinces you that highlights would be “sooo cute!” and you oblige willingly. The process is exciting and the anticipation builds through each step. The mixing of the bleach, the slathering onto the hair, the foil, the waiting. You finally wash it out and it’s time for the big reveal: You hate it deeply and cry many tears. You don’t have the heart or guts to tell Mom that you hate it, so you tell her that you love it. “Amy, have you been crying?” “No..”

This is also the point where you discover the flat iron. Everyone in middle school is straightening their hair, therefore you do as well. Simple as that. You desire to be hip and on trend, and this means clothes from Aeropostale, plaid bermuda shorts, and pin straight hair.

13: Dad has convinced Mom that it’s time to let you have a little independence with your hair, and she can’t pretend that you’re her little 6 year old forever. You haven’t realized it yet, but Mom is having a hard time with you growing up. Anyways, now we can really get to business. You want to be “scene” so bad, but you know that will never happen, so you try to keep it lowkey. Swoop-y bangs, layers, and hair growth? Yes, yes, and yes. They layers get a little too short and you look like a founding father when you put your hair in a ponytail, but you like this for some reason. You’re also still trying to figure out the bang situation, but rest assured you’ll get their in a few years time. Also, you SO wish you could dye your hair fire-engine red like Hayley Williams. In your dreams, girl.

14-15: You have decided that flat iron = the devil. You have crispified that absolute shit out of you hair over the past couple years, and you decide that au natural is the way to be. The bangs continue to grow until the entire forehead is consumed, resembling a mushroom cap. You’ve started high school, and you hide behind the bangs that you refuse to push out of your eyes. Social self awareness levels: off the charts.

At 15, you took the plunge and decided to razor cut your bangs all by yourself, holding your breath the entire time. You angle them, shortest point a half inch above the brow, longest point, right below the brow. And they look.. Good? You covered all the bases. Swoop-y? Check. Covering entire forehead? Double check. Eureka, you have found THE bang. A hair stylist will NEVER touch your precious bangs ever again. They will try and they will fail. You’ve also done away with the extreme layers and have decided that it’s time to grow out your precious mane.

16: You got your first job at the grocery store and bought red Manic-Panic hair dye from Sally’s. This is about as close to Hayley Williams as you will get for awhile. Despite the tasteful placement, mom ain’t pleased. Dad ain’t pleased because the dye stained the sink. Oops. But you’ve always wanted to dye your hair and teen angst is beginning to take over. You were inspired to do it because your best friend put a single stripe of purple in her hair. You expressed that you weren’t sure if you should put the red in because you didn’t want to piss off Mom. Her response? And I quote, “Do it pussy.” That’s all you needed.

17: You get caught sneaking out to go hang out with your scumbag boyfriend (unfortunately, you figure out the scumbag part far too late). Mom gets mad and cuts off your hair in blind rage.You cherished your newfound long locks and she knew that. You dread going to school the next day with your botched haircut. The haircut feels like a permanent scarlet letter. Everyone asks the same question: “So what made you want to cut your hair?” You respond “Just needed a change, I guess.” You feel ashamed and embarrassed every time, like your teachers and peers know the real story.

After getting the haircut fixed by an actual stylist, you dig the short, sassy hair. You decide that this haircut was meant to be and embrace the hell out of it. It was a great character building moment anyways.. right? Later, you discover Sun-In, a spray in lightener that promises natural highlights. You spray too much on and your hair turns a strange brass shade. Jake from work asks “Did you dye your hair?” “Yes.” “Oh.” The “Oh” echoes in your mind. Oh? Just oh? You don’t like my hair, Jake? It’s cool. It’s fine.

18: Ah. the age of legal adultness. You get fed up and move out of the clutches of your family home and in with your best friend. This was clearly a recipe for a drastic hair change. After all, you could do whatever the hell you wanted now. Less than a week later of being gone, you dye your hair bright pink, and then later purple. You are feelin’ damn good. When you come home for Christmas, your four year old sister proudly exclaims, “You look like a My Little Pony!!” Pinky Pie, to be exact. After getting disappointed looks from the rest of the family, you find that your sisters enthusiasm was really all you needed. Pinky Pie is awesome.

You continue to learn that you get more attention with bright hair, and it’s a great conversation starter. The attention is mainly positive, but occasionally, a boomer will chime in with the rude opinion you never asked for. The personal favorite remains: “Kill the manic who did THAT to your hair!” You respond “I don’t really want to kill myself.”

You then panic at the thought of graduating high school and being perceived as immature for having bright hair, so you dye it brown and cut it shorter than it’s ever been. It’s an angled cut, and you feel like a Karen. Instinctually, you immediately message “I’ve made a grave mistake.” to the group chat you had with your friends. You are very melodramatic and your friends think that you must have crashed your car or something. Nope, just another bad hair cut. But life goes on and it grows out. Thankfully, you recover from the Karen cut just in time for graduation.You attempt to dye it deep brown, and it turns black. It’s all good though.

19: You decide that you still want color and opt for a small peek-a-boo section of the hair. “Do it pussy” forever resonates in your mind. Purple, blue, red, and orange are the colors of choice. You get a better boyfriend with this hair, and all is well in the world. You feel cool, yet classy. Was this your hair peak?

20: The brown keeps fading out and looking all blotchy from that time you decided to bleach it for the pink and purple. You decide that you need to cleanse your hair of it’s sins. This means more bleach. Fuck it, you are going blonde. This is the last time you will torture your hair with chemicals. Alas, the blonde doesn’t last very long.

You want some flair, so you go for the most bold natural color and order natural red henna powder. Everyone thinks it’s real. Ha, fools. You get tired of breaking hearts when you explain to those who ask that this is indeed not your natural color. You instead opt for the response “Grew it myself,” which is technically not a lie.

21: You continue to discover how much old men fetishize red hair and think you must be feisty or something. Gross. “You know what they say about women with red hair, right?” “No?” You also grow it out and recover what was lost in high school. Your friends cheer you on and convince you to hold off on chopping it when you’re having a moment. Things get weird and sad after leaving the community college and starting the big ol’ university. You gain 25lbs and revert to straight bangs and a middle part, and use your hair to hide again. It’s kind of sadistic. You quickly learn that this choice is a mistake and revert back to your true form: side part and angled bang.

22: It’s finally long.. but also very crispy. It’s time to say goodbye. You’ve been wanting to say goodbye. The hairstylist gets cold feet and doesn’t cut off as much as you ask her. You don’t say a damn thing, and eventually finish the job at home. Who knew cutting hair at home was so easy? Money and time become scarce, so retouching the auburn color doesn’t really happen anymore. In the past this might have troubled you, but for now you don’t really care.

***

So there you have it. It’s just hair, right? Dead stuff growing out of your head. Well, yes. But it doesn’t take a genius to understand that hair is a big part of many people's identity. It’s one of the first things we tend to notice about others. Whether we mean to or not, we prejudge on appearances. Hair can get so emotional the more you think about it. I never knew how emotionally attached I was to my hair until it was taken away from me at age 17. Personally, my hair was a security blanket growing up. I learned to use it as a way of hiding my face and shying away from others. It was also one of the few things I had control over, and indeed became a major part of my young identity. Turning 18, I asserted my own ultimate control when I dyed my whole head bright pink. I now realize that this was in essence my way of letting my odd family know that I was in charge of my own endeavors from now on. The legality of turning 18 meant so much to me at the time, and pink hair was a grand symbol of it all.

So now I invite you to go look back on your old photos and brew on them. Reminisce, perhaps. Ultimately, you should at the very least laugh, because I know we’ve all had shitty haircuts at some point.

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hustlebonezzzz · 4 years

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Lessons on Humanity as Taught by a Grocery Store

At 16, I picked up my first job bagging groceries at the local supermarket. I didn’t know it yet, but the people pleaser in me was about to learn a fast lesson about the very nature of people. Thus far, I’d spent the majority of my time around others my own age, and what I had gathered is that teenagers are damn crazy- which is true of course. We all know that. But subjecting myself to hundreds of people every shift would expose me to the town’s finest, savory and unsavory as they come. I’d soon learn that people in general are actually damn crazy, especially when you throw in the customer-employee dynamic.

Truthfully, it was an easy job. However, 16 year old me was a big ol’ softy, and a raised voice was enough to get the tears welling up. Frankly, I needed this job to burst my big softy bubble. Before the popping of the bubble, I spent the night before my first day on the job worrying about all of the wrong things.

What if I’m really bad at bagging?

What if I smash someone's bread?

What if I hit someone’s car bringing in carts?

What if my coworkers don’t like me?

Unbeknownst to me, a whole saga of wild interactions was coming my way. So let us begin at the root of it all: The customer.

Part One: Old People

It’s important to know that this grocery chain’s main clientele was that of the older folk. And the customer is ALWAYS right. Hell no they’re not. But you at least have to kiss the ground they walk on regardless. And that’s lesson number one: Swallow your pride. Customers, usually the old ones, have a funny way of making the easiest jobs seem hard at times simply because they know you have to swallow down that pride like a spoonful of sugar.

Not long after being hired, I dyed my hair a bright shade of pink, garnering more attention than I typically received from customers. And oh boy, old folks have a thing for colored hair. You could just see the burning temptation in their eyes to give their two cents on the matter, albeit typically not positive. But to my surprise, this bitterness I was met with only fueled me. I felt strong for maintaining my customer service poker face as they dished out the rude opinion no one asked for.

“Why pink? I don’t understand why kids these days do THAT to their hair. And the piercings too! Yuck!”

“Kill the maniac who did that to your hair!! Hur hur hur!”

“I just enjoy the color pink,” never seemed to suffice. But I would never break the smile. That’s key.

On the outside, my favorite duty at work was bringing in carts because it offered relief from the constant chaos unfolding inside. Being outdoors, however, didn’t mean escaping the old folks and their infallible wisdom just yet. Old men would shout at me that pushing carts is “a man’s job” or ask “Where are the boys?? You don’t belong out here!” The plot only thickened as some of the older gentlemen would attempt to push in carts for me. Naturally, they failed miserably. Cart pushing is an art form to be mastered, and I will stand by that statement until I hit the grave.

Part Two: Creepy Men

It’s not only “boomers” who had a tendency of being a bit aggravating, or at the very least, entertaining. I would come to learn that some choice men reveled in taking advantage of a young female being outside alone, on the clock, getting carts. What was more inviting? The fact that I was alone, or the fact that I was obviously working and obligated to approach every person with a customer service oriented attitude? Interesting.

With that said, I just want to put it out there that skrrting your car to block my path of carts, proceeding to ask for my number, and then getting upset when the momentum of ten carts slam into your car, is not an effective way to get my number.

Don’t get me wrong, being back on the inside wasn’t enough to save the young women from creepy men.

As a middle-aged man, if my manager tells you that I am “underage” when you ask, and you still come through my line to make the move anyway… yeah, I don’t think that needs further elaboration.

Part Three: The Karen

Ahh yes, the notorious “Karen.” We all know her, we all hate her. She’s the one who yells at you about the prices you have no control over. Or for your refusal to use the expired coupon that isn’t even for this specific grocery store. You look at your phone to quickly check the time, and she catches sight of it- instinctively abandoning her shopping duties to inform the management. She lets her kids destroy the candy you organized to perfection moments earlier. It goes on and on.

Honestly, A Karen isn’t necessarily even a woman and doesn’t require a mom-bob and minivan. If you’re entitled, irritable, and expect service outside the realm of the employees pay grade, you’re a Karen.

For instance, a man asks my dear friend, Taylor, to open his 12-packs of soda and bag the cans. No big deal. Taylor opens the boxes in the fashion most people would open a cardboard box, taking care to not disturb the carbonation within. The man is clearly annoyed with Taylor’s performance and asks “Are you on medications?”

Swallow the pride Taylor, swallow the pride.

Without missing a beat, the man then grabs a 12-pack of soda, cracks in half over his knee, and aggressively dumps the cans into the bag.

Part Four: Division of Labor

One thing I was not prepared for, however, was the customers who didn’t understand anything about the division of labor in the workplace. Perhaps it’s the fact that we’re all wearing the same stupid red uniform, or that customers see all grocery store employees as mindless slave laborers, but they all think we know everything about the store.

They also connect this with their fantastic concept of the back room, where apparently we have barrels of every product ready to be taken out to the aisles. The people who stock the aisles have their own shit going on with pallets and forklifts, so when a customer sends me back there looking for more gluten free marshmallows, it’s a guarantee that I’m just going to walk back there, do nothing for a minute or so, and walk back out saying I couldn’t find any. Because even if I did miraculously find it 40 feet above my head on a pallet, I’m not going on some Indiana Jones adventure to reclaim it for you.

Part Five: The Co-Workers

One of the things that I caught on to when working at the grocery store is the need to fight for an identity in the workplace. Because at any job, people want to pigeonhole you into easily definable categories so they don’t have to think about co-workers as complex human beings. For example, my position was as grocery bagger, which is a position generally designed for high school kids for the most part, at least where I worked. So in the eyes of the various departments of the store, baggers remain at the bottom of the totem pole.

Even as I grew older with the job, I found myself trying to prove the assumptions of my co-workers wrong. You had to confront people and advocate on your own behalf that you are more than what your shitty position implies. Especially when other departments think they can pawn off the work no one else wants to do to the lowly baggers, i.e. cleaning the shitplosion in the men’s restroom. Nope. Never ever. If I have to push carts during a Midwestern summer, I exempt myself from the atrocities that lie within the bathrooms.

Part Six: Corporate

My favorite part of corporate was the various “store improvement” tactics that they would implement. The most memorable tactic remains the “Red Carpet Service '' movement, where they demanded that the baggers do the carry-out service for EVERY single customer. Let me tell you, there is nothing more demeaning than staring into the eyes of a couple the same age as you and beg them to please let you take their groceries out to the car because management is standing right behind everyone, ready to crack the whip.

Another tactic was changing the uniform once a year, because that helps store performance, right? But seriously, I just want to know who gave the okay on changing black slacks to JEANS. Jeans may be cute for those working inside all day… but have you ever sweated in jeans? Have you ever sweated in skinny jeans?

My favorite tactic of them all was the new way of encouraging holiday dinner donations. For Thanksgiving, it was Turkey Bucks. For Christmas, it was Ham Bucks. If a cashier successfully obtained a donation from the customer, the next step was to get on the intercom and say “Gobble, gobble!” Or “Oink, oink!” I cannot make this up. Picture it, every 30 seconds, the song playing throughout the store is interrupted with a soulless “Gobble, gobble.” If anything, this puzzled the customers on so many indescribable levels.

Conclusion: Fever Dream?

No, the five years I spent at the grocery store was not a fever dream. But damn, as much as I hated my job, I loved it just as much. My strongest friendships came from that job, and there’s something oddly liberating about working with people from all walks of life, suffering together through a shift knowing that you’re all just doing what you have to do to get that coin and make it in the world.

Truthfully, the absurdities of the job made it all worth it, because although in the moment it was stressful and annoying, the laughs that came after with my co-workers were pure magic. Learning to laugh and not taking everything so seriously is the greatest lesson I could take from it all. We learned to laugh amidst the flames and sheer boredom.

It’s a guarantee that anyone who has worked a customer service job knows that faith in humanity can be destroyed and restored ten times over in one shift, but we can’t forget those that restore it. Not all people lack the ability to empathize and understand someone’s situation.

I am so incredibly thankful for all of the hours spent at the store and for the people who made the job difficult. I never in a million years thought I would miss it.

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