Periodically I go to a psychiatrist to discuss any problems or progress I've been having over the past several months and how I'm coping with my overall situation. Here are some excerpts from the transcript of the latest session:
Psy: You said before that you had some trouble "fitting in" with the people at the Salvation Army Vocational program. Could you elaborate on that?
Me: You know, before I entered this program, I had never known anyone who had been incarcerated. None of my friends had ever been to jail or prison ...
Psy: That you know of.
Me: Well, yeah but ... Okay. Anyway, the only thing I know about prison is what I've seen on TV like "Prison Break" or in movies like "The Shawshank Redemption". Now I'm around men and women who have been in prison, and have experienced it firsthand. Some of them have been behind bars for years, for some really heavy offenses.
Psy: They intimidate you, then. Do they physically threaten you in any way?
Me: No, I haven't had any direct confrontations with anyone there. I try to keep a low profile. But these guys I'm talking about seem to have carried their prison experiences into the SA program, which results in something like a prison atmosphere where I live.
Psy: A prison atmosphere?
Me: It can be something as simple as some of those guys going around and calling you, "cellie." As in cellmate, you know? When I think of it, the SA dorms where I live could be seen as a kind of minimum risk prison. You have to sign in and sign out whenever you leave the property, and surrender your ID at the desk. They have strict curfews which if broken can result in harsh penalties like being kicked off the property for 24-48 hours. You have to take a beathalyzer test whenever you re-enter the SA campus. All your actions are monitored on video. Stuff like that.
Psy: SA likely has those restrictions and rules in place for a reason.
Me: I know. I'm just saying that it all tends to make me feel somewhat sequestered at times. And to be honest a lot of that stuff shouldn't apply to me anyway. I've never been in jail, and I don't have drug or alcohol addictions. Sometimes I think it's unfair I'm subject to the same restrictions as the others.
Psy: You believe you're better than your fellow clients at SA?
Me: Not better ... Well, maybe I do think I'm "better', in a sense. I mean, I can read and speak in complete sentences. A lot of these guys are nearly illiterate. Their speech is so ridden with accents, twangs, regionalisms and whatnot that it can be difficult to understand them at times. They probably think I'm hard of hearing because I have to ask them to repeat themselves so often. Often, there is a lot of street slang that I've never heard before. Usually, I'll just smile and nod when I don't completely get what they're saying. And it's not just the clients. The caseworkers -- who are often former clients and recovering addicts themselves -- have a tendency toward bad grammar like "Ain't none of y'all going anywhere til we get your IDs" or the like.
Psy: And you feel that separates you from them?
Me: Not to brag, but my speech and diction are clear; I worked in voiceover, so it had to be intelligible. I don't have a college degree, but I have taken some college level courses and wouldn't exactly call myself a dimwit. Put it this way: I'm smart enough to admit my ignorance when or if the occasion arises. And I'd like to think I possess a fair degree of common sense. I actually value that quality over a formal education; I can find plenty of people who possess degrees but are still lacking in common sense and common courtesy for that matter.. Present company excluded, of course.
Psy: What's that? I was posting on Facebook.
Me: I said, 'Present company ...' Never mind. It's just that sometimes I feel like I've been dropped into a foreign country and I don't know the language. Like the other day when I was walking down the hall. I hear two white guys reminiscing about their prison time. Talking about walking the yard, and how much fun it was lifting weights and smoking with their homies. About how they would hang with the whites and Mexicans, but not the n*****s.
Not that they were racist, of course; it just would look good. The Aryans might take it upon themselves to frag them as race traitors if they hung around blacks. They started talking about all the changes made since they were inside, and compared all they prisons in which they'd been incarcerated over the years. Did you know that in California prisons that snitches and 'cho-mos' were kept separated from the general population and had their own yard?
Psy: I can't say I did. And what are 'cho-mos?'
Me: Prison slang for child molesters. See what you can learn if you're listening? The thing that freaked my out was the tone in which they talked about prison, like they were nostalgic. Like they missed it and wanted to go back. Frankly, I don't doubt many of them will return. It's amazing that they continue to focus on those experiences instead of putting them in the past and moving forward. You'd think the last thing an ex-con would want to do is keep re-living the past.
I was brought up to believe you obeyed the law, stayed out of trouble, and never saw the inside of a jail or prison. From the viewpoint of these SA clients, I've got it all all backwards. They make it sound like a badge of honor to have been incarcerated. When they talk about their experiences, they sound proud of their 'accomplishments'. It just doesn't make any sense to me. What do you think, Doc?
Psy: About what?
Me: Haven't you been listening?
Psy: I had some important texting to do. Go on.
Me: Right. It's just that hearing that sort of subject matter spoken of in such a casual manner is bizarre to me; I just can't understand how they consider their experiences to be 'normal'. There's apparently some sort of sign language developed in prison, too. You'll often see guys flashing their fingers in weird configurations and other ex-cellies will understand it. It's sort of like gang signs, I guess.
And it's not just the guys. A lot of the girls in the SA program often talking about how their participation is part of their parole; that's a word you hear thrown around a lot: Parole. It's not uncommon to hear them talk about seeing their PO (parole officer), or comparing notes on which PO is a prick and which isn't. It can be sobering to hear them say that if they give up on the program or walk away, they'll be in violation and immediately be subject to re-incarceration.
Rain Man, the guy on my culinary class team is one such. His parole is contingent on staying with SA. Otherwise he'll go back to the joint here in Nevada. As if that's not bad enough, he's also subject to doing time back east as well. He obviously has a lot riding on this, but he's also given hints that he could buck and run is so pressured. He says he's spent most of his adult life in various prisons around the US.
Psy: You were talking about the women?
Me: Oh, now you're paying attention. Yeah, the women seem just as proud of their jail time as the guys. One of my kitchen co-workers and fellow students is a large black woman named P. She actually has experience at the Cordon Bleu school of cooking but dropped out before completing the course. It may have had something to do with the story she recently told in the kitchen:
She'd been doing drugs with her baby daddy and had been dealing as well. One night the cops smashed down her door and raided the apartment in which she stayed with her family. The kids are screaming, cops are barking orders, and she ran to the bathroom to hide her stash. She flushes the toilet to make it seem she flushed the drugs, but the cops aren't fooled.
Two male officers take her to the bedroom and tell her to spread. She says, 'I almost hope they do search me, except one of them's a n****r with big-ass hands and looks like he want to go digging down there. And if two dudes try it, then I can get a lawyer to go after them.' But a female cop is called in to do the search. And, 'that bitch went all up inside my p***y. I mean all up in there, like she was gay or something. And yeah, she found it all right. Called it buried treasure and all those motherf*****s laughed. I said, s**t, I already got two busts, now I gotta go back inside.'
And she was laughing about it. Acting like it was a great time in her life, getting searched and arrested, and having to go back to prison. It makes no sense to me. It's crazy, right?
Psy: About as crazy as a man talking to himself by using the device of holding a conversation with an imaginary character.
Me: Like a psychiatrist?
Psy: That wouldn't be crazy. That would be insane.
So there's a little taste of what goes on behind the closed doors of my shrink's office. Next time I'll get back to more updates on the travesty that is my experience in the culinary class and how it's taking over my life. Whether that's a bad thing or a good thing is still open to debate. For now, that's a wrap. Having a good day?
Quote of the Day:
"I'll worry about dying in the next life."
Tuesday, January 31, 2012
Sunday, January 29, 2012
HINJFCA 15: Walking with the Dead
Haven't been able to make it to the library lately and since I'm too paranoid to use the computers at the Salvation Army I haven't posted much lately. Never fear, your humble narrator has continued with his journey through homelessness and the efforts to reorganize a self-created chaos into some semblance of a "normal life". A normal life of course is entirely subjective. Upon reflection, I sometimes think I actually feel happier these days than I did in the past. And that's when I had money. And a home, and all the ... stuff. I hope this whole experience doesn't turn out to contain the moral lesson that "possessions don't make you happy; YOU make you happy" or somesuch. Hell, if that's the case I could've picked up a Wayne Dyer book and saved myself all the misery.
So where was I ...? Right, I've become a college student once more. Now I'm enrolled at a local college taking an accelerated course in Basic Cooking, and I'm about to begin my second week there. Uniforms, books and all associated materials have been provided. Now all I have to to is ace the final and escape with at least a "C" to get the college credit. Hope that I do folks, because it's your money that's sending me to school. That's right. Your humble narrator is offering you you the chance to see your hard-earned tax dollars at work. So let's all pray that yours truly doesn't (bleep) it up.
My schedule is M-W from 3-9pm, and Ican tell you it's taking a toll on my daily routine. Normally I work in the SA kitchens from 5am-1pm, which was gruesome enough as it was. Add the extra school time and I look and feel as if I'm ready to joining the titular cast of The Walking Dead. Most of my 14 co-workers/students feel the same way. Over the weekend I've been studying the huge textbook they gave us. To be completely honest it's tough to get back into my old studying habits. After all, I can't party half the night and cram like I used to when I was younger.
The class involves lectures in a modern room with hi-def flatscreens and a lab/kitchen where grownups get to play with their food. The15 students are divided into 3 teams of 5 each. You beleive the maneuvering and politicking that went into the choosing of these teams. It was like high school all over again with all the quibbling about who won't work with whom, or so-and-so snitched on me or whatever. I frankly didn't care about which teams I landed on and so never lobbied to be on anyone's team per se. I figured no one would want me anyway because of my lack of restaurant experience.
As it happened I landed on a team with Rain Man (who you might recall is the ex-con/math wiz/iron Chef of the group) and a stocky, tempermental guy named Pitbull (not his real name, but he looks like the namesake I've given him). Pitbull had an accident in the SA kitchens earlier this week where he slashed off half his index finger while cutting lettuce. He's got far more experience that me, so you might understand why I'm nervous when having to display the mad knife skills required by good cooks.
In fact we did have to display some knife skills the second night we were there. Anyone who knows about pro cooking knows that it's all based on a foundation of French cooking. Therefore you have to learn a lot of French terminolgy, n'est-ce pas? So, you have various foodstuffs like tomatoes, potatoes being sliced and diced into cubes or batonnet, or the chiffonade, or whatever. How did I do? Let's just say it wasn't pretty. I felt dazed and confused and way out of myelement. RM and Pitbull fared much better. Frankly, I'm wondering if teaming up with them was actually the best idea. Watching them breeze through the assignments made me feel like I had to play catch up and that got me flustered on a few things.
I'll have to be honest with you here: I really don't enjoy working in a kitchen, and standing for hours in one position while cutting stuff into microscopic pieces doesn't expact get my blood pumping. At best I find it tedious, and that's being kind. So why am I putting myself through this torture? Well, you'll have to tune in for the next segment because the library is closing I have to hie me hence back to the Salvation Army.
That's a wrap!
Update (1.31.12): That was a bit of a fake cliffhanger. The reason I've stuck with the SA cooking program is because it's no money out of my pocket. However, it does take a lot of time out of my day, which I'll get into with the next installment which I'm jumping to forthwith. Be warned, it'll be one of my "creative" posts which doesn't always translate into a good post.
Incidentally, what's the distinctiion between the terms "bomb" and "bomb-ass?" Just curious.
Quote of the Day: "I have to go someplace because I have someplace to go."
So where was I ...? Right, I've become a college student once more. Now I'm enrolled at a local college taking an accelerated course in Basic Cooking, and I'm about to begin my second week there. Uniforms, books and all associated materials have been provided. Now all I have to to is ace the final and escape with at least a "C" to get the college credit. Hope that I do folks, because it's your money that's sending me to school. That's right. Your humble narrator is offering you you the chance to see your hard-earned tax dollars at work. So let's all pray that yours truly doesn't (bleep) it up.
My schedule is M-W from 3-9pm, and Ican tell you it's taking a toll on my daily routine. Normally I work in the SA kitchens from 5am-1pm, which was gruesome enough as it was. Add the extra school time and I look and feel as if I'm ready to joining the titular cast of The Walking Dead. Most of my 14 co-workers/students feel the same way. Over the weekend I've been studying the huge textbook they gave us. To be completely honest it's tough to get back into my old studying habits. After all, I can't party half the night and cram like I used to when I was younger.
The class involves lectures in a modern room with hi-def flatscreens and a lab/kitchen where grownups get to play with their food. The15 students are divided into 3 teams of 5 each. You beleive the maneuvering and politicking that went into the choosing of these teams. It was like high school all over again with all the quibbling about who won't work with whom, or so-and-so snitched on me or whatever. I frankly didn't care about which teams I landed on and so never lobbied to be on anyone's team per se. I figured no one would want me anyway because of my lack of restaurant experience.
As it happened I landed on a team with Rain Man (who you might recall is the ex-con/math wiz/iron Chef of the group) and a stocky, tempermental guy named Pitbull (not his real name, but he looks like the namesake I've given him). Pitbull had an accident in the SA kitchens earlier this week where he slashed off half his index finger while cutting lettuce. He's got far more experience that me, so you might understand why I'm nervous when having to display the mad knife skills required by good cooks.
In fact we did have to display some knife skills the second night we were there. Anyone who knows about pro cooking knows that it's all based on a foundation of French cooking. Therefore you have to learn a lot of French terminolgy, n'est-ce pas? So, you have various foodstuffs like tomatoes, potatoes being sliced and diced into cubes or batonnet, or the chiffonade, or whatever. How did I do? Let's just say it wasn't pretty. I felt dazed and confused and way out of myelement. RM and Pitbull fared much better. Frankly, I'm wondering if teaming up with them was actually the best idea. Watching them breeze through the assignments made me feel like I had to play catch up and that got me flustered on a few things.
I'll have to be honest with you here: I really don't enjoy working in a kitchen, and standing for hours in one position while cutting stuff into microscopic pieces doesn't expact get my blood pumping. At best I find it tedious, and that's being kind. So why am I putting myself through this torture? Well, you'll have to tune in for the next segment because the library is closing I have to hie me hence back to the Salvation Army.
That's a wrap!
Update (1.31.12): That was a bit of a fake cliffhanger. The reason I've stuck with the SA cooking program is because it's no money out of my pocket. However, it does take a lot of time out of my day, which I'll get into with the next installment which I'm jumping to forthwith. Be warned, it'll be one of my "creative" posts which doesn't always translate into a good post.
Incidentally, what's the distinctiion between the terms "bomb" and "bomb-ass?" Just curious.
Quote of the Day: "I have to go someplace because I have someplace to go."
Saturday, January 21, 2012
HINJFCA Part 14: Food Stuffs
A windy day in Las Vegas, with gray swollen clouds that might be the harbinger of a monsoon. Or so local residents and weatherpersons have anxiously claimed. I did walk through some gusting winds and endured bits of dirt and sand assaulting my face on the way here to the public library (see how dedicated I am to both of my readers? Sum homo indomitus, indeed). At any rate the only sign of a 'monsoon' that I've seen has been a couple stray drops of rain here and there. For some of the folks spoiled by the sunny weather I guess that constitutes a tsunami of sorts.
Some noteworthy events have been taking place lately, a few of with have apparently gotten your humble narrator in deep poo-poo (as opposed to po-po, which is urban slang for the fuzz. But you knew that, right?). We start culinary class at a local college on Monday, and so uniforms have been handed out to the participants. Almost everyone complained that the pants were too small by 1-2" or more, and had to be exchanged. Unfortunately, my correct size wasn't in the stock received at Salvation Army and so I along with three other students had to be driven across town to get out proper clothing directly from the outlet store.
Along the way one of the students, an attractive albeit heavyset girl named Candace, took pains to let us know all about how hard she used to party around Vegas. "I did anyone, anywhere, anytime," she said, seeming to brag about it. "There isn't a drug I didn't do. Hey, look! That's where my pusher used to live! Yeah, I know this area real well." She's in her late 20s and I was surprised to learn that she'd served in the Army. I didn't have the nerve to ask if she was dishonorably discharged or not. Candace is one of those people whose moods change on a daily basis, likely in accordance with how much medication she's had. I've seen her on days where she wouldn't -- or couldn't -- speak, and walked with a hunched over gait. Today, she was talkative; so much so I saw one or two of the other guys rolling their eyes and silently wishing she would shut up.
The guy who drove us also performs the driving duties for SA's Meals On Wheels program. He told us about how he had saved up $3700 and lost it all in a night's gambling, thinking he could somehow win it all back. That seems to be the quagmire most gambling addicts find themselves sucked into. He also told us how he had $500 meant for a plane ticket but went to the laundromat and after some early losses at a video poker machine almost made the money back. He stood at $495 and decided he just had to have that extra $5. He didn't. He ended up losing all his money and going home with a load of dirty laundry. Talk about insult to injury.
Another guy told us about how his son is doing marijuana and ecstasy. He said he's tried to tell the kid to stop, that it'll lead to harder drugs and he'll end up in the street like his old man. How did he tell this to his son? "Yeah, we was smokin' a joint at the bus station. I just figured he'd listen to me better if I joined him for a blow or two. You know what I mean, brother." I'd call it fuzzy logic at best.
I just mention these incidents because it never ceases to amaze me how willing people are to discuss their personal problems and demons with other people who are essentially strangers. Moreover, it often seems that such people are bragging about their wrong headed mistakes, as if they should be proud of the mistakes they've made. Since I know these guys are in various 'recovery programs', I wonder if this is the philosophy they're taught: "You're the victim of a disease. You're not responsible for what happened. You couldn't help yourself, it was beyond your control." I often heard people at SA say things like, "My addiction made me do this or that, etc."
Although this isn't the place for such a debate, I'd argue that addictions like drugs, alcohol, gambling, or even smoking are things that are are within a person's control; they just don't want to control it it. In the case of mental illness, I would call that something beyond a person's control. I've never heard of mental illness (schizophrenia, depression, bi-polar disorder) referred to as an addiction. Ironically, those who suffer from mental illness are often given such potent prescriptions that they do in fact become drug addicts after a fashion. In this case, however, the prescription makes them legal drug addictions while making billions for Big Pharma.
As earlier mentioned, your humble narrator made a faux pas of sorts. I missed an important meeting that served as an orientation for the culinary class that begins Monday. I guess it is a big deal, but I honestly was never told about the orientation. I'll likely have to bend over and grab my ankles as the caseworker in charge sticks it to me for missing the event (which she conducted). I can already hear her voice, filled with snideness and sarcasm. Ah, well. Grin and bear it as they say. Or, in one ear and out the other. I just hate having it hang over my head like the Sword of Damocles over the weekend.
Also had my first contention with a customer in the SA cafe. An older, squat woman known for being picky asked me to separate the lasagna we were serving that day. I asked what she meant by 'separate.' She said that she didn't was the pasta, just the cheese. When I said I didn't know how to do that, she walked off in a fit of pique. I could only smile at her irritation. A few minutes later, a co-worker came back from the front dining room and said, "Bro, you gotta get that old lady what she wants. I can't stand hearing her bitch about it." The situation was explained to the lead cook who suggested simply skimming off the top layer of the lasagna that contained the sauce and cheese.
He admitted that it shouldn't be served that way and that the old lady was being a "pain in the ass" but he just wanted her to shut up and go on. It didn't help, though. She still came back to complain to the lead cook about how I didn't serve her what she wanted, or that the food wasn't in the proper shape, or somesuch. The lead cook listened and sloughed off her bickering with, "All right, it's not worth the aggravation." She left, still unhappy. I don't doubt she'll have the incident 'written up'. She seems to have that kind of time on her hands. Still, not exactly a shining moment for yours truly, what?
A more extreme example of customer dissatisfaction occurred yesterday. This one didn't involve me directly. This incident stems from some efforts by the kitchen management to control the amount of food that 'mysteriously' vanishes from the kitchen. Not so mysterious because it's common knowledge that the workers (including your humble narrator) treat themselves to various goodies from produce to sodas to pastries, cakes, cookies, chips and/or whatever else might be available on a given day. In fact, it's one of the primary reasons for the weight I've gained at SA; the availability of all the snacks -- for free -- is too great a temptation to overcome. And of course, that doesn't include the free meals we hand out to ourselves as we prepare food for the customers.
All that snacking is considered fairly minor so long as the food is consumed in the kitchen/dining area. Problems stem when people try to sneak food out and take it to their dorm rooms. Too often, the crumbs will lead to insect problems with ants, roaches, or worse. Only sodas are allowed in the rooms. There's also the concern that workers might try to sell food to the homeless outside the SA entrance. But the real problem is this: Too many kitchen workers like to hook up their friends, girl/boyfriends and others with free meals.
Normally, the public pays SA $2.50 for breakfast and $3 for lunch and dinner. Not a bad deal, considering the larger portions. But too many free meals were being handed out and that starts to cost money and leaves less food for the paying customers. So the managers cracked down: no more free food. That also includes another problem area: The drinks. Normally, coffee is provided with breakfast, along with juice (actually Kool-Aid) which is provided with all meals.
The serving portion is supposed to be two 8 oz cups maximum (or a two drink maximum, if you will). The clients regularly exceed this by bringing along 20-40 oz containers with which to load up the caffeine. Obviously, that depletes the coffee supply all the quicker and results in us having to brew more of the drink, which means delays; which ultimately means the clients get pissed off at a situation that they themselves created in the first place!
I've also seen clients go to the juice cooler and fill up 2-liter bottles of the stuff. One guy turned to us with his full bottle and laughed, "Yeah, that's I do it!" The same problem doesn't exist with the public because the coffee can be regulated by us; that is, we serve it to them over the counter. Likely, that might be the solution the kitchen managers may have to adopt for the clients as well. For now, they're trying to limit the clients to 2 drinks only with no refills. So far, there hasn't been a whole lot of cooperation with the program. The clients seem to feel they're entitles to take as much coffee and juice as they please.
An upshot of this occurred the other day when a skinny guy in his 60s with a vacant expression on his face came up to request more coffee, as the outer pots were empty. I saw him earlier with two cups of coffee and asked if he drank them. When he said yes, I told him I couldn't serve him any more. He said, in a slurred voice, "I wanna see the manager!" The manager, standing within earshot, upheld my decision. The old man, one of the veterans who stay at SA, did a slow burn and started muttering, "What the hell is it with the coffee ... Dammit, I just want a f**kin' cup of coffee, Jesus ..." He doddered out of the kitchen but that wasn't the last of him.
Another customer came to the counter requesting coffee, and because they hadn't already been through the line, I granted the request. A moment later: "Oh, so that's how it f**kin' is, huh?" The old vet re-entered the kitchen, this time with a spring in his step and some fire in his belly as he walked toward the counter. "I can't get any goddam coffee, but they can? That's bulls**t! All I wanted was some coffee!" About that time the manager and several workers confronted the vet and told him to leave the area, but the old man would not be dissuaded. "You don't let me have the coffee? You guys are f**kin' assholes!"
I was ready to call security when, as if by Providence, a guard entered the cafe en route to his rounds. He soon took charge of the situation and things quieted down. There were a few customers in line who watched the proceedings with bemusement; such outbursts were not exactly uncommon on a campus filled with so many people with various mental impairments who take potent prescriptions. When one of the customers looked back at me, I shrugged. "Another satisfied customer, I guess." The workers involved with the argument had to fill out reports for the security guys. The old vet was told to leave the SA campus for 24 hours. Last I heard, he did return. Hopefully, he got some coffee during his brief exile.
Well, my time is winding down, meaning I'll have to exit the library and enter the wind once more. Next week, I'll give you some updates as to my first day of school (we even get sack lunches to take with us; don't know about lunch boxes). Also, a possible romantic interest or two -- yow! Either my standards are slipping or the women's standards are lowering. Hopefully, I'll be able to shed some light on the situation in upcoming installments. In the meantime, that's a wrap!
Oh yeah. One more thing in keeping with my earlier Latin phrase: Sicut antiqui romani dicebant quomodo tuo hodie?
Some noteworthy events have been taking place lately, a few of with have apparently gotten your humble narrator in deep poo-poo (as opposed to po-po, which is urban slang for the fuzz. But you knew that, right?). We start culinary class at a local college on Monday, and so uniforms have been handed out to the participants. Almost everyone complained that the pants were too small by 1-2" or more, and had to be exchanged. Unfortunately, my correct size wasn't in the stock received at Salvation Army and so I along with three other students had to be driven across town to get out proper clothing directly from the outlet store.
Along the way one of the students, an attractive albeit heavyset girl named Candace, took pains to let us know all about how hard she used to party around Vegas. "I did anyone, anywhere, anytime," she said, seeming to brag about it. "There isn't a drug I didn't do. Hey, look! That's where my pusher used to live! Yeah, I know this area real well." She's in her late 20s and I was surprised to learn that she'd served in the Army. I didn't have the nerve to ask if she was dishonorably discharged or not. Candace is one of those people whose moods change on a daily basis, likely in accordance with how much medication she's had. I've seen her on days where she wouldn't -- or couldn't -- speak, and walked with a hunched over gait. Today, she was talkative; so much so I saw one or two of the other guys rolling their eyes and silently wishing she would shut up.
The guy who drove us also performs the driving duties for SA's Meals On Wheels program. He told us about how he had saved up $3700 and lost it all in a night's gambling, thinking he could somehow win it all back. That seems to be the quagmire most gambling addicts find themselves sucked into. He also told us how he had $500 meant for a plane ticket but went to the laundromat and after some early losses at a video poker machine almost made the money back. He stood at $495 and decided he just had to have that extra $5. He didn't. He ended up losing all his money and going home with a load of dirty laundry. Talk about insult to injury.
Another guy told us about how his son is doing marijuana and ecstasy. He said he's tried to tell the kid to stop, that it'll lead to harder drugs and he'll end up in the street like his old man. How did he tell this to his son? "Yeah, we was smokin' a joint at the bus station. I just figured he'd listen to me better if I joined him for a blow or two. You know what I mean, brother." I'd call it fuzzy logic at best.
I just mention these incidents because it never ceases to amaze me how willing people are to discuss their personal problems and demons with other people who are essentially strangers. Moreover, it often seems that such people are bragging about their wrong headed mistakes, as if they should be proud of the mistakes they've made. Since I know these guys are in various 'recovery programs', I wonder if this is the philosophy they're taught: "You're the victim of a disease. You're not responsible for what happened. You couldn't help yourself, it was beyond your control." I often heard people at SA say things like, "My addiction made me do this or that, etc."
Although this isn't the place for such a debate, I'd argue that addictions like drugs, alcohol, gambling, or even smoking are things that are are within a person's control; they just don't want to control it it. In the case of mental illness, I would call that something beyond a person's control. I've never heard of mental illness (schizophrenia, depression, bi-polar disorder) referred to as an addiction. Ironically, those who suffer from mental illness are often given such potent prescriptions that they do in fact become drug addicts after a fashion. In this case, however, the prescription makes them legal drug addictions while making billions for Big Pharma.
As earlier mentioned, your humble narrator made a faux pas of sorts. I missed an important meeting that served as an orientation for the culinary class that begins Monday. I guess it is a big deal, but I honestly was never told about the orientation. I'll likely have to bend over and grab my ankles as the caseworker in charge sticks it to me for missing the event (which she conducted). I can already hear her voice, filled with snideness and sarcasm. Ah, well. Grin and bear it as they say. Or, in one ear and out the other. I just hate having it hang over my head like the Sword of Damocles over the weekend.
Also had my first contention with a customer in the SA cafe. An older, squat woman known for being picky asked me to separate the lasagna we were serving that day. I asked what she meant by 'separate.' She said that she didn't was the pasta, just the cheese. When I said I didn't know how to do that, she walked off in a fit of pique. I could only smile at her irritation. A few minutes later, a co-worker came back from the front dining room and said, "Bro, you gotta get that old lady what she wants. I can't stand hearing her bitch about it." The situation was explained to the lead cook who suggested simply skimming off the top layer of the lasagna that contained the sauce and cheese.
He admitted that it shouldn't be served that way and that the old lady was being a "pain in the ass" but he just wanted her to shut up and go on. It didn't help, though. She still came back to complain to the lead cook about how I didn't serve her what she wanted, or that the food wasn't in the proper shape, or somesuch. The lead cook listened and sloughed off her bickering with, "All right, it's not worth the aggravation." She left, still unhappy. I don't doubt she'll have the incident 'written up'. She seems to have that kind of time on her hands. Still, not exactly a shining moment for yours truly, what?
A more extreme example of customer dissatisfaction occurred yesterday. This one didn't involve me directly. This incident stems from some efforts by the kitchen management to control the amount of food that 'mysteriously' vanishes from the kitchen. Not so mysterious because it's common knowledge that the workers (including your humble narrator) treat themselves to various goodies from produce to sodas to pastries, cakes, cookies, chips and/or whatever else might be available on a given day. In fact, it's one of the primary reasons for the weight I've gained at SA; the availability of all the snacks -- for free -- is too great a temptation to overcome. And of course, that doesn't include the free meals we hand out to ourselves as we prepare food for the customers.
All that snacking is considered fairly minor so long as the food is consumed in the kitchen/dining area. Problems stem when people try to sneak food out and take it to their dorm rooms. Too often, the crumbs will lead to insect problems with ants, roaches, or worse. Only sodas are allowed in the rooms. There's also the concern that workers might try to sell food to the homeless outside the SA entrance. But the real problem is this: Too many kitchen workers like to hook up their friends, girl/boyfriends and others with free meals.
Normally, the public pays SA $2.50 for breakfast and $3 for lunch and dinner. Not a bad deal, considering the larger portions. But too many free meals were being handed out and that starts to cost money and leaves less food for the paying customers. So the managers cracked down: no more free food. That also includes another problem area: The drinks. Normally, coffee is provided with breakfast, along with juice (actually Kool-Aid) which is provided with all meals.
The serving portion is supposed to be two 8 oz cups maximum (or a two drink maximum, if you will). The clients regularly exceed this by bringing along 20-40 oz containers with which to load up the caffeine. Obviously, that depletes the coffee supply all the quicker and results in us having to brew more of the drink, which means delays; which ultimately means the clients get pissed off at a situation that they themselves created in the first place!
I've also seen clients go to the juice cooler and fill up 2-liter bottles of the stuff. One guy turned to us with his full bottle and laughed, "Yeah, that's I do it!" The same problem doesn't exist with the public because the coffee can be regulated by us; that is, we serve it to them over the counter. Likely, that might be the solution the kitchen managers may have to adopt for the clients as well. For now, they're trying to limit the clients to 2 drinks only with no refills. So far, there hasn't been a whole lot of cooperation with the program. The clients seem to feel they're entitles to take as much coffee and juice as they please.
An upshot of this occurred the other day when a skinny guy in his 60s with a vacant expression on his face came up to request more coffee, as the outer pots were empty. I saw him earlier with two cups of coffee and asked if he drank them. When he said yes, I told him I couldn't serve him any more. He said, in a slurred voice, "I wanna see the manager!" The manager, standing within earshot, upheld my decision. The old man, one of the veterans who stay at SA, did a slow burn and started muttering, "What the hell is it with the coffee ... Dammit, I just want a f**kin' cup of coffee, Jesus ..." He doddered out of the kitchen but that wasn't the last of him.
Another customer came to the counter requesting coffee, and because they hadn't already been through the line, I granted the request. A moment later: "Oh, so that's how it f**kin' is, huh?" The old vet re-entered the kitchen, this time with a spring in his step and some fire in his belly as he walked toward the counter. "I can't get any goddam coffee, but they can? That's bulls**t! All I wanted was some coffee!" About that time the manager and several workers confronted the vet and told him to leave the area, but the old man would not be dissuaded. "You don't let me have the coffee? You guys are f**kin' assholes!"
I was ready to call security when, as if by Providence, a guard entered the cafe en route to his rounds. He soon took charge of the situation and things quieted down. There were a few customers in line who watched the proceedings with bemusement; such outbursts were not exactly uncommon on a campus filled with so many people with various mental impairments who take potent prescriptions. When one of the customers looked back at me, I shrugged. "Another satisfied customer, I guess." The workers involved with the argument had to fill out reports for the security guys. The old vet was told to leave the SA campus for 24 hours. Last I heard, he did return. Hopefully, he got some coffee during his brief exile.
Well, my time is winding down, meaning I'll have to exit the library and enter the wind once more. Next week, I'll give you some updates as to my first day of school (we even get sack lunches to take with us; don't know about lunch boxes). Also, a possible romantic interest or two -- yow! Either my standards are slipping or the women's standards are lowering. Hopefully, I'll be able to shed some light on the situation in upcoming installments. In the meantime, that's a wrap!
Oh yeah. One more thing in keeping with my earlier Latin phrase: Sicut antiqui romani dicebant quomodo tuo hodie?
Thursday, January 19, 2012
HINJFCA Part XIII: Updates
This really will have to be a shorter post since I have limited time today (even though it is my off day I still have some Salvation Army meetings to attend). So let me get to the heart of the meat of the matter.
Remember the Hawaiian Hulk with whom I had some contention? He's gone. Pfft. Outta here. Very abrupt, this guy's departure. Apparently it had to do with a woman and her car; as in, she has a car and he didn't. All I can figure is, it must have been one helluva car top make him change his mind and throw away the progress he'd made at Salvation Army. The girl herself? Not bad-looking, but she must have more persuasive charms than only her looks. It took everyone by surprise, especially the co-workers with whom he'd forged a friendship.
But HH strode in that day looking like a badass biker, hair pulled back in ponytail and dropped off his walking papers. A moment later, he was gone. The managers didn't seem that surprised by the decision. One of them simply shrugged and mentioned that SA has a huge turnover; he wasn't that surprised and figured there would be more dropouts before all was said and done.
Indeed, that statement was prophetic, as was another statement made by the instructor of the Essential Employment Skills (EES) classes I attended from Nov-Dec. That instructor said that around 30% of the students would make it to the next phase. Out of app. 20 students, 6 have departed or have been dismissed. Truer words, as they say.
A few days after HH took off, another kitchen worker decided to hoof it. This guy was in his early 30s, around 6'2, and one of the better workers there. Like HH he was also one of the better cooks overall and brought a fair amount of experience with him. We'll call this guy Calvin (or Cal) because he kind of reminded me of the title character in the old newspaper strip Calvin and Hobbes. He was an easy enough guy to be around, although he certainly had his moody days. I never knew that much about him outside of work other than he liked football and liked to bet on it.
Cal evidently got a tax refund that prompted his departure. Must have been a lot of wampum, right? Try $1500. Now, in certain 3rd-world countries that might last you a while. But in Sin City, USA ... Let's just say the kitchen staff is laying odds on how soon Cal will blow through that cash and come back begging for his job. Unfortunately, SA won't readmit him (at least not in that capacity). Cal left the program once before without notice, and was allowed back in only after a lot of contrition on his part. Obviously he wasn't too sincere. Really, how can anyone think $1500 is enough to live on. He'll be lucky to squeeze a month out of it if he's lucky. Then again, he may just surprise us all.
Remember the culinary class I'm now enrolled in? Well it's not a done deal now. With those two departures I mentioned, we're down to 14 students (a reserve accepted a position). 15 participants are needed to ensure the classes take place. Right now we're waiting to see if a potential candidate can pass the screening et al to make the list. If not ... Well, that sends me into uncharted territory. maybe it's not the worst thing. While I do like working with the kitchen staff, I'm not overly wild about preparing food. Maybe I'm better at eating food than fixing it. in fact, someone asked me recently what I'd most like to do in a restaurant and I replied, "Be the customer."
Remember the homeless camps I've mentioned in recent postings? Gone. The NLVPD conducted a mass 'raid' of sorts on the camps, essentially sweeping the homeless away with nary a trace they were ever there. Seems the catalyst may have been the unfortunate irony presented with the erection of a brand new gateway to NLV that reads "Welcome to the City of North Las Vegas" at the corner of LV Blvd and Main Street. Right across the street was one of the biggest homeless campsites you'd ever want to see. I saw a news photographer shooting footage of the two sites. Maybe a local news channel ran a story on the strange irony. OR, maybe they read about it here first; see recent postings for more information.
And that'll have to wrap it up for now. Hopefully I can get back online this weekend and provide some more late breaking exclusives. Here's your Quote Of The Day:
"Once you go white, you'll never be right!" -- Overheard in the SA cafe as a white guy was hitting on a black girl (the girl said this, btw).
And how was your day?
Remember the Hawaiian Hulk with whom I had some contention? He's gone. Pfft. Outta here. Very abrupt, this guy's departure. Apparently it had to do with a woman and her car; as in, she has a car and he didn't. All I can figure is, it must have been one helluva car top make him change his mind and throw away the progress he'd made at Salvation Army. The girl herself? Not bad-looking, but she must have more persuasive charms than only her looks. It took everyone by surprise, especially the co-workers with whom he'd forged a friendship.
But HH strode in that day looking like a badass biker, hair pulled back in ponytail and dropped off his walking papers. A moment later, he was gone. The managers didn't seem that surprised by the decision. One of them simply shrugged and mentioned that SA has a huge turnover; he wasn't that surprised and figured there would be more dropouts before all was said and done.
Indeed, that statement was prophetic, as was another statement made by the instructor of the Essential Employment Skills (EES) classes I attended from Nov-Dec. That instructor said that around 30% of the students would make it to the next phase. Out of app. 20 students, 6 have departed or have been dismissed. Truer words, as they say.
A few days after HH took off, another kitchen worker decided to hoof it. This guy was in his early 30s, around 6'2, and one of the better workers there. Like HH he was also one of the better cooks overall and brought a fair amount of experience with him. We'll call this guy Calvin (or Cal) because he kind of reminded me of the title character in the old newspaper strip Calvin and Hobbes. He was an easy enough guy to be around, although he certainly had his moody days. I never knew that much about him outside of work other than he liked football and liked to bet on it.
Cal evidently got a tax refund that prompted his departure. Must have been a lot of wampum, right? Try $1500. Now, in certain 3rd-world countries that might last you a while. But in Sin City, USA ... Let's just say the kitchen staff is laying odds on how soon Cal will blow through that cash and come back begging for his job. Unfortunately, SA won't readmit him (at least not in that capacity). Cal left the program once before without notice, and was allowed back in only after a lot of contrition on his part. Obviously he wasn't too sincere. Really, how can anyone think $1500 is enough to live on. He'll be lucky to squeeze a month out of it if he's lucky. Then again, he may just surprise us all.
Remember the culinary class I'm now enrolled in? Well it's not a done deal now. With those two departures I mentioned, we're down to 14 students (a reserve accepted a position). 15 participants are needed to ensure the classes take place. Right now we're waiting to see if a potential candidate can pass the screening et al to make the list. If not ... Well, that sends me into uncharted territory. maybe it's not the worst thing. While I do like working with the kitchen staff, I'm not overly wild about preparing food. Maybe I'm better at eating food than fixing it. in fact, someone asked me recently what I'd most like to do in a restaurant and I replied, "Be the customer."
Remember the homeless camps I've mentioned in recent postings? Gone. The NLVPD conducted a mass 'raid' of sorts on the camps, essentially sweeping the homeless away with nary a trace they were ever there. Seems the catalyst may have been the unfortunate irony presented with the erection of a brand new gateway to NLV that reads "Welcome to the City of North Las Vegas" at the corner of LV Blvd and Main Street. Right across the street was one of the biggest homeless campsites you'd ever want to see. I saw a news photographer shooting footage of the two sites. Maybe a local news channel ran a story on the strange irony. OR, maybe they read about it here first; see recent postings for more information.
And that'll have to wrap it up for now. Hopefully I can get back online this weekend and provide some more late breaking exclusives. Here's your Quote Of The Day:
"Once you go white, you'll never be right!" -- Overheard in the SA cafe as a white guy was hitting on a black girl (the girl said this, btw).
And how was your day?
Saturday, January 14, 2012
HINJFCA Part XII: Quick Hits & Character Studies (w/Video)
This post will be a bit shorter than previous entries (short by my standard, anyway) since I have some official biz to conduct online. Yet never let it be said that I've shirked my duty to all the loyal followers out there by updating my progress in the effort to extricate myself from this man-made morass of malevolence into which I have been cast (best alliteration I could come up with on short notice, sorry).
I am now officially enrolled in the Salvation Army's culinary course which is actually sponsored by the State of Nevada and a local university. The big draw for me isn't necessarily to become the next Wolfgang Puck (although I think it's a cool name) but to accrue the 7 college credits upon completion of the course. I'm finding that I actually enjoy eating food more than I enjoy making /preparing it.
The problem I have with cooking is that there's so much standing around! It's resulted in lower back pain that sometimes makes it difficult to walk. In some ways simply standing around is more tiring than moving around. Also, cooking involves the use of knives. Those of you who have followed my blog know that sharp things and JM don't mix well. I've twice cut myself while attempting to slice and dice things in the SA kitchen; the second time I actually nicked a bit of my fingertip off. That's the middle finger of my left hand; as it happens, it's one of my favorite fingers as well. I'd like to think that I'm so sharp that I cut myself, but maybe that's pushing it too far.
For the class (which includes uniforms, books, tools including knives, yippee) there are 15 students divided up into teams of three. The idea is that we are one "team" overall, which implies limited competition. Of course some students are ignoring this, promising to "kick y'all to the curb" in the words of one student. The picking of 3-person teams has resulted in tiresome sniping and hurt feelings amongst the clients ("Why didn't so-and-so ask me to be on their team?", "Work with him/her? F**k that!", and so on) that make this feel more like high school than culinary school.
For my part, I didn't lobby for any team; as it turned out I didn't have to. Remember Rain Man (RM) from the last installment? He's the cooking/math superstar who seems to know everything there is about the food service field; I'm not being sarcastic, as I think it's the truth. Anyway, he asked me to be on his team, which some might consider an honor. (After Googling the guy's name and finding a lot of law enforcement sites listing his offenses, maybe I should be honored I'm still in one piece.)
Then again, the idea of the teams is to ensure parity and not create a "super team" of experienced chefs. To that end, RM provides the experience while I provide the near-non-experience. Our third teammate is a woman named Myrtle (not her real name). She's a white woman, 60ish, stands about 5' and (I swear) moves and walks like a turtle standing upright (hence the name Myrtle).
Myrtle is a actually a very nice person but might be described as, well ... dotty. 'Or not all there'. He has a problem with focusing her attention on a given subject. For example, you might talk to her about preparing a meal in the kitchen and she'd say, "First use X amount of flour, then an equal amount of baking soda and I like cows. Aren't cows so cool? Have you ever ridden on a helicopter? Oh, that would be awesome!" That sort of thing. Then, when she does manage to focus, she highly opinionated to the point of simply not responding to the suggestions of anyone else. She'll often stare at you with big, watery eyes with a glazed-over expression on her face. If you presume she's listening, you'd be wrong. At the end of your explanation she'll say something like, "Uh-huh. That doesn't make any sense. So let's do it my way." And so on.
Myrtle did once provide a quotable quote which I'll use for this installment's Quote of the Day. She was having a discussion with another co-worker about pickles and the variety thereof. The co-worker mentioned she liked dill pickles. To which Myrtle responded, "What I wouldn't give for a nice, big, fat dildo!"
Should be an interesting experience to say the least. To his credit RM says he thinks I'm quick enough to pick up a lot of this on the fly; he also says he hopes that I can better communicate with Myrtle better than some other participants. It's no uncommon for co-workers to lose their patience with her, resulting in arguments and people storming off muttering profanities. I guess I've gained a rep as being an even-tempered individual, which is fine. To be clear, it's not because I'm the greatest guy or anything like that. I tend to keep a cool head simply because I'm too lazy to get really upset over anything. Especially not cooking, which was never my primary career goal to begin with.
Rather, I can view a lot of the goings-on within the SA kitchen and the staff(s) with a kind of detatched bemusement. Even in an unfamiliar workplace I can see how very little human nature changes. Whiles most of these guys have limited education, they basically behave much like the college-educated, white collar professionals I've worked with in the past. All are given to gossip, innuendo, dirty jokes ("That's what she said" gets a workout in the kitchens, ad nauseum. Remind me to post on that subject sometime), petty jealousies, backbiting, and trying to bed the hottest babe. Of course, the same traits run throughout the people who have no shelter or fixed home as well.
In our case, most of the 'babes' are homeless women who pass through the cafe, or younger women who have been court-appointed to a rehab program sponsored by SA or its affiliates on campus. See previous installments for more info on this. These girls would likely be dubbed 'wild' to say the least. Most are on medication (like much of the SA population including management, many of whom are former homeless people) which makes their behavior and moods difficult to judge.
There's one girl who is apparently a Muslim convert. She's been known to claim she's the reincarnation of a 5,000 year old goddess and has assumed mortal form to judge which humans go to heaven. Said with a straight face. She recently reported that several men exposed their private parts to her ... after climbing up and into her second story window to do so. Never knew flashers made house calls. Coming through the cafe line for breakfast, she asked me where I was from. I said Jupiter, intending to make a joke about Jupiter, Florida. As soon as I said "Jupiter," she said, "Oh. I'm from Chicago." and moved on. At least she didn't claim I exposed myself to her. After all, we were serving sausages that day.
This is why I don't both chasing after women on the SA campus. I get the impression it would be more trouble than it's worth. As I mentioned, the heavy medication makes these girls tough to deal with. As one guy bluntly put it, "These chicks are so freaked out, you might go to bed with one and wake up with your balls in a jar." Frankly, I wouldn't doubt that.
By the way, here's a meaningless anecdote: I've mentioned that SA clients must surrender their medications to the on campus dispensary upon arrival. This is to ensure you're taking only the medicine prescribed and is intended to cut down on drug abuse. Maybe. But it is an annoyance having to go to the dispensary daily to ask for that that is mine already.
Anyway, I asked one of the guys there what the most amount of pills he saw one person take on a daily basis. He said, 18 pills in the morning and 22 pills at night. Makes you wonder is some of those pills weren't intended to counteract the side-effects of other medication. It also points out a concern I have about the pharmaceutical industry overall: Are they creating cures for diseases that may or may not even exist? Sometimes I worry that the antidepressant I take isn't somehow altering my brain chemistry to the point of creating an entirely new personality. That is, could these drugs be overwriting one personality in favor of another? If so, how would we know which is the 'true' personality or person? One more reason why I've dubbed my prescription 'Peronality Pills'.
As I've now been in the SA vocational program over two months, it's interesting to reflect on how many people have left in the time I've been here. By my count there are at least a dozen people who either started with me or were already here who are no longer present. Likely, there are at least twice as many when you count the departure of those I never met. Some of them were co-workers who I really liked. One lady was a diminutive powerhouse who knew her way around the kitchen like she'd been born to it.
She was always on time, seemed to have a lot of common sense, and was someone I always liked talking with. She also had a problem with alcohol. After 'blowing dirty' (failing a breathalyzer test), she was given another opportunity to make good. A few weeks later, she again blew dirty -- over the course of three separate tests. She was summarily 86'd from the property.
Another worker was a gentle giant of a guy who mainly washed dishes in the kitchen. He had a family, and was trying to redeem himself after spending 'x' amount of years in prison on a crack cocaine bust. He always seemed nice and sounded like he had learned his lesson. I often saw him in the common area reading books of a spiritual theme and writing down things in thick notebooks that he assiduously studied. He even gave me a couple of his books and encouraged me to 'give yourself to God, brother.' I was rooting for him to make it. Then he broke curfew by staying out too late and failing both and alcohol and drug test. He too was summarily 86'd.
Others have simply walked away and never come back. One guy who did so later told me (upon seeing him on the street) that he didn't need SA because he already had money. Maybe so. But if that's the case why both with SA to begin with? Most failed clients seem to follow the script of the first two people I mentioned. While I was sorry to see them go, it's tough to feel sorry for them. So co-workers castigate SA, saying they're a bunch of heartless bastards for letting them go. Privately, I disagree. After all, they were adults who understood and agreed to SA rules and principles when they joined the program. How many chances are they supposed to get? At what point do adults finally "get" that they have to kick their habit(s) before life begins to deal them a "fair hand?"
Before my time is up on this computer, let me relate a story of a different sort; one that has a definite surreal edge to it. To date, I've had no bad experiences at SA or with any of my fellow clients. Earlier this morning around 5 am (I automatically rise early now thanks to my kitchen shift) I left my dorm room to go to the bathroom. There was a guy there at the urinals who I recognized but wasn't on a first name basis with. I'll call him Fred because he looks just like a character Dan Ayckroyd played on the old Saturday Night Live called Fred Garvin, Male Prostitute. Click the link to see. Basically, the guy is big, white, fat, and has that 'not all there expression' behind thick Coke bottle lens glasses. He was dressed in tighty-whitely underwear, which didn't flatter his huge beer gut. I walked past him to the stall and I heard him say something. I turned and asked, "What?"
He said, "Can I touch your head?" He reached his hand down as if to do so. Keep in mind I stand 5'5. Fred is at least a foot taller and must outweigh me by at least 100 pounds.
I was so stunned I only said, "Why?"
Fred suddenly starts stuttering, "I -- I've always wondered what it's like to be bald. I've ne-never known ... I j-just w-wanted to touch your head to s-see ..." And again reached out with his hand.
By now your humble narrator is plenty nervous. 5 am alone in a SA dorm restroom with a Lurch-size guy who has a psycho grin and is actually salivating at the corners of his mouth. Yes, salivating.
Glancing around for any sharp object to use as a weapon I said, "No, I don't think so. It's just skin, man. Later." I entered the stall and shut the door. Behind he me was babbling apologies and he exited.
Or so I hoped. I stayed in the stall ready to dial 911 with my cell phone. I finally opened the door and peered out. He was gone. I carefully opened the restroom door and looked down the hallway (both ways). Empty. I made it back to my room unbothered and made sure to avoid the guy whenever I saw him. Creepy, what?
And on that note I'll bring this installment to a close. More shenanigans next time we meet. In the meantime, how was your day?
I am now officially enrolled in the Salvation Army's culinary course which is actually sponsored by the State of Nevada and a local university. The big draw for me isn't necessarily to become the next Wolfgang Puck (although I think it's a cool name) but to accrue the 7 college credits upon completion of the course. I'm finding that I actually enjoy eating food more than I enjoy making /preparing it.
The problem I have with cooking is that there's so much standing around! It's resulted in lower back pain that sometimes makes it difficult to walk. In some ways simply standing around is more tiring than moving around. Also, cooking involves the use of knives. Those of you who have followed my blog know that sharp things and JM don't mix well. I've twice cut myself while attempting to slice and dice things in the SA kitchen; the second time I actually nicked a bit of my fingertip off. That's the middle finger of my left hand; as it happens, it's one of my favorite fingers as well. I'd like to think that I'm so sharp that I cut myself, but maybe that's pushing it too far.
For the class (which includes uniforms, books, tools including knives, yippee) there are 15 students divided up into teams of three. The idea is that we are one "team" overall, which implies limited competition. Of course some students are ignoring this, promising to "kick y'all to the curb" in the words of one student. The picking of 3-person teams has resulted in tiresome sniping and hurt feelings amongst the clients ("Why didn't so-and-so ask me to be on their team?", "Work with him/her? F**k that!", and so on) that make this feel more like high school than culinary school.
For my part, I didn't lobby for any team; as it turned out I didn't have to. Remember Rain Man (RM) from the last installment? He's the cooking/math superstar who seems to know everything there is about the food service field; I'm not being sarcastic, as I think it's the truth. Anyway, he asked me to be on his team, which some might consider an honor. (After Googling the guy's name and finding a lot of law enforcement sites listing his offenses, maybe I should be honored I'm still in one piece.)
Then again, the idea of the teams is to ensure parity and not create a "super team" of experienced chefs. To that end, RM provides the experience while I provide the near-non-experience. Our third teammate is a woman named Myrtle (not her real name). She's a white woman, 60ish, stands about 5' and (I swear) moves and walks like a turtle standing upright (hence the name Myrtle).
Myrtle is a actually a very nice person but might be described as, well ... dotty. 'Or not all there'. He has a problem with focusing her attention on a given subject. For example, you might talk to her about preparing a meal in the kitchen and she'd say, "First use X amount of flour, then an equal amount of baking soda and I like cows. Aren't cows so cool? Have you ever ridden on a helicopter? Oh, that would be awesome!" That sort of thing. Then, when she does manage to focus, she highly opinionated to the point of simply not responding to the suggestions of anyone else. She'll often stare at you with big, watery eyes with a glazed-over expression on her face. If you presume she's listening, you'd be wrong. At the end of your explanation she'll say something like, "Uh-huh. That doesn't make any sense. So let's do it my way." And so on.
Myrtle did once provide a quotable quote which I'll use for this installment's Quote of the Day. She was having a discussion with another co-worker about pickles and the variety thereof. The co-worker mentioned she liked dill pickles. To which Myrtle responded, "What I wouldn't give for a nice, big, fat dildo!"
Should be an interesting experience to say the least. To his credit RM says he thinks I'm quick enough to pick up a lot of this on the fly; he also says he hopes that I can better communicate with Myrtle better than some other participants. It's no uncommon for co-workers to lose their patience with her, resulting in arguments and people storming off muttering profanities. I guess I've gained a rep as being an even-tempered individual, which is fine. To be clear, it's not because I'm the greatest guy or anything like that. I tend to keep a cool head simply because I'm too lazy to get really upset over anything. Especially not cooking, which was never my primary career goal to begin with.
Rather, I can view a lot of the goings-on within the SA kitchen and the staff(s) with a kind of detatched bemusement. Even in an unfamiliar workplace I can see how very little human nature changes. Whiles most of these guys have limited education, they basically behave much like the college-educated, white collar professionals I've worked with in the past. All are given to gossip, innuendo, dirty jokes ("That's what she said" gets a workout in the kitchens, ad nauseum. Remind me to post on that subject sometime), petty jealousies, backbiting, and trying to bed the hottest babe. Of course, the same traits run throughout the people who have no shelter or fixed home as well.
In our case, most of the 'babes' are homeless women who pass through the cafe, or younger women who have been court-appointed to a rehab program sponsored by SA or its affiliates on campus. See previous installments for more info on this. These girls would likely be dubbed 'wild' to say the least. Most are on medication (like much of the SA population including management, many of whom are former homeless people) which makes their behavior and moods difficult to judge.
There's one girl who is apparently a Muslim convert. She's been known to claim she's the reincarnation of a 5,000 year old goddess and has assumed mortal form to judge which humans go to heaven. Said with a straight face. She recently reported that several men exposed their private parts to her ... after climbing up and into her second story window to do so. Never knew flashers made house calls. Coming through the cafe line for breakfast, she asked me where I was from. I said Jupiter, intending to make a joke about Jupiter, Florida. As soon as I said "Jupiter," she said, "Oh. I'm from Chicago." and moved on. At least she didn't claim I exposed myself to her. After all, we were serving sausages that day.
This is why I don't both chasing after women on the SA campus. I get the impression it would be more trouble than it's worth. As I mentioned, the heavy medication makes these girls tough to deal with. As one guy bluntly put it, "These chicks are so freaked out, you might go to bed with one and wake up with your balls in a jar." Frankly, I wouldn't doubt that.
By the way, here's a meaningless anecdote: I've mentioned that SA clients must surrender their medications to the on campus dispensary upon arrival. This is to ensure you're taking only the medicine prescribed and is intended to cut down on drug abuse. Maybe. But it is an annoyance having to go to the dispensary daily to ask for that that is mine already.
Anyway, I asked one of the guys there what the most amount of pills he saw one person take on a daily basis. He said, 18 pills in the morning and 22 pills at night. Makes you wonder is some of those pills weren't intended to counteract the side-effects of other medication. It also points out a concern I have about the pharmaceutical industry overall: Are they creating cures for diseases that may or may not even exist? Sometimes I worry that the antidepressant I take isn't somehow altering my brain chemistry to the point of creating an entirely new personality. That is, could these drugs be overwriting one personality in favor of another? If so, how would we know which is the 'true' personality or person? One more reason why I've dubbed my prescription 'Peronality Pills'.
As I've now been in the SA vocational program over two months, it's interesting to reflect on how many people have left in the time I've been here. By my count there are at least a dozen people who either started with me or were already here who are no longer present. Likely, there are at least twice as many when you count the departure of those I never met. Some of them were co-workers who I really liked. One lady was a diminutive powerhouse who knew her way around the kitchen like she'd been born to it.
She was always on time, seemed to have a lot of common sense, and was someone I always liked talking with. She also had a problem with alcohol. After 'blowing dirty' (failing a breathalyzer test), she was given another opportunity to make good. A few weeks later, she again blew dirty -- over the course of three separate tests. She was summarily 86'd from the property.
Another worker was a gentle giant of a guy who mainly washed dishes in the kitchen. He had a family, and was trying to redeem himself after spending 'x' amount of years in prison on a crack cocaine bust. He always seemed nice and sounded like he had learned his lesson. I often saw him in the common area reading books of a spiritual theme and writing down things in thick notebooks that he assiduously studied. He even gave me a couple of his books and encouraged me to 'give yourself to God, brother.' I was rooting for him to make it. Then he broke curfew by staying out too late and failing both and alcohol and drug test. He too was summarily 86'd.
Others have simply walked away and never come back. One guy who did so later told me (upon seeing him on the street) that he didn't need SA because he already had money. Maybe so. But if that's the case why both with SA to begin with? Most failed clients seem to follow the script of the first two people I mentioned. While I was sorry to see them go, it's tough to feel sorry for them. So co-workers castigate SA, saying they're a bunch of heartless bastards for letting them go. Privately, I disagree. After all, they were adults who understood and agreed to SA rules and principles when they joined the program. How many chances are they supposed to get? At what point do adults finally "get" that they have to kick their habit(s) before life begins to deal them a "fair hand?"
Before my time is up on this computer, let me relate a story of a different sort; one that has a definite surreal edge to it. To date, I've had no bad experiences at SA or with any of my fellow clients. Earlier this morning around 5 am (I automatically rise early now thanks to my kitchen shift) I left my dorm room to go to the bathroom. There was a guy there at the urinals who I recognized but wasn't on a first name basis with. I'll call him Fred because he looks just like a character Dan Ayckroyd played on the old Saturday Night Live called Fred Garvin, Male Prostitute. Click the link to see. Basically, the guy is big, white, fat, and has that 'not all there expression' behind thick Coke bottle lens glasses. He was dressed in tighty-whitely underwear, which didn't flatter his huge beer gut. I walked past him to the stall and I heard him say something. I turned and asked, "What?"
He said, "Can I touch your head?" He reached his hand down as if to do so. Keep in mind I stand 5'5. Fred is at least a foot taller and must outweigh me by at least 100 pounds.
I was so stunned I only said, "Why?"
Fred suddenly starts stuttering, "I -- I've always wondered what it's like to be bald. I've ne-never known ... I j-just w-wanted to touch your head to s-see ..." And again reached out with his hand.
By now your humble narrator is plenty nervous. 5 am alone in a SA dorm restroom with a Lurch-size guy who has a psycho grin and is actually salivating at the corners of his mouth. Yes, salivating.
Glancing around for any sharp object to use as a weapon I said, "No, I don't think so. It's just skin, man. Later." I entered the stall and shut the door. Behind he me was babbling apologies and he exited.
Or so I hoped. I stayed in the stall ready to dial 911 with my cell phone. I finally opened the door and peered out. He was gone. I carefully opened the restroom door and looked down the hallway (both ways). Empty. I made it back to my room unbothered and made sure to avoid the guy whenever I saw him. Creepy, what?
And on that note I'll bring this installment to a close. More shenanigans next time we meet. In the meantime, how was your day?
Saturday, January 7, 2012
HINJFCA Part Eleven: Taxing Days In The Life
Wow, it seems like we haven't gotten together since last year! So a happy belated New Year to my followers, all two of you (readership has doubled!). Let's start off by saying your humble narrator wants to start off with a clean slate when he re-enters the work force this year. And that means clearing up any potential tax issues. The last thing I need is to finally get some income and then get an IRS notice about back taxes. So, taking the initative, I took a stroll -- a long stroll up Main Street as it turns out -- to my local IRS HQ which is located in a nondescript, modern office complex off Ogden near the Femont Street Experience.
After reading some severe notices about weapons being prohibited, I walked through a security checkpoint, then entered a large waiting room filled with app. 100 chairs, perhaps a third of them occupied. After taking a number and being told to expect an 60-90 minute wait (what fun), I took a seat and passed the time trying to meditate and wondering what dire fate awaited me once I saw an actual agent. You see, I hadn't filed taxes for quite a long time, so I didn't know what penalties or interest might have accrued in the intervening years. How much could I owe? I figured the best time to confront this issue was now, when I essentially had nothing for the IRS to take. Nothing, that is, except my freedom; they wouldn't put me in jail, right? I thought about this as I meditated.
Then, my number was up ... or should I say my number was called. I entered another office area, this one composed of office cubibles, giving the are the look of a rabbit warren. I located the proper cubicle and sat before a youngish IRS agent seated behind a desk. I could help thinking he looked like the comedian Patton Oswalt, for some reason. After checking my idea, he asked me to punch my SSN into a keypad on the desk. A few moments went by while the computer pulled up the information ...
And suddenly a klaxon alarm starts blasting. Warning lights blare on and off, sweeping the room with swaths of crimson. The Patton Oswalt lookalike appears frightened and runs from the desk. I can tell a full-scale evacuation is taking place, but I can't move. My arms and legs have somehow been bound by metal restrainsts that have sprouted from the chair. A plexiglas tube shoots down pneumatically from the ceiling and lands with a soft thump, trapping me within. Black clad troopers appear, aiming assault rifles at me; I can see red laser dots dancing on my chest (and over my forehead, no doubt). About that time, a man walks up to the plexiglas and peers in with a scowl. In a low, gravelly voice he says, "James Morris, you are in breach of IRS Federal taxation laws and the PATRIOT Act, and are regarded as a threat to the security of the United States." He leaned in closer. Now I want to know what the hell is going on. My name is Jack Bauer, and you will ansmer my questions, DAMMIT!" Then a digital clock appeared, and I heard a sound like a heartbeat go, da-doom, da-doom, da-doom ...
... And then I awoke. Seems I had briefly nodded off during meditation and dreamt the whole thing. How about that? Psyche! C'mon, admit it: I had you on the edge of your seat (or laptop), didn't I? Okay, so it's a tired device (along with the "24 hours earlier" flashback device), but I always wanted to try it. So, what's the truth about my visit to the IRS. Up until the "24" homage, everything really happened. What actually followed was this: The agent told me half of the years I hadn't filed were a wiped clean. The remaining years were examined in tedious fashion with him asking me essentially the same questions over and over; I guess this is required by law or else that guy was an epic sadist, just enjoying my discomfort. The upshot: I don't owe anything, my IRS slate is clean. That's not the end of my debt problems, but I figured it was the one that could potentially cause the most trouble. And when all was said, I must admit the fearsome IRS was actually pretty benign and very helpful -- at least in this case. If I ever make some big money and there's a tax dispute, well, all bets are off. For now though, it's one less worry to worry about.
The worst thing about my IRS visit was the trip getting there. Remember I said it was a long walk? I'm not exagerrating. It's interesting to to see how the scharacter of the same street can morph as you walk along. I started off at Owens and walked south down Main Street. From here you can see clearly the skyline of Las Vegas' downtown, with the Stratosphere dominating the other buildings. Continuing south you see the buildings come closer and the homeless-infested areas of N Las Vegas give way to areas that contains low-income housing and fleabag motels.
Then Main Street leads to the Fremont Street Experience, and all those buildings you spotted on the skyline are now up close and personal: Casinos and hotels like Main Street Station, Lady Luck, The Plaza (home of Oscar Goodman's new restaurant), Binion's, and many more. In this area you still see some transients. But the area is mostly clean (aimed at tourists) and the inhabitants appear more upscale and professional. No homeless camps, or people living out of their vehicles in this part of Vegas. The cars here are newer model Mercedes, Lexus, or Range Rovers. The preponderance of restaurants and eateries precludes any charities dropping off food and toiletries in this part of town. Casino staff is trained to spot and eject anyone who even appears remotely homeless or transient. That means a keen eye is kept on the restrooms of such establishments. And if the floor staff doesn't catch the offender, be assured the security cameras will.
Since it was my off day from the kitchens, I strolled around Fremont Street and took in the atmosphere. It was a bitter irony to realize that only a few years earlier I had been invited to write a comedy skit for a local comic book convention held at the Plaza Hotel. I had a 3-day pass, and had the pleasure of seeing my material (a riff on "The Amityville Horror" and other haunted house movies) performed before a live audience. While I didn't appear in the piece, I recall taking great satisfaction in having written something that was so well-received by an audience. A warm, tingly sensation of pride that I can feel even now. Even so, I couldn't bring myself to enter the Plaza Hotel. That sense of pride warped into overwhelming feelings of shame and guilt that made my flace flush hot at my current situation. How could so much bad stuff happen in such a short time? I turned around and headed north, back to the Salavation Army campus and my current neighborhood.
I've mentioned that my experience with homelessness has been a humbling one. That I've experienced a number of realizations during the past 3 months of my condition (yes, it's been a quarter of a year already; I just had my 60-day review at SA). But this just might be the most humbling situation of all: Recall again the long walk up Main? I actually could have taken the bus. But I'm so short on funds that I decided it would be better so save the $2 fare ($4 round trip) and simply hoof it. I've many many such decisions in the past few months. So let me simply say that a bitter realization of homelessness is that IT SUCKS NOT HAVING MONEY. There you are.
One of the benefits of working in the SA kitchens is that culinary workers have access to all the food. That means many of us manage to sneak all sorts of goodies like candy, cakes -- even real food -- throughout the shift. And while food is prohibited in the SA dorms where I live, it's an open secret that practically everyone sneaks food -- candy bars, chips, sodas, other packaged goodies -- into their rooms. One of my roommates has so many munchies squirreled away that his closet could serve as a mini-pantry. I usually keep some sweets, or fruits like bananas or oranges when I can. I'm too paranoid of being caught during a room check, that I don't want to chance anything more. There are other rules SA posts that are generally ignored: They prohibit laptop computers and portable DVD players in the dorms rooms; yet half the clients have them and openly traded DVDs in view of the cameras. No fraternization between clients, yet guys and girls are known to get together for the horizontal (or vertical) bop with some artful maneuvers.
Many times I think any punishment meted out for violation of these rules is dependant upon the mood of the dorm manager, the case worker, and the overall administrative staff. If someone is having a bad day, the offender is likely kicked off the property (also known as being 86'd). If it's a good day, a minor warning might suffice. And if you manage to be a 'pet' of one of the administrators (especially the campus director who oversees everything; I'll call him simply The Man) you can pretty much cause whatever havoc you like with impunity because you know you'll get away with it. There is such a case where a younger client took such advantage of his 'pet' status that he himself was 86'd after getting other people fired. Turnabout is fair play, as they say ...
As you know, I write these blogs at a loval Vegas library where I have a max of 2 hrs computer time. Beacuse of that, eveything written is basically first-draft stuff, so forgive any glaring spelling or syntax errors; I try to edit as I go along. So, time permitting I though you might be interested in some detail on my daily routine as a client at the Salvation Army. As mentioned, I work in the kitchens. It's an entirely new experience since I've never been involved with the food service industry before (nor have had any desire to be). My hours are 5 am to 1 pm five days a week. I'm not paid because I'm officially a volunteer. The only money I get from SA is a $15/week gratuity.
Your humble narrator is not what you'd call a 'morning person', but I nonetheless wake up at 4 am, shower, shave, dress and make it to the kitchens by 5. I'm lucky in that my work is located where I live, lol. First up, I have a cup of coffee brewed by Nick, the grizzled 80 year old volunteer who looks and sounds like a refugee from a mob flick. After talking with him as he goes about his chores of breweing coffee, setting up cream and sugar placements, etc, I get my assignment for the morning from lead cook Bruce. Bruce is about my height (5'6), bespecaled, and has been a professional cook for over 20 years. He has a noticeable southern drawl and likes to include items like BBQ ribs and pork fritters when they're available.
Often my first assignment is simple: Run sack lunches to Pathways and Safe Haven. These are two major programs that share the Salvation Army campus. Pathways, in the words of a co-worker, is "our nuthouse". To be more charitable, Pathways is where they put people who have such severe mental impairments that they cannot function or live on their own. There are certain patients there who are near-catatonic. There are others who simply like to stare at you with apparent malice. Others seem entirely 'normal'. It's a little reminiscent of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest".
Safe Haven also houses mentally disturbed patients but their emphasis seems to be on alcohol and substance abuse rehabilitation. Their recovery programs include ARP (Adult Rehabilitation Program) and WARP (Womens Adult Rehabilitation Program); you can imagine the riffs made at the expense of that last acronym. Patients/clients from both facilities come to the SA kitchens for their daily meals. Pathways has their own small kitchen area, so we usually cook their meals and they can serve them to the patients who aren't able to leave that facility. The sack lunches are usually pre-made in the morning (lthough I sometimes make them if no one else has), and go to clients or workers whose schedules conflict with food serving hours. It's not unusual to see ambulances and police vehicles parked in front of these buildings. From what I've heard, there's a lot of drama there, often involving suicide or violence against others. I'll spare you details of some of the hygiene issues I've heard about.
There's a lot of cooking activity in the morning at the SA kitchens, as the staff not only prepares our meals, but food for Meals On Wheels, and prepares items for lunch and dinner. As I'm not an experienced cook, I usually get the wuss jobs like making toast. This is especially necessary for breakfast items like gravy on toast, or simply toast on the side for eggs or bacon. Making toast is about as exciting as it sounds, although I use a professional grade toaster that can heat 9-10 pieces of bread at a time. As I've found, there a proper way to make a pan of toast and store it: Never cover it, as the heat causes moisture which makes the toast soggy. There's my culinary tip of the day! Sometimes I'll be drafted to chop meat up for stews or soups that will feed the homeless.
At Salvation Army there are several distinctions in the food service. There's the client breakfast from 6:45 to 7:20 am, where the best food choices are offered and coffee is freely available. The cafe breakfast takes place in the same area, but is open to the public at a cost of $2.50 ($3 for lunch/dinner). These customers are usually street people or low-income individuals; that is, you won't see too many suit-and-tie folks here. Many are regular customers who come to know you by sight if not name. As in any restaurant, some customers are nice, some are rude and demanding, and a few want to cause trouble and must be escorted out by security.
One wrinkle with the cafe operation is that customers to pay in the kitchen. With their money they actually purchase a token from the front desk. The token looks like a poker chip (red for breakfast, blue for lunch/dinner). As I often write up order tickets, that position is in charge of accepting the tokens, which are precounted at the front desk. The idea is that the final amount of token from the cafe match up with the count taken by the front desk beforehand. Usually, it does.
Sometimes, as with what happened with me recently, it doesn't. If you're off the count too often, SA will subtract the missing amount from the ticket taker's gratuity. SA assumes that the person taking the tickets must be pocketing them for their own use (likely selling them to the homeless, as has occurred in the past). That's why they make you sign your name to a document before writing up order tickets and taking tokens for the day. The day of my mistake, I got a peevish visit from the front desk guy, Ken, who has a distinct NYC accent. When he told me I came up short in the token count it shounded like Big Pussy in "The Sopranos" telling me to come up with the vig or he'd bust my kneecaps in front of my kids.
Oops, 15 minutes left in my session, so I may have to continue this next week or whenever I can hijack a computer. Some days in the kitchen I get to learn how to make stuff. I told you about my adventure making French Toast. I recently had a chance to make pancakes (exciting to me because that's one of Hellboy's favorite snacks). I was instructed by a co-worker new to the kitchen, but a veteran of restaurants and food service. Every ment someone who's a real know-it-all about something, but has the practical knowledge to back it up? That describes this guy. He's around 6'2, white, from the east coast juding from his speech, and bears a vague resemblance to Brad Pitt if the actor had pockmarks on his face. Plus, this guy is like a natural born math whiz, able to do all sorts of calculation in his head. He even claims to have come up with a math algorithm to beat the odds at some 21 card game at a casino. For these reasons, I'll refer to this guy as Rain Man or RM.
RM started off our pancake adventure by showing me a recipe that looked like a math equation. Uh-oh. In addition to not being a morning person, your humble narrator is also not exactly renowned for his ability in mathematics. And unfortunately, it's become apparently that baking is more science than art (which would be 'cooking'). RM helped me decipher the equation and get got the ingredients together to make the batter. Despite a small measuring mistake on my part, he showed me how to prepare the fryer (griddle), and pour the batter evenly. In a short time I was actually making pancakes. And to my surprise, the efforts tasted fluffy and, well, professional. My elation soon eroded as I continued standing there flipping pancakes and stacking them into aluminum serving pans. The thing I dislike about kitchen work is the process where you have to basically stand still while the food cooks. It makes my knees cramp and my back hurt more than when I'm moving around.
At any rate, RM and I finished off the pancakes in time for the client breakfast and had plenty left over for the cafe and other obligations. It turned out to be too many pancakes, really; the excess were tossed in the garbage. It's a bit disheartening to see your culinary effort thrown out after so much work. Kind of felt like a reflection on me more than the food quality itself.
RM's a pretty good guy overall but can tend to be full of himself when recounting his mad math skills.
He can also curse harshly enough to make a sailor blush. That's something he should watch. I know I try to curb the curses while in public. I've noticed that if profanity is allowed to become habitual, it'll slip out without my realizing it. And that will usually happen at the worst times. That's especially the case when working at SA, which is a church; they do tend to have a low tolerance for ongoing profanity. RM seems to be developing a rep for 'sucking up' to the SA management, at least amongst the kitchen workers. Could be that they're jealous of the guy's ability and feel threatened by his presence. While I don't doubt the guy's intelligence, I am curious about his background. By his own admission he's just emerged from spending 8 years in prison. My guess is he didn't receive that kind of sentence for jaywalking. It makes me wonder why such intelligent people do stupid things.
As far as having to use math to be an effective cook, I have my own personal equation. It goes like this:
(Waking Up <5 am) - Sleep Time + Lousy {arithmetic skills} - Coffee = [DO THE MATH]
I leave you to work it out.
My other chores in the kitchen can include (but are not limited to) mopping floors and countertops, cleaning, sweeping, and taking out garbage. Some of the nastier chores include cleaning out the grease traps. These are grates in the floor where essentially all of the day's food waste is deposited. It's not difficult once I get started, but seeing the food waste lying there, often in congealed masses of yellowish grease has taken my appetite on more than one occasion. In fact, that reminds me of a major gripe about working in the kitchen: I'm getting far too much detail on how food is prepared. Just because I eat the hamburger doesn't mean I want to meet the cow.
I also work the deep fryer sometimes, making fries, fish fillets, pork fritters and such. It's basically like standing in front of a blast furnace while gallons of grease and oil snap, crackle and pop at you like a vengeful god of fire. In addition, juice containers must contantly be refilled; at full capactiy they weigh enough to crack my spine, so someone else must lift it for me. This is also true of many heavy garbage bags as well as pans filled with food. I wasn't prepared for the weight of such items. There are times I think a kitchen worker needs to be as much weight lifter as cook.
The overall morning 'rush' is usually over by 9. That's usually the time of the unofficial break or lunch. Actually, workers tend to take breaks -- especially smoke breaks -- on the fly, whenever time permits. As for a formal food break, I tend to eat in my spare time and often snack throughout the day, so it's not really a big deal. Since the morning shift is pretty efficient, most cooking/prep tasks are complete by 11:30 am. From then it tends to be fairly easy as the afternoon/evening shift comes on from noon-8pm. Often, I'll kill time by seeking out busy work, just so it doesn't looking like I'm idling. One trick is to take out garbage, since it can take several trips and allows me to go outside; likewise taking out cardboard to the recycling bin.
If nothing else is available, I'll work the dishwasher for a half hour or so until another shift worker arrives. Like I say, anytying to look busy.
I'm normally done by 12:30 pm after which I return to my dorm, shower, and occasinally nap. More often, I'll stay awak so I can write, read, or take a walk. I hate being cooped up in that same room for so often, that any breath of fresh air is welcome. It's usually uneventful for me at SA, since I rarely watch TV or play games in the common room. Once 8-9pm rolls around, it's time to turn in (unless it's an off-day) and face another challenging day in the kitchens.
I actually hate revelaing this stuff to you. Why? Because now that you know how much fun it is, I bet everyone will want to 'go homeless' just to experience the lifestyle. And if too many people go homeless, who'll be left to donate all the cool freebies? Take my advice: Work, have fun, pay your taxes, get your freak on, whatever. Like I said, it sucks not having money; no need for you to experience that frustration first hand.
Now, as it feels my hands are about to fall off my wrists, I'll bid you a fond adieu and leave you with what I may turn into a new feature, depending on the reaction. I hear a lot of bon mots as I cruise the streets and the SA campus and decided to share some of those sayings with you in the form of The Quote of the Day.
Quote of the Day:
"When I don't eat, I'm hungry as s**t!" (Overheard in SA common room)
Coarse but pithy, I'm sure you'll agree. That's a wrap!
After reading some severe notices about weapons being prohibited, I walked through a security checkpoint, then entered a large waiting room filled with app. 100 chairs, perhaps a third of them occupied. After taking a number and being told to expect an 60-90 minute wait (what fun), I took a seat and passed the time trying to meditate and wondering what dire fate awaited me once I saw an actual agent. You see, I hadn't filed taxes for quite a long time, so I didn't know what penalties or interest might have accrued in the intervening years. How much could I owe? I figured the best time to confront this issue was now, when I essentially had nothing for the IRS to take. Nothing, that is, except my freedom; they wouldn't put me in jail, right? I thought about this as I meditated.
Then, my number was up ... or should I say my number was called. I entered another office area, this one composed of office cubibles, giving the are the look of a rabbit warren. I located the proper cubicle and sat before a youngish IRS agent seated behind a desk. I could help thinking he looked like the comedian Patton Oswalt, for some reason. After checking my idea, he asked me to punch my SSN into a keypad on the desk. A few moments went by while the computer pulled up the information ...
And suddenly a klaxon alarm starts blasting. Warning lights blare on and off, sweeping the room with swaths of crimson. The Patton Oswalt lookalike appears frightened and runs from the desk. I can tell a full-scale evacuation is taking place, but I can't move. My arms and legs have somehow been bound by metal restrainsts that have sprouted from the chair. A plexiglas tube shoots down pneumatically from the ceiling and lands with a soft thump, trapping me within. Black clad troopers appear, aiming assault rifles at me; I can see red laser dots dancing on my chest (and over my forehead, no doubt). About that time, a man walks up to the plexiglas and peers in with a scowl. In a low, gravelly voice he says, "James Morris, you are in breach of IRS Federal taxation laws and the PATRIOT Act, and are regarded as a threat to the security of the United States." He leaned in closer. Now I want to know what the hell is going on. My name is Jack Bauer, and you will ansmer my questions, DAMMIT!" Then a digital clock appeared, and I heard a sound like a heartbeat go, da-doom, da-doom, da-doom ...
... And then I awoke. Seems I had briefly nodded off during meditation and dreamt the whole thing. How about that? Psyche! C'mon, admit it: I had you on the edge of your seat (or laptop), didn't I? Okay, so it's a tired device (along with the "24 hours earlier" flashback device), but I always wanted to try it. So, what's the truth about my visit to the IRS. Up until the "24" homage, everything really happened. What actually followed was this: The agent told me half of the years I hadn't filed were a wiped clean. The remaining years were examined in tedious fashion with him asking me essentially the same questions over and over; I guess this is required by law or else that guy was an epic sadist, just enjoying my discomfort. The upshot: I don't owe anything, my IRS slate is clean. That's not the end of my debt problems, but I figured it was the one that could potentially cause the most trouble. And when all was said, I must admit the fearsome IRS was actually pretty benign and very helpful -- at least in this case. If I ever make some big money and there's a tax dispute, well, all bets are off. For now though, it's one less worry to worry about.
The worst thing about my IRS visit was the trip getting there. Remember I said it was a long walk? I'm not exagerrating. It's interesting to to see how the scharacter of the same street can morph as you walk along. I started off at Owens and walked south down Main Street. From here you can see clearly the skyline of Las Vegas' downtown, with the Stratosphere dominating the other buildings. Continuing south you see the buildings come closer and the homeless-infested areas of N Las Vegas give way to areas that contains low-income housing and fleabag motels.
Then Main Street leads to the Fremont Street Experience, and all those buildings you spotted on the skyline are now up close and personal: Casinos and hotels like Main Street Station, Lady Luck, The Plaza (home of Oscar Goodman's new restaurant), Binion's, and many more. In this area you still see some transients. But the area is mostly clean (aimed at tourists) and the inhabitants appear more upscale and professional. No homeless camps, or people living out of their vehicles in this part of Vegas. The cars here are newer model Mercedes, Lexus, or Range Rovers. The preponderance of restaurants and eateries precludes any charities dropping off food and toiletries in this part of town. Casino staff is trained to spot and eject anyone who even appears remotely homeless or transient. That means a keen eye is kept on the restrooms of such establishments. And if the floor staff doesn't catch the offender, be assured the security cameras will.
Since it was my off day from the kitchens, I strolled around Fremont Street and took in the atmosphere. It was a bitter irony to realize that only a few years earlier I had been invited to write a comedy skit for a local comic book convention held at the Plaza Hotel. I had a 3-day pass, and had the pleasure of seeing my material (a riff on "The Amityville Horror" and other haunted house movies) performed before a live audience. While I didn't appear in the piece, I recall taking great satisfaction in having written something that was so well-received by an audience. A warm, tingly sensation of pride that I can feel even now. Even so, I couldn't bring myself to enter the Plaza Hotel. That sense of pride warped into overwhelming feelings of shame and guilt that made my flace flush hot at my current situation. How could so much bad stuff happen in such a short time? I turned around and headed north, back to the Salavation Army campus and my current neighborhood.
I've mentioned that my experience with homelessness has been a humbling one. That I've experienced a number of realizations during the past 3 months of my condition (yes, it's been a quarter of a year already; I just had my 60-day review at SA). But this just might be the most humbling situation of all: Recall again the long walk up Main? I actually could have taken the bus. But I'm so short on funds that I decided it would be better so save the $2 fare ($4 round trip) and simply hoof it. I've many many such decisions in the past few months. So let me simply say that a bitter realization of homelessness is that IT SUCKS NOT HAVING MONEY. There you are.
One of the benefits of working in the SA kitchens is that culinary workers have access to all the food. That means many of us manage to sneak all sorts of goodies like candy, cakes -- even real food -- throughout the shift. And while food is prohibited in the SA dorms where I live, it's an open secret that practically everyone sneaks food -- candy bars, chips, sodas, other packaged goodies -- into their rooms. One of my roommates has so many munchies squirreled away that his closet could serve as a mini-pantry. I usually keep some sweets, or fruits like bananas or oranges when I can. I'm too paranoid of being caught during a room check, that I don't want to chance anything more. There are other rules SA posts that are generally ignored: They prohibit laptop computers and portable DVD players in the dorms rooms; yet half the clients have them and openly traded DVDs in view of the cameras. No fraternization between clients, yet guys and girls are known to get together for the horizontal (or vertical) bop with some artful maneuvers.
Many times I think any punishment meted out for violation of these rules is dependant upon the mood of the dorm manager, the case worker, and the overall administrative staff. If someone is having a bad day, the offender is likely kicked off the property (also known as being 86'd). If it's a good day, a minor warning might suffice. And if you manage to be a 'pet' of one of the administrators (especially the campus director who oversees everything; I'll call him simply The Man) you can pretty much cause whatever havoc you like with impunity because you know you'll get away with it. There is such a case where a younger client took such advantage of his 'pet' status that he himself was 86'd after getting other people fired. Turnabout is fair play, as they say ...
As you know, I write these blogs at a loval Vegas library where I have a max of 2 hrs computer time. Beacuse of that, eveything written is basically first-draft stuff, so forgive any glaring spelling or syntax errors; I try to edit as I go along. So, time permitting I though you might be interested in some detail on my daily routine as a client at the Salvation Army. As mentioned, I work in the kitchens. It's an entirely new experience since I've never been involved with the food service industry before (nor have had any desire to be). My hours are 5 am to 1 pm five days a week. I'm not paid because I'm officially a volunteer. The only money I get from SA is a $15/week gratuity.
Your humble narrator is not what you'd call a 'morning person', but I nonetheless wake up at 4 am, shower, shave, dress and make it to the kitchens by 5. I'm lucky in that my work is located where I live, lol. First up, I have a cup of coffee brewed by Nick, the grizzled 80 year old volunteer who looks and sounds like a refugee from a mob flick. After talking with him as he goes about his chores of breweing coffee, setting up cream and sugar placements, etc, I get my assignment for the morning from lead cook Bruce. Bruce is about my height (5'6), bespecaled, and has been a professional cook for over 20 years. He has a noticeable southern drawl and likes to include items like BBQ ribs and pork fritters when they're available.
Often my first assignment is simple: Run sack lunches to Pathways and Safe Haven. These are two major programs that share the Salvation Army campus. Pathways, in the words of a co-worker, is "our nuthouse". To be more charitable, Pathways is where they put people who have such severe mental impairments that they cannot function or live on their own. There are certain patients there who are near-catatonic. There are others who simply like to stare at you with apparent malice. Others seem entirely 'normal'. It's a little reminiscent of "One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest".
Safe Haven also houses mentally disturbed patients but their emphasis seems to be on alcohol and substance abuse rehabilitation. Their recovery programs include ARP (Adult Rehabilitation Program) and WARP (Womens Adult Rehabilitation Program); you can imagine the riffs made at the expense of that last acronym. Patients/clients from both facilities come to the SA kitchens for their daily meals. Pathways has their own small kitchen area, so we usually cook their meals and they can serve them to the patients who aren't able to leave that facility. The sack lunches are usually pre-made in the morning (lthough I sometimes make them if no one else has), and go to clients or workers whose schedules conflict with food serving hours. It's not unusual to see ambulances and police vehicles parked in front of these buildings. From what I've heard, there's a lot of drama there, often involving suicide or violence against others. I'll spare you details of some of the hygiene issues I've heard about.
There's a lot of cooking activity in the morning at the SA kitchens, as the staff not only prepares our meals, but food for Meals On Wheels, and prepares items for lunch and dinner. As I'm not an experienced cook, I usually get the wuss jobs like making toast. This is especially necessary for breakfast items like gravy on toast, or simply toast on the side for eggs or bacon. Making toast is about as exciting as it sounds, although I use a professional grade toaster that can heat 9-10 pieces of bread at a time. As I've found, there a proper way to make a pan of toast and store it: Never cover it, as the heat causes moisture which makes the toast soggy. There's my culinary tip of the day! Sometimes I'll be drafted to chop meat up for stews or soups that will feed the homeless.
At Salvation Army there are several distinctions in the food service. There's the client breakfast from 6:45 to 7:20 am, where the best food choices are offered and coffee is freely available. The cafe breakfast takes place in the same area, but is open to the public at a cost of $2.50 ($3 for lunch/dinner). These customers are usually street people or low-income individuals; that is, you won't see too many suit-and-tie folks here. Many are regular customers who come to know you by sight if not name. As in any restaurant, some customers are nice, some are rude and demanding, and a few want to cause trouble and must be escorted out by security.
One wrinkle with the cafe operation is that customers to pay in the kitchen. With their money they actually purchase a token from the front desk. The token looks like a poker chip (red for breakfast, blue for lunch/dinner). As I often write up order tickets, that position is in charge of accepting the tokens, which are precounted at the front desk. The idea is that the final amount of token from the cafe match up with the count taken by the front desk beforehand. Usually, it does.
Sometimes, as with what happened with me recently, it doesn't. If you're off the count too often, SA will subtract the missing amount from the ticket taker's gratuity. SA assumes that the person taking the tickets must be pocketing them for their own use (likely selling them to the homeless, as has occurred in the past). That's why they make you sign your name to a document before writing up order tickets and taking tokens for the day. The day of my mistake, I got a peevish visit from the front desk guy, Ken, who has a distinct NYC accent. When he told me I came up short in the token count it shounded like Big Pussy in "The Sopranos" telling me to come up with the vig or he'd bust my kneecaps in front of my kids.
Oops, 15 minutes left in my session, so I may have to continue this next week or whenever I can hijack a computer. Some days in the kitchen I get to learn how to make stuff. I told you about my adventure making French Toast. I recently had a chance to make pancakes (exciting to me because that's one of Hellboy's favorite snacks). I was instructed by a co-worker new to the kitchen, but a veteran of restaurants and food service. Every ment someone who's a real know-it-all about something, but has the practical knowledge to back it up? That describes this guy. He's around 6'2, white, from the east coast juding from his speech, and bears a vague resemblance to Brad Pitt if the actor had pockmarks on his face. Plus, this guy is like a natural born math whiz, able to do all sorts of calculation in his head. He even claims to have come up with a math algorithm to beat the odds at some 21 card game at a casino. For these reasons, I'll refer to this guy as Rain Man or RM.
RM started off our pancake adventure by showing me a recipe that looked like a math equation. Uh-oh. In addition to not being a morning person, your humble narrator is also not exactly renowned for his ability in mathematics. And unfortunately, it's become apparently that baking is more science than art (which would be 'cooking'). RM helped me decipher the equation and get got the ingredients together to make the batter. Despite a small measuring mistake on my part, he showed me how to prepare the fryer (griddle), and pour the batter evenly. In a short time I was actually making pancakes. And to my surprise, the efforts tasted fluffy and, well, professional. My elation soon eroded as I continued standing there flipping pancakes and stacking them into aluminum serving pans. The thing I dislike about kitchen work is the process where you have to basically stand still while the food cooks. It makes my knees cramp and my back hurt more than when I'm moving around.
At any rate, RM and I finished off the pancakes in time for the client breakfast and had plenty left over for the cafe and other obligations. It turned out to be too many pancakes, really; the excess were tossed in the garbage. It's a bit disheartening to see your culinary effort thrown out after so much work. Kind of felt like a reflection on me more than the food quality itself.
RM's a pretty good guy overall but can tend to be full of himself when recounting his mad math skills.
He can also curse harshly enough to make a sailor blush. That's something he should watch. I know I try to curb the curses while in public. I've noticed that if profanity is allowed to become habitual, it'll slip out without my realizing it. And that will usually happen at the worst times. That's especially the case when working at SA, which is a church; they do tend to have a low tolerance for ongoing profanity. RM seems to be developing a rep for 'sucking up' to the SA management, at least amongst the kitchen workers. Could be that they're jealous of the guy's ability and feel threatened by his presence. While I don't doubt the guy's intelligence, I am curious about his background. By his own admission he's just emerged from spending 8 years in prison. My guess is he didn't receive that kind of sentence for jaywalking. It makes me wonder why such intelligent people do stupid things.
As far as having to use math to be an effective cook, I have my own personal equation. It goes like this:
(Waking Up <5 am) - Sleep Time + Lousy {arithmetic skills} - Coffee = [DO THE MATH]
I leave you to work it out.
My other chores in the kitchen can include (but are not limited to) mopping floors and countertops, cleaning, sweeping, and taking out garbage. Some of the nastier chores include cleaning out the grease traps. These are grates in the floor where essentially all of the day's food waste is deposited. It's not difficult once I get started, but seeing the food waste lying there, often in congealed masses of yellowish grease has taken my appetite on more than one occasion. In fact, that reminds me of a major gripe about working in the kitchen: I'm getting far too much detail on how food is prepared. Just because I eat the hamburger doesn't mean I want to meet the cow.
I also work the deep fryer sometimes, making fries, fish fillets, pork fritters and such. It's basically like standing in front of a blast furnace while gallons of grease and oil snap, crackle and pop at you like a vengeful god of fire. In addition, juice containers must contantly be refilled; at full capactiy they weigh enough to crack my spine, so someone else must lift it for me. This is also true of many heavy garbage bags as well as pans filled with food. I wasn't prepared for the weight of such items. There are times I think a kitchen worker needs to be as much weight lifter as cook.
The overall morning 'rush' is usually over by 9. That's usually the time of the unofficial break or lunch. Actually, workers tend to take breaks -- especially smoke breaks -- on the fly, whenever time permits. As for a formal food break, I tend to eat in my spare time and often snack throughout the day, so it's not really a big deal. Since the morning shift is pretty efficient, most cooking/prep tasks are complete by 11:30 am. From then it tends to be fairly easy as the afternoon/evening shift comes on from noon-8pm. Often, I'll kill time by seeking out busy work, just so it doesn't looking like I'm idling. One trick is to take out garbage, since it can take several trips and allows me to go outside; likewise taking out cardboard to the recycling bin.
If nothing else is available, I'll work the dishwasher for a half hour or so until another shift worker arrives. Like I say, anytying to look busy.
I'm normally done by 12:30 pm after which I return to my dorm, shower, and occasinally nap. More often, I'll stay awak so I can write, read, or take a walk. I hate being cooped up in that same room for so often, that any breath of fresh air is welcome. It's usually uneventful for me at SA, since I rarely watch TV or play games in the common room. Once 8-9pm rolls around, it's time to turn in (unless it's an off-day) and face another challenging day in the kitchens.
I actually hate revelaing this stuff to you. Why? Because now that you know how much fun it is, I bet everyone will want to 'go homeless' just to experience the lifestyle. And if too many people go homeless, who'll be left to donate all the cool freebies? Take my advice: Work, have fun, pay your taxes, get your freak on, whatever. Like I said, it sucks not having money; no need for you to experience that frustration first hand.
Now, as it feels my hands are about to fall off my wrists, I'll bid you a fond adieu and leave you with what I may turn into a new feature, depending on the reaction. I hear a lot of bon mots as I cruise the streets and the SA campus and decided to share some of those sayings with you in the form of The Quote of the Day.
Quote of the Day:
"When I don't eat, I'm hungry as s**t!" (Overheard in SA common room)
Coarse but pithy, I'm sure you'll agree. That's a wrap!
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