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!
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