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?
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