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?
Thursday, January 19, 2012
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!
Saturday, December 31, 2011
HINJFCA Part X
So I hope all of you and yours had a Merry Xmas or Happy Holidays, or whatever PC euphemism you prefer. Just managed to stop by the library long enough to do some last minute blogging to ring out 2011, a year that your humble narrator would just as soon forget. The Mayans said 2012 is the year the workl ends but my personal Armageddon arrived a year earlier. Well, big deal. If the Mayans were such know-it-alls, why'd they get wiped out? Guess they didn't see that coming, did they? But I digest ...
Did you get all the stuff you wanted for Xmas? I got a secondhand watch and a pair of socks, but I'm not complaining. I actually did need the socks. They came courtesy not of St. Nick but an SA volunteer whom I will dub St. Matthew, or Matt. SA volunteers come in two varieties: Some come from the $8 a night dorms where I originally stayed (btw, those beds are now free from now until the end of winter at which time normal pricing will resume. Not surprisingly, that dorm is full up. In fact, while I essentially breezed into the SA program, there is now a considerable waiting list for the same thing. Like they say, timing is everything). Those dorm dwellers can volunteer to work on the SA campus as kitchen workers, maintenance workers, etc, in return for a free bed and one free meal a day.
The other type of volunteer comes to SA as part of their community service in exchange for paying a fine (or jail time) for, say, too many DUIs. These workers usually stay from 2-5 days depending on their court deal. The dorm volunteers can stay on for years. Perhaps because they're working for room, board and food, I've often noticed the dorm volunteers often work harder that the regular clients like myself. There's a guy who is at least 80 who arrives in the kitchens at 4:30 am to make coffee and help out, then leaves at 7 only to return again for a shift that lasts from 1-7 pm. So far as I know he hasn't missed a day. His name is Nick and while he is a dependable worker, I wonder if he's missed his calling. Standing around 5'7 and 140 lbs, Nick has a wizened wrinkly face and speaks with a gravelly NYC accent that would make him a natural character actor for a Scorcese mob flick. The fact that he curses like a sailor doesn't hurt his image.
Anyway, back to Matt. Matt is a really nice guy, around 60ish, with a bright face and cheerful disposition. He usually does the cleaning chores around the kitchen, wiping down tables and mopping floors, etc. Matt is also what some might term a 'Jesus freak', although that might be harsh. Judge for yourself. Remember I said I got a pair of socks from him? When I mentioned to him that I really needed a pair, he said, "God knew you needed that pair of socks, and he guided them to you. I had nothing to do with it." Or if you give him a compliment about how he mops the floor he'll reply with, "It's not me. It's the Lord working through me that makes the floor so clean." Or when he once invited me to attend his local church services (which I can't because it conflicts with my schedule; no, it really does) he said, "God is guiding me to seek out people to attend this church." And so on. Basically no matter what you talk to him about, Matt will find a way to weave God's guidance into the conversation. Let's say that certain people find the habit annoying.
Some have apparently been offended when he leaves for the day saying, "God bless you." I've never found that offensive, but I have been somewhat amused by his constant evocation of the Lord's presence in everything he does. I've sometimes wonder if God occasionally rolls his eyes and mutters, "Jesus, Matt, give it a rest." For the record, I'm not making fun of Matt. To be honest, I actually envy him. I envy the fact that he has found a higher power he can surrender himself. I envy that he can be so devoted without questioning his faith. I don't doubt his strong faith keeps Matt's disposition amicable and has resulted in a youthful look in his face. If his faith makes it possible for him to find peace within his heart, cause harm to none and simply attempt to share the blessings he has found, who is to say he's wrong? I honestly wish there was something to which I could offer my blind devotion. I expect I'm too much of a doubting Thomas to ever allow myself to do such a thing.
Some other things going on: Over the past couple weeks, my routine has settled down a bit. And that makes me nervous. You see, I don't want to get too comfortable living in what is essentially a homeless shelter. Yet I see many of my fellow clients settling into what seems to be a kind of domestic bliss. They view their time in the vocational program as normal everyday life. They hang out with friends, watch TV in the common room, play foosball and pool, and generally seem to enjoy themselves in this Salvation Army environment. Is it me, or does this seem unnatural?
Speaking for myself, I didn't come here to watch TV, trade DVDs or play games. While I prefer people like me, I didn't enter the SA program to win Facebook friends or have a vacation. I came here to go through the program, re-enter the work force and rebuild my life; and trust me, there's a lot of painful rebuilding ahead. To me it seems abnormal to view this living situation at SA as 'normal'. To me, it's a temporary living condition that I want to escape as quickly as possible. I can't tell you how much I miss living alone, on my own schedule. While it pales in comparison to my former plight, it actually gets tiresome passing in and out of checkpoints while security guards breathalyze you. In all honesty, though, I don't have a problem with SA. They've been very helpful and have provided me with a foundation on which I can re-examine myself, learn new skills, and resume a normal lifestyle.
Another problem I've having isn't with SA per se, but with the general neighborhood itself. While I've described how this area is infested with all types of indigents due to the preponderance of charities and cheap beds, the number of homeless people seems to have grown as the weather has turned colder. This is evidenced by the 'settlments' that have multiplied recently. To the east on Owens Ave you can find a 'strip mall' of tents and shelters erected against a freeway overpass. A few steps farther and you'll find a large open gravel lot. Around this lot are ringed more tents and shelters. Even a few cars are parked there; they presumably belong to homeless people who are sleeping in their vehicles (there are actually websites devoted to living in your car. Google the subject if you don't believe me).
It's strange to see these people milling about like they're out for a stroll in their neighborhood. Stranger still to see trucks and vans filled with food and clothing roll up and hand out the items to the occupants. Why do I say this? While the intentions of those donating the items is no doubt pure, couldn't such actions be viewed as actually enabling the homeless to maintain their current level of existence? One could argue that the homeless are in effect being rewarded by receiving items for free simply because they've chosen to live outside the mainstream of society. Perhaps this is coming off colder than I've intended, but I do feel there is a point where such donations can do as much harm as good. I've seen how the homeless come to depend on these handouts, and it seems to eradicate any compunction on their part to rejoin society.
They know that sooner or later some charity will roll by with free food and clothing (not to mention blankets, toiletries, etc.). While handing out free meals to the homeless at SA, many of them brag about never having to buy a meal all day. They know when churches serve free meals. and they know when and where to go for plenty of handouts. For a time I also stood in line for various stuff, but I've since given that up. I don't like standing in line with a lot of those guys anymore because I don't want to be associated with them. I also don't want to need handouts from anyone, so I've given up on the freebies. I'm not saying it's wrong, just not something I wish to partake of any longer.
Walking westward on Owens Ave to the corner of Las Vegas Blvd North you'll find the largest homeless settlement. Located across the street from a cemetery (the one with the black rooster) it's a sprawling piece of undeveloped acreage that is increasing populated by more and more tents and shelters. Here you'll find a community of homeless so large that food trucks regularly stop by (maybe they take food stamps?); if the settlement gets any bigger, it'll need its own zip code. You'll find families living in makeshift shelters, with their kids using the dirt and gravel lots as a playground. Pieces of furniture like sofas and tables are strategically placed to keep tent fabric from flying off. Drug dealing and prostitution is evident even though NLV cop cars regularly patrol the area.
Oddly, the cops seem more fixated on running off panhandlers than cracking down on the other vice going on in the area. Occupants use the area as a kind of public toilet as well. It's not uncommon to see any of them doing their business in broad daylight. I recently witnessed a sight so disgusting I couldn't eat lunch that day. (No doubt it'll show up on YouTube.) A sewer-like smell is becoming ever more noticeable. You'd think sanitation concerns would be enough to shut the site down. And you have to wonder about the effect this has on the local property values. Many homes are located near this settlement. Would a selling point be, "Offers excellent view of the daily activities of the homeless camp. Watch transients go to the bathroom from your living room window!"
The biggest irony, imo? This homeless camp is located smack across the street from a brand new construction project with a sign that proudly beams, "Welcome to the Great City of North Las Vegas Nevada"!
I recently completed SA's Essential Employment Skills (EES) Classes. It's a series of classes designed for 're-entry'. That is, trying to get clients with substance abuse problems and/or criminal histories to re enter the work force. To that end, there's a lot of obvious stuff taught like, Don't walk into an interview with your iPod blasting. Don't say things to the interviewer like, "Yo what up, homes," or "What it be like, dawg?" Don't wear shorts, don't go into an interview high or buzzed, don't use profanity, don't hit on the secretary (or the interviewer), etc. Stuff that should basically be common sense; and would be viewed as such in most cases. But there are some hardheads for whom common sense might as well be a foreign language.
The teacher of the course is a man named Sam, who has a tendency to drone on and then suddenly pound the chalkboard to emphasize his points. Example: "When you walk in for an interview, do you wear sunglasses? NO! (pound) WRONG! (pound). Do you wear swimming trunks and say, Yo dude got any jobs? What? HELLO?! (pound) WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? (pound). Stuff like that. Sam is very matter of fact and it wouldn't surprise me if he is or had been some sort of a parole officer in his career. I sometimes wondered if he didn't pound the board so forcefully in order to make sure the students were staying awake.
As I've stated before, their programs are really geared toward recovering substance abusers and ex-cons. My own personal problems stem from neither condition. I can tell you it still freaks me out to hear guys (and girls) casually dropping references like, "Yeah, when I was in county lock up ..." or ""We did it differently when I was in prison ...." or "I gotta go meet with my motherf***in' parole officer again," or "Can I get a job even if I have multiple felonies like assault with a deadly weapon on my record?" There are all actual statements I've heard, made as casually as you please. While it's a bit mind blowing to me, these are legit concerns for those affected. Both my SA casework and my shrink have told me that rap sheets make it extremely difficult for ex-cons to get jobs. They can automatically discount any job with any government agency (on any level). And while big name casinos in LV claim to be equal opportunity employers, it's not exactly a secret that ex-cons are wasting their time applying there.
Since my time is dwindling, let me hit a few salient points: On the work front, my kitchen schedule has been changed from 12-8pm to 5am-1pm. Safe to say it's been a shock to my system. While I have managed to make it on time, it still feels wrong to get up so early. I prefer waking up when the sun is warm, or at least visible. The early shift has afforded me the chance to resume cutting meat. I couldn't tell you how many pounds of dead chicken flesh I sliced and diced the other day. I also had a chance to make my first food: French toast.
Well, it's a start. I'm thinking of my own version: French Cajun Toast, which swaps cinnamon for cayenne pepper. I'd say it's a taste treat guaranteed to wake up your body from top to bottom! Most of the guys on the first shift are experienced cooks and have worked in food service for years. The lead cook told me he's a licensed home security specialist. While he made a good living as such, he loves to cook, so money doesn't enter the equation. I've heard similar such stories from other kitchen workers. While many of these guys do have the experience and the talent, they also have records. It'll be interesting to see how many of them land jobs, and where.
I am also thinking about life after SA. I might opt for a casino, since I have no criminal record and my caseworker told me that should help with employment opportunities. One of my co-workers said he thought I'd make a great maitre'd, so I'm looking into that possibility. That position seems to value people skills as much or more than food/cooking skills, so that might give me a shot. Wherever it is, I'd like it to be an entertainment-themed establishment like the Hard Rock Cafe, House of Blues, or a smaller nightclub or dinner theatre. That way, I might be able to put my acting skills to better effect. There's also the chance of working for the National Parks, which might be a great experience. Wouldn't hurt to get out of Vegas for a while. If you have any ideas, pass 'em along.
So I'm closing out 2011 on a far different note than it began. I"m still not sure what to make of it all. There are still the days where I think I dreamt everything and I'll wake up to resume my former life. Other days my mind is preoccupied with what when wrong and what I could have done to avoid it. And other days, like today, I feel discomforted and discontented. But it's not necessarily a bad feeling. It's a core sensation that I want to move on with my life and leave the past behind. Take that for your cliche of the day. At any rate have a safe and happy new year. I'll likely be asleep when 2012 rolls in, so mind yourselves and we'll meet again next year.
Did you get all the stuff you wanted for Xmas? I got a secondhand watch and a pair of socks, but I'm not complaining. I actually did need the socks. They came courtesy not of St. Nick but an SA volunteer whom I will dub St. Matthew, or Matt. SA volunteers come in two varieties: Some come from the $8 a night dorms where I originally stayed (btw, those beds are now free from now until the end of winter at which time normal pricing will resume. Not surprisingly, that dorm is full up. In fact, while I essentially breezed into the SA program, there is now a considerable waiting list for the same thing. Like they say, timing is everything). Those dorm dwellers can volunteer to work on the SA campus as kitchen workers, maintenance workers, etc, in return for a free bed and one free meal a day.
The other type of volunteer comes to SA as part of their community service in exchange for paying a fine (or jail time) for, say, too many DUIs. These workers usually stay from 2-5 days depending on their court deal. The dorm volunteers can stay on for years. Perhaps because they're working for room, board and food, I've often noticed the dorm volunteers often work harder that the regular clients like myself. There's a guy who is at least 80 who arrives in the kitchens at 4:30 am to make coffee and help out, then leaves at 7 only to return again for a shift that lasts from 1-7 pm. So far as I know he hasn't missed a day. His name is Nick and while he is a dependable worker, I wonder if he's missed his calling. Standing around 5'7 and 140 lbs, Nick has a wizened wrinkly face and speaks with a gravelly NYC accent that would make him a natural character actor for a Scorcese mob flick. The fact that he curses like a sailor doesn't hurt his image.
Anyway, back to Matt. Matt is a really nice guy, around 60ish, with a bright face and cheerful disposition. He usually does the cleaning chores around the kitchen, wiping down tables and mopping floors, etc. Matt is also what some might term a 'Jesus freak', although that might be harsh. Judge for yourself. Remember I said I got a pair of socks from him? When I mentioned to him that I really needed a pair, he said, "God knew you needed that pair of socks, and he guided them to you. I had nothing to do with it." Or if you give him a compliment about how he mops the floor he'll reply with, "It's not me. It's the Lord working through me that makes the floor so clean." Or when he once invited me to attend his local church services (which I can't because it conflicts with my schedule; no, it really does) he said, "God is guiding me to seek out people to attend this church." And so on. Basically no matter what you talk to him about, Matt will find a way to weave God's guidance into the conversation. Let's say that certain people find the habit annoying.
Some have apparently been offended when he leaves for the day saying, "God bless you." I've never found that offensive, but I have been somewhat amused by his constant evocation of the Lord's presence in everything he does. I've sometimes wonder if God occasionally rolls his eyes and mutters, "Jesus, Matt, give it a rest." For the record, I'm not making fun of Matt. To be honest, I actually envy him. I envy the fact that he has found a higher power he can surrender himself. I envy that he can be so devoted without questioning his faith. I don't doubt his strong faith keeps Matt's disposition amicable and has resulted in a youthful look in his face. If his faith makes it possible for him to find peace within his heart, cause harm to none and simply attempt to share the blessings he has found, who is to say he's wrong? I honestly wish there was something to which I could offer my blind devotion. I expect I'm too much of a doubting Thomas to ever allow myself to do such a thing.
Some other things going on: Over the past couple weeks, my routine has settled down a bit. And that makes me nervous. You see, I don't want to get too comfortable living in what is essentially a homeless shelter. Yet I see many of my fellow clients settling into what seems to be a kind of domestic bliss. They view their time in the vocational program as normal everyday life. They hang out with friends, watch TV in the common room, play foosball and pool, and generally seem to enjoy themselves in this Salvation Army environment. Is it me, or does this seem unnatural?
Speaking for myself, I didn't come here to watch TV, trade DVDs or play games. While I prefer people like me, I didn't enter the SA program to win Facebook friends or have a vacation. I came here to go through the program, re-enter the work force and rebuild my life; and trust me, there's a lot of painful rebuilding ahead. To me it seems abnormal to view this living situation at SA as 'normal'. To me, it's a temporary living condition that I want to escape as quickly as possible. I can't tell you how much I miss living alone, on my own schedule. While it pales in comparison to my former plight, it actually gets tiresome passing in and out of checkpoints while security guards breathalyze you. In all honesty, though, I don't have a problem with SA. They've been very helpful and have provided me with a foundation on which I can re-examine myself, learn new skills, and resume a normal lifestyle.
Another problem I've having isn't with SA per se, but with the general neighborhood itself. While I've described how this area is infested with all types of indigents due to the preponderance of charities and cheap beds, the number of homeless people seems to have grown as the weather has turned colder. This is evidenced by the 'settlments' that have multiplied recently. To the east on Owens Ave you can find a 'strip mall' of tents and shelters erected against a freeway overpass. A few steps farther and you'll find a large open gravel lot. Around this lot are ringed more tents and shelters. Even a few cars are parked there; they presumably belong to homeless people who are sleeping in their vehicles (there are actually websites devoted to living in your car. Google the subject if you don't believe me).
It's strange to see these people milling about like they're out for a stroll in their neighborhood. Stranger still to see trucks and vans filled with food and clothing roll up and hand out the items to the occupants. Why do I say this? While the intentions of those donating the items is no doubt pure, couldn't such actions be viewed as actually enabling the homeless to maintain their current level of existence? One could argue that the homeless are in effect being rewarded by receiving items for free simply because they've chosen to live outside the mainstream of society. Perhaps this is coming off colder than I've intended, but I do feel there is a point where such donations can do as much harm as good. I've seen how the homeless come to depend on these handouts, and it seems to eradicate any compunction on their part to rejoin society.
They know that sooner or later some charity will roll by with free food and clothing (not to mention blankets, toiletries, etc.). While handing out free meals to the homeless at SA, many of them brag about never having to buy a meal all day. They know when churches serve free meals. and they know when and where to go for plenty of handouts. For a time I also stood in line for various stuff, but I've since given that up. I don't like standing in line with a lot of those guys anymore because I don't want to be associated with them. I also don't want to need handouts from anyone, so I've given up on the freebies. I'm not saying it's wrong, just not something I wish to partake of any longer.
Walking westward on Owens Ave to the corner of Las Vegas Blvd North you'll find the largest homeless settlement. Located across the street from a cemetery (the one with the black rooster) it's a sprawling piece of undeveloped acreage that is increasing populated by more and more tents and shelters. Here you'll find a community of homeless so large that food trucks regularly stop by (maybe they take food stamps?); if the settlement gets any bigger, it'll need its own zip code. You'll find families living in makeshift shelters, with their kids using the dirt and gravel lots as a playground. Pieces of furniture like sofas and tables are strategically placed to keep tent fabric from flying off. Drug dealing and prostitution is evident even though NLV cop cars regularly patrol the area.
Oddly, the cops seem more fixated on running off panhandlers than cracking down on the other vice going on in the area. Occupants use the area as a kind of public toilet as well. It's not uncommon to see any of them doing their business in broad daylight. I recently witnessed a sight so disgusting I couldn't eat lunch that day. (No doubt it'll show up on YouTube.) A sewer-like smell is becoming ever more noticeable. You'd think sanitation concerns would be enough to shut the site down. And you have to wonder about the effect this has on the local property values. Many homes are located near this settlement. Would a selling point be, "Offers excellent view of the daily activities of the homeless camp. Watch transients go to the bathroom from your living room window!"
The biggest irony, imo? This homeless camp is located smack across the street from a brand new construction project with a sign that proudly beams, "Welcome to the Great City of North Las Vegas Nevada"!
I recently completed SA's Essential Employment Skills (EES) Classes. It's a series of classes designed for 're-entry'. That is, trying to get clients with substance abuse problems and/or criminal histories to re enter the work force. To that end, there's a lot of obvious stuff taught like, Don't walk into an interview with your iPod blasting. Don't say things to the interviewer like, "Yo what up, homes," or "What it be like, dawg?" Don't wear shorts, don't go into an interview high or buzzed, don't use profanity, don't hit on the secretary (or the interviewer), etc. Stuff that should basically be common sense; and would be viewed as such in most cases. But there are some hardheads for whom common sense might as well be a foreign language.
The teacher of the course is a man named Sam, who has a tendency to drone on and then suddenly pound the chalkboard to emphasize his points. Example: "When you walk in for an interview, do you wear sunglasses? NO! (pound) WRONG! (pound). Do you wear swimming trunks and say, Yo dude got any jobs? What? HELLO?! (pound) WHAT ARE YOU THINKING? (pound). Stuff like that. Sam is very matter of fact and it wouldn't surprise me if he is or had been some sort of a parole officer in his career. I sometimes wondered if he didn't pound the board so forcefully in order to make sure the students were staying awake.
As I've stated before, their programs are really geared toward recovering substance abusers and ex-cons. My own personal problems stem from neither condition. I can tell you it still freaks me out to hear guys (and girls) casually dropping references like, "Yeah, when I was in county lock up ..." or ""We did it differently when I was in prison ...." or "I gotta go meet with my motherf***in' parole officer again," or "Can I get a job even if I have multiple felonies like assault with a deadly weapon on my record?" There are all actual statements I've heard, made as casually as you please. While it's a bit mind blowing to me, these are legit concerns for those affected. Both my SA casework and my shrink have told me that rap sheets make it extremely difficult for ex-cons to get jobs. They can automatically discount any job with any government agency (on any level). And while big name casinos in LV claim to be equal opportunity employers, it's not exactly a secret that ex-cons are wasting their time applying there.
Since my time is dwindling, let me hit a few salient points: On the work front, my kitchen schedule has been changed from 12-8pm to 5am-1pm. Safe to say it's been a shock to my system. While I have managed to make it on time, it still feels wrong to get up so early. I prefer waking up when the sun is warm, or at least visible. The early shift has afforded me the chance to resume cutting meat. I couldn't tell you how many pounds of dead chicken flesh I sliced and diced the other day. I also had a chance to make my first food: French toast.
Well, it's a start. I'm thinking of my own version: French Cajun Toast, which swaps cinnamon for cayenne pepper. I'd say it's a taste treat guaranteed to wake up your body from top to bottom! Most of the guys on the first shift are experienced cooks and have worked in food service for years. The lead cook told me he's a licensed home security specialist. While he made a good living as such, he loves to cook, so money doesn't enter the equation. I've heard similar such stories from other kitchen workers. While many of these guys do have the experience and the talent, they also have records. It'll be interesting to see how many of them land jobs, and where.
I am also thinking about life after SA. I might opt for a casino, since I have no criminal record and my caseworker told me that should help with employment opportunities. One of my co-workers said he thought I'd make a great maitre'd, so I'm looking into that possibility. That position seems to value people skills as much or more than food/cooking skills, so that might give me a shot. Wherever it is, I'd like it to be an entertainment-themed establishment like the Hard Rock Cafe, House of Blues, or a smaller nightclub or dinner theatre. That way, I might be able to put my acting skills to better effect. There's also the chance of working for the National Parks, which might be a great experience. Wouldn't hurt to get out of Vegas for a while. If you have any ideas, pass 'em along.
So I'm closing out 2011 on a far different note than it began. I"m still not sure what to make of it all. There are still the days where I think I dreamt everything and I'll wake up to resume my former life. Other days my mind is preoccupied with what when wrong and what I could have done to avoid it. And other days, like today, I feel discomforted and discontented. But it's not necessarily a bad feeling. It's a core sensation that I want to move on with my life and leave the past behind. Take that for your cliche of the day. At any rate have a safe and happy new year. I'll likely be asleep when 2012 rolls in, so mind yourselves and we'll meet again next year.
Saturday, December 17, 2011
Homelessness: It's Not Just For Crackheads Anymore Part Nine
Previously on HINJFCA:
Unassuming writer and voice actor Jim Morris had been overtaken by his archenemy Major Depressive Disorder. Despite Jim's valiant attempts to fight off the mental malefactor, he finally was overcome by the Major's power and succumbed to his hated -- and mysterious foe? Mysterious? Indeed. You see, the Major had never fully revealed himself until January of 2011. But the Major is a devious foe and carefully calculated his appearances. First as headaches and feelings of confusion experienced by Jim. Then as episodes of severe depression (yes the Major more than lived up to his name), resulting in extended crying jags, thoughts of suicide, and finally the rejection of his entire life. The Major basically caused Jim to simply stop caring about anything: Food, survival, sex, sports, movies, you name it. All the things Jim cared about -- including himself -- were flushed down the proverbial toilet.
The Major savored his victory as Jim was evicted from his apartment, lost most of his possessions, and was near penniless as he was cast onto the mean streets of Las Vegas. This looked like the end for our hero ... But wait! After spending a long night in a public park, a distant ally helped Jim with enough cash to afford a hotel room the following night. Later, Jim found his way to North Las Vegas and the Salvation Army (all recounted in this HINJFCA blog). After some night staying in the homeless shelter dorm, he was accepted into the SA vocational program with the target of working in their kitchens in order to become eligible for their culinary course co-sponsored by the State of Nevada and a local college. Well! It seemed as though things were brightening up for our hero. Or were they? He was still homeless and jobless. And now he was confronted with a whole new challenge in terms of learning about the food service business and dealing with the many volatile personalities found in SA. Will Jim survive? Can he continue his comeback against the Major and ultimately defeat his foe? And most important, will Jim ever get a PS3? These and more answers forthcoming as the HINJFCA saga continues ...
The above was written for readers who are new to this blog and may have wandered in during the middle of these events. My name is Jim Morris. I'm just a guy who has never been in trouble with the law, always played by the rules, and just happened to be afflicted with Major Depressive Disorder. That led to my becoming homeless and having to adapt to a whole new lifestyle as I try to get myself (and my life) back together as I work within the Salvation Army vocational program. This blog is officially called "Homelessness: It's Not Just For Crackheads Anymore" but I use the admittedly convoluted acronym "HINJFCA". For the record, I have never done crack. I don't drink, I don't do drugs, and I don't gamble. I've never been incarcerated, nor have I ever been arrested. My 'rap sheet' would consist of a single moving violation that occurred nearly 30 years ago -- and that was expunged after taking a driver's ed class. My record, as such, makes me an anomaly among my fellow Salvation Army clients (our official designation).
So that's a brief recap. And now, I'm going to wrap up the events that led me to become a client (or perhaps an enlistee) of the Salvation Army: After passing the interviews for the SA vocational programs, I was transferred from the homeless shelter dorms into the Vocation Building located across the driveway from the shelter. (Note that I went through many interviews with SA before being accepted. When I groused about why the process was so tedious, by cousin -- an HR bigwig -- suggested it was to see if my behavior or appearance varied from one meeting to the next. That is, did I come in wasted, drunk, smelling like a goat, etc. Turns out, my cousin was exactly right. Well done, cuz.)
So guess what happened my first day in the new digs? I went to a bare bones classroom where I had to fill out yet another pile of forms, releases, etc. I was given an ID badge and assigned a caseworker by the name of Carla. She's a tall, gull-bodied black woman with a strident voice and energetic personality. I must say I was transfixed by her rear end, which resembled a couple of soccer balls struggling to escape a tight skirt. She showed me around the facility. It's a three story building with minimal decorations save for a few pictures with a patriotic theme and many notices and bulletins plastered throughout. Across from the main lobby on the first floor is the common room which contains a large flat screen TV which has been the cause of many near-fatal disputes among clients. There's also a pool table, a foosball table, and a small 'library' consisting of books donated to SA. Clients must sign in and out at the front lobby whenever they leave the campus area and ID badges must be left there and retrieved upon return. Curfew is 8pm S-Th, midnight on F-Sat.
The first floor contains the kitchens and adjacent cafe area with several round dining tables. The cafe is open to the general public for breakfast, lunch and dinner with meals costing approximately $3. Next door to that is a large room filled with long tables which serves as the clients' eating area. This is where I take the majority of my meals at SA. Food is served cafeteria-style with trays, self-serve sections and the main food counter. To get meals, clients must present both their photo ID and a valid meal card, the color of which changes upon issuance on a weekly basis. To get the meal card, SA requires that you apply for Food Stamps (SNAP), which is actually a plastic EBT card ala a debit card. You must apply for this within 3 days of acceptance into the vocational program (informally called simply, 'the program' by staff and clients).
I applied at the Welfare located within the Catholic Charities complex. I was expecting a drawn-out, day-long experience, but such was not the case. I sat in a crowded room filling out a lot of paperwork, which in returned. I was told I would have my interview with a caseworker that very day (within an hour, actually). While waiting I noticed that many Welfare applicants got into arguments with the workers there. It seemed there was a lot of confusion and chaos applicable to both sides. (Not helping matters is that other social services have offices located within the same room, so it's very cramped.) I saw several people shouting and finally escorted away by security guards. One woman broke down in tears after being told she would have to fill out an entire new application; she filled out the previous one with information that was apparently falsified. After meeting my caseworker (a guy who looked like Beau Bridges and spoke with a drawl) he said I was approved and would have my EBT card before leaving the office. That amazed me; I was expecting it to be mailed to me within 2-3 weeks. I guess my homeless circumstance and SA connection helped expedite matters. Anyway, I walked out of the office with my very own EBT card. It took 51 years, but I finally joined all the impoverished masses subsisting on Food Stamps and suckling the Government (or should that be 'Givernment') teat. Go, me!!
Of course, I had to sign the card over to SA. Here's a bit of false advertising on their part concerning the program: While they do cover your room, board and utilities, they don't actually pay for your food. They do provide meals, but they keep your EBT card on file and charge $50 a week for meals (not bad considering it comes out to $7 a day for 3 full meals). But the cost of meals is actually being paid for by Uncle Sam, not SA. Perhaps a minor quibble but I found it a bit irritating that I had to surrender the card. However, they do return it to you whenever you leave the program (whether by your own volition or by dismissal, which is far from uncommon here).
The second floor of the vocational building contains men's and women's dorms for those in the program. (There's about a 8:1 ratio of men to women here) The third floor houses veterans and others who pay monthly rent to SA. This includes graduates of the program who have become gainfully employed and choose to stay on the campus. Grads can do that for up to 1.5 years after graduation. Not a bad way to save money as rent averages around $200-250/month and that includes utilities, laundry service, etc. My dorm room houses up to four guys, as do all rooms on the second floor. The room itself is plainly furnished with 4 single beds, nightstands and stand alone closets. Sheets and blankets are provided by SA. My room is located right by the railroad track, so it's not uncommon to hear trains rumbling by day and night. (The third floor usually houses 2 guys to a room but that varies) My roommates are Frank, Will, and Derrick.
Frank is a white guy, 48, about 5'7 with a beer gut and an outgoing personality. He works in the kitchen with me, and has an outgoing personality along with an occasionally tiresome sense of humor. He provides a lot of unintentional humor from his stories concerning is misadventures with Internet dating and chat rooms. I'll probably dedicate a whole segment to his stories. Will is a black guy in his mid-late 30s from NYC who speaks rapidly and with so much slang it's difficult for me to understand him at times. He's pretty cool although he likes to play DVDs on his laptop late at night with the sound cranked. Derrick was likely a football player at one time. He's around 6'5, app. 240 lbs, black, large-framed with a deep voice. You might say he's a man of few words as he rarely speaks. I get the sense that he's smarter than he lets on. While he can crack the occasional joke he tends to keep to himself. Fine with me; I'd rather had a roommate who was too quite than too talkative. One strike against Derrick, though: While everyone in the room snores on occasion, this guy is by far the loudest offender. The deep snoring can make the walls vibrate. Problem is, Derrick is so big that we're all afraid to complain to him.
After showing me to my room, Carla laid out my schedule: Occasional meetings with her for status updates and performance reviews. I got the schedule for Essential Employment Sessions (EES) which are classes designed to help clients reintegrate into the work force. To be blunt, EES is aimed at the many ex-cons and recovering substance abusers within the program. I'll recap some of my experiences in the class and the sometimes eccentric behavior of the instructor Jay in upcoming installments. The classes meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays for around 90 minutes each. I also got my first work assignment: The laundry, located in the basement with the maintenance department. I was told the kitchen crew was full and it would be two weeks before I could sign on there. That turned out to be true. To be honest, the laundry detail was pretty peaceful and very easy.
Washing was simply a matter of shoving however many clothes would fit into the aluminum machines. Detergent, bleach, etc. was added automatically in pre-measured doses. Industrial sized dryers had most loads done with 30 minutes. You could come and go as you pleases as long as the clothes were done. I often read books, or took off to eat. My partner was a 19-year-old black girl with a sweet disposition and a chunky body. When she told me she'd been in jail several times I didn't believe her. I would later find out that many younger girls who appeared at SA had backgrounds of criminal behavior and substance abuse. Don't know why that surprised me but it did. Anyway, after two weeks I was, as promised, transferred to the kitchen. I actually regretted leaving the simple tasks of the laundry, not to mention the solitude of the basement.
I was formally introduced to the head of the kitchen, Chef Mike. He's around 60 with a clean-shaven head that resembles the shape of the classic light bulb. He gave me my schedule and my very own uniform -- actually a white coat with black trim. It's necessary because it soon becomes splattered with various food and drink stains. After a brief tour of the kitchens I was introduced to some of my future co-workers, a few of whom will figure prominently in upcoming segments.
And you know what? That just about brings us up to date on the events that have brought us to the present. More detail will be added along the way, including more interactions with -- and observations concerning the many homeless and some of the characters I've met during my time in North Las Vegas. In that regard nothing has changed. If anything, the amount of homeless 'camps' has increased as the weather has turned colder. Hopefully, I can provide some pictures in future updates. For those who don't know, I type these columns from a public library in Las Vegas as I have no access to the Internet. Also note all these columns are written as first drafts, so you might forgive any glaring mistakes or omissions (or don't; I could frankly care less, but I like to be diplomatic). If you really want to see a polished version of these events, have some publisher throw me some bones as in $$ (I do care about that).
At any rate if I don't get a chance to post before Christmas, let me wish you and yours Happy Holidays. And remember that so many of our sacred traditions are actually based on pagan customs and heathen ceremonies once thought to evoke the devil and other malevolent entities from beyond the pale. Hope that warms the cockles of your heart!
Unassuming writer and voice actor Jim Morris had been overtaken by his archenemy Major Depressive Disorder. Despite Jim's valiant attempts to fight off the mental malefactor, he finally was overcome by the Major's power and succumbed to his hated -- and mysterious foe? Mysterious? Indeed. You see, the Major had never fully revealed himself until January of 2011. But the Major is a devious foe and carefully calculated his appearances. First as headaches and feelings of confusion experienced by Jim. Then as episodes of severe depression (yes the Major more than lived up to his name), resulting in extended crying jags, thoughts of suicide, and finally the rejection of his entire life. The Major basically caused Jim to simply stop caring about anything: Food, survival, sex, sports, movies, you name it. All the things Jim cared about -- including himself -- were flushed down the proverbial toilet.
The Major savored his victory as Jim was evicted from his apartment, lost most of his possessions, and was near penniless as he was cast onto the mean streets of Las Vegas. This looked like the end for our hero ... But wait! After spending a long night in a public park, a distant ally helped Jim with enough cash to afford a hotel room the following night. Later, Jim found his way to North Las Vegas and the Salvation Army (all recounted in this HINJFCA blog). After some night staying in the homeless shelter dorm, he was accepted into the SA vocational program with the target of working in their kitchens in order to become eligible for their culinary course co-sponsored by the State of Nevada and a local college. Well! It seemed as though things were brightening up for our hero. Or were they? He was still homeless and jobless. And now he was confronted with a whole new challenge in terms of learning about the food service business and dealing with the many volatile personalities found in SA. Will Jim survive? Can he continue his comeback against the Major and ultimately defeat his foe? And most important, will Jim ever get a PS3? These and more answers forthcoming as the HINJFCA saga continues ...
The above was written for readers who are new to this blog and may have wandered in during the middle of these events. My name is Jim Morris. I'm just a guy who has never been in trouble with the law, always played by the rules, and just happened to be afflicted with Major Depressive Disorder. That led to my becoming homeless and having to adapt to a whole new lifestyle as I try to get myself (and my life) back together as I work within the Salvation Army vocational program. This blog is officially called "Homelessness: It's Not Just For Crackheads Anymore" but I use the admittedly convoluted acronym "HINJFCA". For the record, I have never done crack. I don't drink, I don't do drugs, and I don't gamble. I've never been incarcerated, nor have I ever been arrested. My 'rap sheet' would consist of a single moving violation that occurred nearly 30 years ago -- and that was expunged after taking a driver's ed class. My record, as such, makes me an anomaly among my fellow Salvation Army clients (our official designation).
So that's a brief recap. And now, I'm going to wrap up the events that led me to become a client (or perhaps an enlistee) of the Salvation Army: After passing the interviews for the SA vocational programs, I was transferred from the homeless shelter dorms into the Vocation Building located across the driveway from the shelter. (Note that I went through many interviews with SA before being accepted. When I groused about why the process was so tedious, by cousin -- an HR bigwig -- suggested it was to see if my behavior or appearance varied from one meeting to the next. That is, did I come in wasted, drunk, smelling like a goat, etc. Turns out, my cousin was exactly right. Well done, cuz.)
So guess what happened my first day in the new digs? I went to a bare bones classroom where I had to fill out yet another pile of forms, releases, etc. I was given an ID badge and assigned a caseworker by the name of Carla. She's a tall, gull-bodied black woman with a strident voice and energetic personality. I must say I was transfixed by her rear end, which resembled a couple of soccer balls struggling to escape a tight skirt. She showed me around the facility. It's a three story building with minimal decorations save for a few pictures with a patriotic theme and many notices and bulletins plastered throughout. Across from the main lobby on the first floor is the common room which contains a large flat screen TV which has been the cause of many near-fatal disputes among clients. There's also a pool table, a foosball table, and a small 'library' consisting of books donated to SA. Clients must sign in and out at the front lobby whenever they leave the campus area and ID badges must be left there and retrieved upon return. Curfew is 8pm S-Th, midnight on F-Sat.
The first floor contains the kitchens and adjacent cafe area with several round dining tables. The cafe is open to the general public for breakfast, lunch and dinner with meals costing approximately $3. Next door to that is a large room filled with long tables which serves as the clients' eating area. This is where I take the majority of my meals at SA. Food is served cafeteria-style with trays, self-serve sections and the main food counter. To get meals, clients must present both their photo ID and a valid meal card, the color of which changes upon issuance on a weekly basis. To get the meal card, SA requires that you apply for Food Stamps (SNAP), which is actually a plastic EBT card ala a debit card. You must apply for this within 3 days of acceptance into the vocational program (informally called simply, 'the program' by staff and clients).
I applied at the Welfare located within the Catholic Charities complex. I was expecting a drawn-out, day-long experience, but such was not the case. I sat in a crowded room filling out a lot of paperwork, which in returned. I was told I would have my interview with a caseworker that very day (within an hour, actually). While waiting I noticed that many Welfare applicants got into arguments with the workers there. It seemed there was a lot of confusion and chaos applicable to both sides. (Not helping matters is that other social services have offices located within the same room, so it's very cramped.) I saw several people shouting and finally escorted away by security guards. One woman broke down in tears after being told she would have to fill out an entire new application; she filled out the previous one with information that was apparently falsified. After meeting my caseworker (a guy who looked like Beau Bridges and spoke with a drawl) he said I was approved and would have my EBT card before leaving the office. That amazed me; I was expecting it to be mailed to me within 2-3 weeks. I guess my homeless circumstance and SA connection helped expedite matters. Anyway, I walked out of the office with my very own EBT card. It took 51 years, but I finally joined all the impoverished masses subsisting on Food Stamps and suckling the Government (or should that be 'Givernment') teat. Go, me!!
Of course, I had to sign the card over to SA. Here's a bit of false advertising on their part concerning the program: While they do cover your room, board and utilities, they don't actually pay for your food. They do provide meals, but they keep your EBT card on file and charge $50 a week for meals (not bad considering it comes out to $7 a day for 3 full meals). But the cost of meals is actually being paid for by Uncle Sam, not SA. Perhaps a minor quibble but I found it a bit irritating that I had to surrender the card. However, they do return it to you whenever you leave the program (whether by your own volition or by dismissal, which is far from uncommon here).
The second floor of the vocational building contains men's and women's dorms for those in the program. (There's about a 8:1 ratio of men to women here) The third floor houses veterans and others who pay monthly rent to SA. This includes graduates of the program who have become gainfully employed and choose to stay on the campus. Grads can do that for up to 1.5 years after graduation. Not a bad way to save money as rent averages around $200-250/month and that includes utilities, laundry service, etc. My dorm room houses up to four guys, as do all rooms on the second floor. The room itself is plainly furnished with 4 single beds, nightstands and stand alone closets. Sheets and blankets are provided by SA. My room is located right by the railroad track, so it's not uncommon to hear trains rumbling by day and night. (The third floor usually houses 2 guys to a room but that varies) My roommates are Frank, Will, and Derrick.
Frank is a white guy, 48, about 5'7 with a beer gut and an outgoing personality. He works in the kitchen with me, and has an outgoing personality along with an occasionally tiresome sense of humor. He provides a lot of unintentional humor from his stories concerning is misadventures with Internet dating and chat rooms. I'll probably dedicate a whole segment to his stories. Will is a black guy in his mid-late 30s from NYC who speaks rapidly and with so much slang it's difficult for me to understand him at times. He's pretty cool although he likes to play DVDs on his laptop late at night with the sound cranked. Derrick was likely a football player at one time. He's around 6'5, app. 240 lbs, black, large-framed with a deep voice. You might say he's a man of few words as he rarely speaks. I get the sense that he's smarter than he lets on. While he can crack the occasional joke he tends to keep to himself. Fine with me; I'd rather had a roommate who was too quite than too talkative. One strike against Derrick, though: While everyone in the room snores on occasion, this guy is by far the loudest offender. The deep snoring can make the walls vibrate. Problem is, Derrick is so big that we're all afraid to complain to him.
After showing me to my room, Carla laid out my schedule: Occasional meetings with her for status updates and performance reviews. I got the schedule for Essential Employment Sessions (EES) which are classes designed to help clients reintegrate into the work force. To be blunt, EES is aimed at the many ex-cons and recovering substance abusers within the program. I'll recap some of my experiences in the class and the sometimes eccentric behavior of the instructor Jay in upcoming installments. The classes meet on Tuesdays and Thursdays for around 90 minutes each. I also got my first work assignment: The laundry, located in the basement with the maintenance department. I was told the kitchen crew was full and it would be two weeks before I could sign on there. That turned out to be true. To be honest, the laundry detail was pretty peaceful and very easy.
Washing was simply a matter of shoving however many clothes would fit into the aluminum machines. Detergent, bleach, etc. was added automatically in pre-measured doses. Industrial sized dryers had most loads done with 30 minutes. You could come and go as you pleases as long as the clothes were done. I often read books, or took off to eat. My partner was a 19-year-old black girl with a sweet disposition and a chunky body. When she told me she'd been in jail several times I didn't believe her. I would later find out that many younger girls who appeared at SA had backgrounds of criminal behavior and substance abuse. Don't know why that surprised me but it did. Anyway, after two weeks I was, as promised, transferred to the kitchen. I actually regretted leaving the simple tasks of the laundry, not to mention the solitude of the basement.
I was formally introduced to the head of the kitchen, Chef Mike. He's around 60 with a clean-shaven head that resembles the shape of the classic light bulb. He gave me my schedule and my very own uniform -- actually a white coat with black trim. It's necessary because it soon becomes splattered with various food and drink stains. After a brief tour of the kitchens I was introduced to some of my future co-workers, a few of whom will figure prominently in upcoming segments.
And you know what? That just about brings us up to date on the events that have brought us to the present. More detail will be added along the way, including more interactions with -- and observations concerning the many homeless and some of the characters I've met during my time in North Las Vegas. In that regard nothing has changed. If anything, the amount of homeless 'camps' has increased as the weather has turned colder. Hopefully, I can provide some pictures in future updates. For those who don't know, I type these columns from a public library in Las Vegas as I have no access to the Internet. Also note all these columns are written as first drafts, so you might forgive any glaring mistakes or omissions (or don't; I could frankly care less, but I like to be diplomatic). If you really want to see a polished version of these events, have some publisher throw me some bones as in $$ (I do care about that).
At any rate if I don't get a chance to post before Christmas, let me wish you and yours Happy Holidays. And remember that so many of our sacred traditions are actually based on pagan customs and heathen ceremonies once thought to evoke the devil and other malevolent entities from beyond the pale. Hope that warms the cockles of your heart!
Saturday, December 10, 2011
HINJFCA Part Eight
Okay, so where was I?
Oh yeah, wrapping up events that have led me to my present circumstances at the Salvation Army. Well, you already know that I've been assigned to the kitchens. This is in conjunction with a culinary program they sponsor with the State of Nevada and a local college. You have to gain some experience in food service before they'll interview you for entrance into the culinary program. It's evidently a big deal, as SA will pay all costs (tuition, books, uniforms, tools, etc) associated with the program while also providing transportation to and from the college. Here's the kicker: once you sign your name to the dotted line, there's no turning back. That means if you accept the offer and later change your mind, you're on the hook for the full cost of the culinary program; in addition, you get booted out of Salvation Army as well.
So it's obviously an important decision, one you can't make lightly. I'm scheduled to go in this Tuesday for a formal interview with the people who run the program. Lord knows how that will go. But some other kitchen workers who have enrolled say acceptance is pretty much a given since they're desperate to meet a quota: They need at least 15 people to enroll in order to have the program at all. So far they apparently have 6-7. I'll really have to give this some thought because I'll tell you straight out that I don't especially enjoy the work associated with the kitchen. One thing I didn't count on was the sheer weight of the items I've encountered in this work. It's not uncommon for food pans and drink coolers (filled) to weigh 50 pounds. While that weight is negligible for some of the guys who spent their days pumping iron in prison, it's a bit much for your humble narrator to bear. And you know that saying about too many cooks? Trust me, it's based on fact.
While giving you some updates on current events, let me tell you that it's been 30 days since my acceptance into the vocational program. That's an important mark because many of the clients don't make it that far -- no kidding. It's not uncommon to new new faces pop up every few days, only to have them disappear soon after. Make no mistake that while SA is a charitable organization, to are strict in their rules and swift to act when any of those rules are broken. Many clients get busted for the big infractions: Caught with drugs in their possession or failing a random drug test; also known as 'pissing dirty' or 'dropping a dirty', this is likely the most common reason clients are dismissed. Of course sheer stupidity on the part of a client is common as well: One woman decided it was a great idea to drink a 40-ouncer right in front of a video monitor. Obviously not ready for her close-up.
Once an offense is confirmed SA wastes no time in getting the offender off the premises. Even smaller offenses like failing a random room inspection can result in trouble. The other day I and my roommates were subject to such an inspection. One of the guys got a citation for leaving his bed messy (it was) and was given a citation. As a first offense, likely nothing will happen. But SA takes even the smaller details seriously, and those small infractions, if continued, can result in dismissal. I suppose SA has the right, since they're footing the bill for all this. Also, I think clients forget the fact that they stay and work with/for SA at the behest of the organization. Perhaps it's human nature but I've found that many clients and homeless people get awfully picky about the things they are given (most often free of charge). Beggars can't be choosers doesn't apply to many of these guys. There's no law that says SA (or anyone) has to provide the services they do.
On a much smaller scale, there was an incident with the flat screen TV in the common area. That being, clients fighting over the remote control in order to decide which program to watch. The shouting got so loud that it was heard by the Big Man (that being the SA Director of Operations), who later decreed a much stricter schedule for watching TV. It doesn't affect me so much because there's rarely anything on that I want to watch (aside from football). Besides, I didn't join the program to watch TV. But the Big Man right pointed out that watching TV in the common room is a privilege, not a right. Too many clients seem to forget that.
30 days is also important within the SA program because that's when the client receives their first review. Your humble narrator is proud to announce that he aced his caseworker's review by scoring 100%. No infractions, no write-ups, no conflicts, etc. While I thought that was par for the course, I was told many guys can't make it that far without some sort of confrontation. Anyway, yours truly has been a good, boring lad and so made the cut, which includes a bump-up in gratuity as well. I'm proud to tell you that based upon a 40-hour work week I'm now making app. .33-cents/hour. Take that, Bill Gates! My other review was for my job performance as rated by my kitchen boss. A bit misleading since I've only been in the kitchen two weeks or so, but 30 days is 30 days I guess. Anyway, I scored a 98 out of 100. My drawbacks were speed in preparing food and taking initiative in finding stuff to do ... or asking what to do. I'm not really sure. Listening might be a drawback, now that I think of it. Anyway, I was a good enough review. I signed off and was feeling pretty good about myself. Two good reviews in the same day. And then ... tragedy.
Well, that's a strong word. More like 'unnecessary annoyance set in'. I'll be detailing these co-workers in upcoming installments but for now let me say I like the kitchen boss. He's one of the loudest individuals I've ever met, but he's a good guy overall and really knows the food service industry. Because he oversees the entire kitchen he's not always around to train me, so that duty falls to his second in command. This is a hulking Hawaiian dude who, no surprise, is an ex-con. His backstory of dealing drugs and fighting with various gang bosses in Los Angeles sounds like a Miami Vice episode; Michael Mann would love this stuff, very crime noir. That aside, this Hawaiian dude is a good guy, but a bad supervisor. He knows his stuff in terms of food preparation, but his people skills are about as delicate as a boulder rolling downhill. In short, he has a tendency to tell me 3-4 things to do, then walk off without showing me how to do any of the tasks(!). Or he lets his emotions come to the fore and show his anger by giving off looks and vibes like he wants to run a knife through my throat.
My guess is that that kind of approach worked well in prison. But in the 'real world', I have the feeling he'd get a lot of employee complaints about his manner and approach. Then again, maybe it's me. I'm the first to admit I have a lot to learn about the culinary trade. Maybe it's just not my thing. Yet it seems my inexperience might be taken into consideration, at least to a degree. From what I can tell, most of the guys there have at least some small previous experience in the food industry. I'm supposed to know everything in two weeks time? I will say, though, that I kind of like serving food along 'the line.' That is, taking orders, putting the food together, serving the customers. I think I like it because it's fairly nonstop and I get a chance to talk with people; time seems to go by quicker when I'm in that position. Could be it's the only thing close to performing the SA kitchen provides. I actually think my sense of humor might be one of the things that keeps my situation as bearable as it is.
Anyway, the Hawaiian hulk dude and I have a few words. No strong, no shouting or anything like that. But it's the closest I've come to having an actual 'confrontation' as such. Basically he said I was too slow. He was upset because another area of the kitchen I'd been working in -- along with 3 others -- was left unmopped. My 'punishment' was to mop the whole area myself, so that it would 'never happen again'. Yeesh. There are times when I like to make smartass, offhand comments when confronted by such self-important, petty blather. I didn't this time because A) I didn't want to get squashed like a bug; and 2) I actually wanted to hear what he had to say; which as it turned out was nothing memorable. I inwardly rolled my eyes.
He said something to the effect of "You may think I'm harsh, but I'm a good guy." I said, "I do think you're a good guy. You're just not a good supervisor." Since I'm here writing these words, I didn't get squashed. More interesting, he didn't reply even though I know he heard me. Maybe his reply was in not speaking to me the rest of the day. And do you want to know something ironic? I later checked with the people I was working with and found that they had already mopped the floor hours earlier(!). It made me wonder if Mr. Hawaiian Punch wasn't making the matter personal. Funny, isn't it. A few weeks ago I was writing about trying to keep a roof over my head and stay off the streets. Now I'm writing about petty confrontations with co-workers. I wonder if I'm taking too much of my SA experience for granted? It seems to easy -- too easy -- to slip back into familiar patterns of human behavior, regardless of how serious our circumstances.
Hmm. This session is coming to a close, and I still haven't managed to wrap up some loose ends of my tale. Hang loose, my brethren. We'll certainly tie up those threads in the next installment, or my name isn't Bullwinkle J. Moose! It isn't, but so what?
Oh yeah, wrapping up events that have led me to my present circumstances at the Salvation Army. Well, you already know that I've been assigned to the kitchens. This is in conjunction with a culinary program they sponsor with the State of Nevada and a local college. You have to gain some experience in food service before they'll interview you for entrance into the culinary program. It's evidently a big deal, as SA will pay all costs (tuition, books, uniforms, tools, etc) associated with the program while also providing transportation to and from the college. Here's the kicker: once you sign your name to the dotted line, there's no turning back. That means if you accept the offer and later change your mind, you're on the hook for the full cost of the culinary program; in addition, you get booted out of Salvation Army as well.
So it's obviously an important decision, one you can't make lightly. I'm scheduled to go in this Tuesday for a formal interview with the people who run the program. Lord knows how that will go. But some other kitchen workers who have enrolled say acceptance is pretty much a given since they're desperate to meet a quota: They need at least 15 people to enroll in order to have the program at all. So far they apparently have 6-7. I'll really have to give this some thought because I'll tell you straight out that I don't especially enjoy the work associated with the kitchen. One thing I didn't count on was the sheer weight of the items I've encountered in this work. It's not uncommon for food pans and drink coolers (filled) to weigh 50 pounds. While that weight is negligible for some of the guys who spent their days pumping iron in prison, it's a bit much for your humble narrator to bear. And you know that saying about too many cooks? Trust me, it's based on fact.
While giving you some updates on current events, let me tell you that it's been 30 days since my acceptance into the vocational program. That's an important mark because many of the clients don't make it that far -- no kidding. It's not uncommon to new new faces pop up every few days, only to have them disappear soon after. Make no mistake that while SA is a charitable organization, to are strict in their rules and swift to act when any of those rules are broken. Many clients get busted for the big infractions: Caught with drugs in their possession or failing a random drug test; also known as 'pissing dirty' or 'dropping a dirty', this is likely the most common reason clients are dismissed. Of course sheer stupidity on the part of a client is common as well: One woman decided it was a great idea to drink a 40-ouncer right in front of a video monitor. Obviously not ready for her close-up.
Once an offense is confirmed SA wastes no time in getting the offender off the premises. Even smaller offenses like failing a random room inspection can result in trouble. The other day I and my roommates were subject to such an inspection. One of the guys got a citation for leaving his bed messy (it was) and was given a citation. As a first offense, likely nothing will happen. But SA takes even the smaller details seriously, and those small infractions, if continued, can result in dismissal. I suppose SA has the right, since they're footing the bill for all this. Also, I think clients forget the fact that they stay and work with/for SA at the behest of the organization. Perhaps it's human nature but I've found that many clients and homeless people get awfully picky about the things they are given (most often free of charge). Beggars can't be choosers doesn't apply to many of these guys. There's no law that says SA (or anyone) has to provide the services they do.
On a much smaller scale, there was an incident with the flat screen TV in the common area. That being, clients fighting over the remote control in order to decide which program to watch. The shouting got so loud that it was heard by the Big Man (that being the SA Director of Operations), who later decreed a much stricter schedule for watching TV. It doesn't affect me so much because there's rarely anything on that I want to watch (aside from football). Besides, I didn't join the program to watch TV. But the Big Man right pointed out that watching TV in the common room is a privilege, not a right. Too many clients seem to forget that.
30 days is also important within the SA program because that's when the client receives their first review. Your humble narrator is proud to announce that he aced his caseworker's review by scoring 100%. No infractions, no write-ups, no conflicts, etc. While I thought that was par for the course, I was told many guys can't make it that far without some sort of confrontation. Anyway, yours truly has been a good, boring lad and so made the cut, which includes a bump-up in gratuity as well. I'm proud to tell you that based upon a 40-hour work week I'm now making app. .33-cents/hour. Take that, Bill Gates! My other review was for my job performance as rated by my kitchen boss. A bit misleading since I've only been in the kitchen two weeks or so, but 30 days is 30 days I guess. Anyway, I scored a 98 out of 100. My drawbacks were speed in preparing food and taking initiative in finding stuff to do ... or asking what to do. I'm not really sure. Listening might be a drawback, now that I think of it. Anyway, I was a good enough review. I signed off and was feeling pretty good about myself. Two good reviews in the same day. And then ... tragedy.
Well, that's a strong word. More like 'unnecessary annoyance set in'. I'll be detailing these co-workers in upcoming installments but for now let me say I like the kitchen boss. He's one of the loudest individuals I've ever met, but he's a good guy overall and really knows the food service industry. Because he oversees the entire kitchen he's not always around to train me, so that duty falls to his second in command. This is a hulking Hawaiian dude who, no surprise, is an ex-con. His backstory of dealing drugs and fighting with various gang bosses in Los Angeles sounds like a Miami Vice episode; Michael Mann would love this stuff, very crime noir. That aside, this Hawaiian dude is a good guy, but a bad supervisor. He knows his stuff in terms of food preparation, but his people skills are about as delicate as a boulder rolling downhill. In short, he has a tendency to tell me 3-4 things to do, then walk off without showing me how to do any of the tasks(!). Or he lets his emotions come to the fore and show his anger by giving off looks and vibes like he wants to run a knife through my throat.
My guess is that that kind of approach worked well in prison. But in the 'real world', I have the feeling he'd get a lot of employee complaints about his manner and approach. Then again, maybe it's me. I'm the first to admit I have a lot to learn about the culinary trade. Maybe it's just not my thing. Yet it seems my inexperience might be taken into consideration, at least to a degree. From what I can tell, most of the guys there have at least some small previous experience in the food industry. I'm supposed to know everything in two weeks time? I will say, though, that I kind of like serving food along 'the line.' That is, taking orders, putting the food together, serving the customers. I think I like it because it's fairly nonstop and I get a chance to talk with people; time seems to go by quicker when I'm in that position. Could be it's the only thing close to performing the SA kitchen provides. I actually think my sense of humor might be one of the things that keeps my situation as bearable as it is.
Anyway, the Hawaiian hulk dude and I have a few words. No strong, no shouting or anything like that. But it's the closest I've come to having an actual 'confrontation' as such. Basically he said I was too slow. He was upset because another area of the kitchen I'd been working in -- along with 3 others -- was left unmopped. My 'punishment' was to mop the whole area myself, so that it would 'never happen again'. Yeesh. There are times when I like to make smartass, offhand comments when confronted by such self-important, petty blather. I didn't this time because A) I didn't want to get squashed like a bug; and 2) I actually wanted to hear what he had to say; which as it turned out was nothing memorable. I inwardly rolled my eyes.
He said something to the effect of "You may think I'm harsh, but I'm a good guy." I said, "I do think you're a good guy. You're just not a good supervisor." Since I'm here writing these words, I didn't get squashed. More interesting, he didn't reply even though I know he heard me. Maybe his reply was in not speaking to me the rest of the day. And do you want to know something ironic? I later checked with the people I was working with and found that they had already mopped the floor hours earlier(!). It made me wonder if Mr. Hawaiian Punch wasn't making the matter personal. Funny, isn't it. A few weeks ago I was writing about trying to keep a roof over my head and stay off the streets. Now I'm writing about petty confrontations with co-workers. I wonder if I'm taking too much of my SA experience for granted? It seems to easy -- too easy -- to slip back into familiar patterns of human behavior, regardless of how serious our circumstances.
Hmm. This session is coming to a close, and I still haven't managed to wrap up some loose ends of my tale. Hang loose, my brethren. We'll certainly tie up those threads in the next installment, or my name isn't Bullwinkle J. Moose! It isn't, but so what?
Saturday, December 3, 2011
HINJFCA: Coming Attractions!
Another one of my truncated posts due to time constraints at the library. Just wanted to touch on a couple of items in brief. I know the language in this blog (and the subject matter) can get a bit dicey for some tastes. Some people might even be offended by the material. While I'm not trying to repel readers or gross anyone out, I do try to present the situations I've experienced in as true a fashion as possible. That means I try to reproduce the language used in such situations as well. Of course, this includes profanity. As it happens, I'm not the biggest fan of profanity. I try to use it as minimally as possible when I'm in public because I don't want to present myself as some common, foul-mouthed street miscreant.
In my experience those people who curse constantly tend to be the most ignorant people. But since many of the characters I've encountered during my homeless sojourn have little if any education, and because their life experience has largely been on the streets, they express themselves with profanities. Hence, that's how I depict them when representing them in this blog. So if you see things like f**k, or motherf***er popping up fairly frequently, I'm just trying to delineate the person for you, not get my jollies by stringing together every obscenity I can think of. After all, I can hardly have these guys sounding like Harvard professors or elite literati.
I'm actually sorry to see profanity used so often -- and this cuts through all classes. I think the country (and the world) has become a much coarser and vulgar place because of the prevalence of profanity. As a writer I hate seeing this happen because profanity loses its capacity for shock value. The f-word and permutations thereof used to be strictly verboten; now it's everywhere, uttered causally by anyone from 7 top 70 years of age. I'll put myself to the task of inventing new curse words that will cause your ears to spontaneously combust from outrage. And you're welcome.
As for what I've been up to? Well, more of the same at Salvation Army. I told you last time that I was accepted into their vocational program; it's now been approximately a month since I started. I'll finish up the backstory and some of the tasks I've been involved with in the next installment. For now, think of this as my blog's version of a coming attractions trailer:
In the next few installments of "Homelessness It's Not Just For Crackheads Anymore:"
THRILL to the new characters your humble narrator encounters. You'll never forget the nameless, bug-eyed Junkie With No Name who battles for supremacy of the TV in the common room! Or how about the Big Guy Everyone is Scared Of because he sits in the corner and constantly talks to himself?
MARVEL at the ex-meth addict and drug dealer who transformed himself into a beatific, Yoda-like sage who dispenses wisdom while pushing a mop! He'll make you believe illegal drugs are good for you!
YOU WON'T BELIEVE the lead cook in the kitchen who bellows orders in a voice so loud he can be heard across Nevada into Arizona and beyond!
OGLE the sultry sirens your humble narrator meets while traveling through the wilds of the Salvation Army campus. Will these lethal lovely ladies seduce your narrator with their womanly wiles?
SEE the various characters of the Salvation Army as they struggle to stay awake during class after class of nerve-wracking methods on how to reintegrate themselves into society -- you fell asleep right then, didn't you?
STAY TUNED! In the coming installments you'll have a first hand glimpse into the petty annoyances of communal living! See if your humble narrator can fend off the malevolent microbes expelled by his fellow dorm inhabitants! Find out if your narrator can weather the senses-shattering racket of grown men snoring like bull elephants on the rampage! Will he have the fortitude to withstand the rotten-egg stench of intestinal gas that pervades the dorm room on a constant basis? And can you predict the mind-numbing secret your narrator uncovers while innocently pilfering a banana from the SA kitchens? Neither can he -- that's because he hasn't written it yet!
All this and more will be revealed as your humble narrator continues his journey through the netherworld of ex-cons, shell-shocked veterans, recovering booze, drug and alcohol addicts, and oh yeah -- the hordes of homeless looking to score free stuff!
BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE! Believe it or not, everyone your humble narrator has met during his Salvation Army tour IS ON MEDICATION! EVERYONE! Including your humble narrator!
So there you go. Stay with me as we travel down this dark road together, and slowly make it to the other side. Remember, it's only a thin membrane that separates the fortunate from the unfortunate. And if you believe that, I have some old Enron stock to sell you!
In my experience those people who curse constantly tend to be the most ignorant people. But since many of the characters I've encountered during my homeless sojourn have little if any education, and because their life experience has largely been on the streets, they express themselves with profanities. Hence, that's how I depict them when representing them in this blog. So if you see things like f**k, or motherf***er popping up fairly frequently, I'm just trying to delineate the person for you, not get my jollies by stringing together every obscenity I can think of. After all, I can hardly have these guys sounding like Harvard professors or elite literati.
I'm actually sorry to see profanity used so often -- and this cuts through all classes. I think the country (and the world) has become a much coarser and vulgar place because of the prevalence of profanity. As a writer I hate seeing this happen because profanity loses its capacity for shock value. The f-word and permutations thereof used to be strictly verboten; now it's everywhere, uttered causally by anyone from 7 top 70 years of age. I'll put myself to the task of inventing new curse words that will cause your ears to spontaneously combust from outrage. And you're welcome.
As for what I've been up to? Well, more of the same at Salvation Army. I told you last time that I was accepted into their vocational program; it's now been approximately a month since I started. I'll finish up the backstory and some of the tasks I've been involved with in the next installment. For now, think of this as my blog's version of a coming attractions trailer:
In the next few installments of "Homelessness It's Not Just For Crackheads Anymore:"
THRILL to the new characters your humble narrator encounters. You'll never forget the nameless, bug-eyed Junkie With No Name who battles for supremacy of the TV in the common room! Or how about the Big Guy Everyone is Scared Of because he sits in the corner and constantly talks to himself?
MARVEL at the ex-meth addict and drug dealer who transformed himself into a beatific, Yoda-like sage who dispenses wisdom while pushing a mop! He'll make you believe illegal drugs are good for you!
YOU WON'T BELIEVE the lead cook in the kitchen who bellows orders in a voice so loud he can be heard across Nevada into Arizona and beyond!
OGLE the sultry sirens your humble narrator meets while traveling through the wilds of the Salvation Army campus. Will these lethal lovely ladies seduce your narrator with their womanly wiles?
SEE the various characters of the Salvation Army as they struggle to stay awake during class after class of nerve-wracking methods on how to reintegrate themselves into society -- you fell asleep right then, didn't you?
STAY TUNED! In the coming installments you'll have a first hand glimpse into the petty annoyances of communal living! See if your humble narrator can fend off the malevolent microbes expelled by his fellow dorm inhabitants! Find out if your narrator can weather the senses-shattering racket of grown men snoring like bull elephants on the rampage! Will he have the fortitude to withstand the rotten-egg stench of intestinal gas that pervades the dorm room on a constant basis? And can you predict the mind-numbing secret your narrator uncovers while innocently pilfering a banana from the SA kitchens? Neither can he -- that's because he hasn't written it yet!
All this and more will be revealed as your humble narrator continues his journey through the netherworld of ex-cons, shell-shocked veterans, recovering booze, drug and alcohol addicts, and oh yeah -- the hordes of homeless looking to score free stuff!
BUT WAIT, THERE'S MORE! Believe it or not, everyone your humble narrator has met during his Salvation Army tour IS ON MEDICATION! EVERYONE! Including your humble narrator!
So there you go. Stay with me as we travel down this dark road together, and slowly make it to the other side. Remember, it's only a thin membrane that separates the fortunate from the unfortunate. And if you believe that, I have some old Enron stock to sell you!
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