(no subject)
Monday - Wednesday; Saturday, Sunday (on)
Thursday, Friday (off)
The popcorn factory: I am promoted, but not really.
The General Manager rolls up on me while I'm on my break. I'm eatinga brown bag lunch, just like a little kid, and reading EW wide-eyed, just like a big ol' dork.
GM says he's been talking it over with two other managers and has decided to offer me a position as back bar. (Later, I will search for the definition of this term, and might as well be using Google Sanskrit.)
I'm old.
The average age of a person working at the popcorn factory ('movie theater,' if you're just joining us), is 18. Maybe 50% of employees leave within two months, usually without notice.
I'm 24, and right on the edge of 25. I've also been working, on and off, at this place for seven years. Most of the people that I started working with, seven years ago, moved and moved up the ladder, and two have become GMs themselves. They're both about my age. Those who left after a while still advanced as quickly as possible -- I sense it was a sense of shame.
I never had such shame. I suspect everyone had been harboring shame for me. My age, my experience, and yet my tenure on the bottom rung.
I accept on one condition: that I begin training for projectionist. Why projectionist? People in the projection booth don't have to sell $3.75 bottles of water with a smile on their face. Projectionists don't need to deal with their teenage corworkers' hormones and drama and selective ADD. Projectionists have a lot of running around to do, but it is balanced out with long periods of nothing to do. My nothing-to-do would be filled with studying and writing and getting the stuff in my head out.
They don't understand, and they didn't understand the first time that I left, that I have no intention of 'moving up in the company.' I don't feel the need to explain this to them. It's sort of an ethical thing: I don't want to become an unsteady column. It's also a preventative thing: the higher you go up, the harder it is to look back down.
GM aggrees. GM is pleased. They'd already started scheduling me for back bar shifts.
Tuesday - Thursday; Saturday, Sunday 4pm - 12am (on)
Monday, Friday (off)
I still don't know the definition of 'back bar.' I affectionately refer to the position as 'number one bitch.'
It's a so-called promotion, but there is no raise. I am responsible for the staff and stock of the concession stand, but I have no authority at all.
It takes a long time before I stop feeling overwhelmed. Before the company merger, I would have been called a supervisor. (I would have had a raise.) I might have had another supervisor in the pit with me to help me out.
I spend most of the day, now, trying to put out eight fires with one hose. The managers ask me to do things; the employees ask me to do things; the customers ask me to do things. One after the other, or piled on all at once. of course, it's the nature of the beast. But on those busy nights (ie, every time a manager begins to panic that the lines are too long), they decide to put the guy who's supposed to be restocking drawers and fridges and popcorn on a register. It's like being told to stand still during a marathon.
And when the dust settles, I'm still in charge of cleaning things up.
I've been in the booth for training once since I've asked in August.
-
There are three employees in particular who save my ass every time I work, and three employees in particular who give me hell every time I work.
Sean F. is one of the few people even older than I am (at 28). He's got a girlfriend and daughter. He fucking works. He's the theater's newest golden child: Unlike me, he doesn't seem to have any real partiality to any occupational road. He's on the path now to becoming a GM. He runs projection regularly, and back bar when he's not. The kids seem to listen to him: maybe it's the paternal thing, maybe it's because he's visibly older. I'm not too proud to admit that he has greatly influenced how I do what I do, and why. When he's back bar, I help him close. When I'm back bar, he helps me close.
The other night, Sean misplaced $1000. Everybody that could looked everywhere they could for it. Upstairs in booth, Sean is cursing and punching walls and very close to a breakdown.
I find the envelope on top of the break room soda machine. I remembered how many times, on the way to the bathroom, I'd leave a book or a drink on top of it, and completely forget about it later on. So course, so would Sean do. He took a dollar out of his envelope to get a soda, and came into the break room to talk to me and Steve.
He's got the wind knocked out of him when I hold the envelope in front of him. One of the managers goes on about how lucky Sean is and what they could have done with $1000. Sean shoves his hands into his wallet and thrusts some money at me, which I shake my head at. I think of his family.
Steve is in his mid 20's. Even when he doesn't have to, he's one of the few who stays in the pit with me until everything is finished. Steve is a fountain of knowledge which is frequently overflowing. He would be one of those people who don't know that they're talking too much, if not that he knows that he talks too much. He's come to terms with that. He's come to terms with a lot, it seems: being a disappointment in the eyes of his family, surviving a physical assault at another job, certain social disorders, and being stuck in minimum wage hell. It seems like he's had a hard life, but hasn't let it keep him going on.
We swap books and DVDs. We discuss history, languages, legends, pop culture, movies we've seen. Steve is the kind of guy who would have sat at the nerd table during lunch in high school (I sat at the nerd table during lunch in high school). I see in him what I think everyone else sees in me -- great potential wasted on popcorn. I pray he snaips out of his resignation, finds himself some sort of degree program, starts writing or something, and climbs his way out of the pit. I think this is what other people are waiting for me to do. If this is true, then maybe neither of us know how to do it quite yet.
Jerry stays, Jerry helps, but Jerry is sometimes just as eager to go home as the youngsters are. Sometimes he begrudgingly lends a hand, but that's good enough for me.
Jerry is a Haitian guy with a thick accent who has survived two years at the popcorn factory. He is also something of a golden child and received the hallowed booth training. He's apparently working through college, and he's already eyeing an exit through a former mall job. I'm somewhat glad when I see Jerry's working, but he's still closer to being one of the youngsters than he is one of the old men.
Youngster 1 was pretty much the same as Jerry, but did not take this job, or anything else, it seemed, seriously.
I'm one to talk, I know. I don't take the company seriously, but I do take what I do seriously. 1 did not.
1 had what I like to think of as chiuaua syndrome. Short, probably bullied in school, and sought sanctuary in combative sports and weight lifting. A chip on the shoulder.
1 was extremely unreliable, though he could have been one of the best. He had no problem doing a half-assed job, avoiding work, etc. He's the kind of person who expects the rest of the world to go out of its way to entertain him.
1 often challenged me to mock combat, trying to get me to square off with him. I was extremely uncomfortable about it, and also extremely confused. It's like he'd wanted to play, using the training he'd received. I'd never dared to really flaunt what I can do, which isn't much to begin with. My highschool TKD instructor warned that if I were ever caught using it or showing off outside of class, he'd ban me from practice ever again. That warning went right to my heart, and even after practicing other martial arts, even when no such warning was given, I was careful not to go around making a show.
1 often punched me in the arm and ran away, trying to stir me up. Sometimes, he'd just stand right there and punch again, again, again. More play, more challenging. I generally ignored him, though I have let loose a few non-verbal responses.
One day, 1 goes all out. He throws a punch, I catch it, guide him around 180 degrees. This, and other simple deflection has gotten him to go away before. But that time, he grabbed me.
We're in the middle of the pit, employees directly around us, customers within sight, but he keeps going. I'm just afraid a damn manager is going to come and scream at us that we're both fired, when he begins to tangle with me. I feel him go for my neck, and I forget about where we are and who's around us, I even forget I'm in my stupid uniform.
I guard my neck. I break free, and try to hold him down, while he hooks underneath my knee. I feel him begin to try to lift me up. Quickly, I thank God that I'm overweight and that he's smaller than me, and then I realize how embarassing or potetially injurious it would be if he makes a second attempt, and succeeds. I drop down to my knee, taking all my weight with me, switching my center of gravity underneath his, so that it is now impossible for him to uproot me. I wrap my arms around his neck. He's bent over, head in my armpit, and I lock my hands together. He can't, or doesn't make an attempt to escape. I hold the lock for a few seconds just to let him know I could, or even worse, but let go of him before he becomes fighting mad, which I know I probably couldn't escape without a real fight.
We both breathe heavy. Whatever happened was enough to get him to back off for a while, and to reconsider me. The two or three employees around us have stopped chatting and look at us with wide eyes. Whatever happened had taken only a few seconds, but it seems like much longer. I go right back to making pretzel nuggets.
1 had submitted his two weeks notice, but, after butting heads with one of the assistant managers, decided to walk off on us two hours into his shift. I'd been thinking of a way to set him up for getting thrown out, but considering how evil that sounded, relented. I still got what I wished for.
Youngster 2 palled around with Youngster 1, and is probably his female equivalent. Youngster 2 is a black girl with what seems to be a bit of an identity crisis. She's not hood, that for damn sure, and I know how confusing it can be to be in high school, to be a black person, and to not be faithful to the mold black people are given in movies, TV, or music videos. You're so confused you're not even aware you're confused.
She's desperate to be liked, and I guess this is why she hasn't caught on that I only speak to her when she speaks to me out of politeness. She's also desperate to be seen as cool. This is a very high school illness that some people struggle with all their lives. Luckily for me, most of the people I work with are included in that group.
The first week I came back, I was on garbage duty. She and I were supposed to work together, but I went through fifteen theaters for eight hours almost entirely by myself. The entire time, 2 was chit chatting with her gal pal from school, also an employee here. Enough people had gotten tired of her that someone else told a manager she wasn't doing anything, and the manager asked me to confirm. I did.
2, like 1, needs constant entertainment/distraction, and is constantly trying to seem cool, hip, funny, etc. She tells me she's going to school for design. She ridicules me for not having secured a job, and basically implies I didn't work hard enough at it. I hope she grows up soon, realizes she's calling kettles black. I wish she would find another job.
Youngster 3, when faced with the same situation I described with 2, was so upset that they began crying. 3 is gay/bisexual when talking to some people, and then says how disgusting gays are with other people, including me.
Youngster 3 is not only suffering from wanting to be cool all the goddamned time, but also harbors an extreme belief that everyone else is a complete idiot. 3 is the type of person who talks too much but doesn't realize they're talking too much. And not just talking too much, but almost exclusively about themselves.
3 could be good if 3 could shut their goddamn mouth, and stop bitching or boasting all the time. 3 is smarter than everybody (including their therapist, who stupidly tries to help 3 with drugs to stop symptoms 3 later complains about), 3 can fight an entire gang solo, 3 can sing and dance, 3 can draw, 3 is so smart that he feels like dropping out of high school, etc, etc.
Any goddamn thing that doesn't go 3's way is an absolute crisis on infinite earths. 3 is either excessively passive aggressive, or inappropriately forward. 3 has not in their vocabulary, 'Could you?' or 'Please.' When 3 is in the pit and I'm in the pit, I spend as much time out of the pit or as far away from 3 as possible. 3 has a poor opinion of me, but of course, wants to be liked by me if I'm the only person for 3 to run his mouth on. I'm hoping 3 makes good on their threats to quit.
Monday, Friday (off)
9am - 4pm (days on)
English:
A girl randomly sends a contact request on Skype. She's from China, a college student studying for CET4, her English is broken. Within five minutes she asks me if I can help her learn English.
I say yes.
Every morning for a month, so far, I teach her new things, and have to refine my own knowledge.
I've been talking about making a blog for just this reason -- all the other ESLs I talk to have certain quirks or gaps of knowledge that I'd like to address all at once, instead of singularly. The blog has yet to materialize.
JET/Eikaiwa/Teaching English in Japan:
After e-mailing various people for almost two years, I finally get directed to the right person to provide me with the transcript from my study in Japan. Luckily, she's the nicest woman in the world, and after the mail fails to go from the university to my house, twice, she sends it FedEx, and a month after I'd asked, I finally find out how I'd done in my courses, and I am finally able to complete my application.
It took me about a month to get everything together. Inside of a big fat envelope, I put a statement of purpose, a ten or so page application, letters of recommendation, etc, etc.
(One of those letters, written by the professora who helped convince me to enter those writing contests I won, was so good, I wanted to hire my damn self.)
JET is the biggest of the big when it comes to teaching English in Japan. The Asian countries have a great lack of Western inhabitants, so these sorts of jobs can be had just by having native-level English and a college degree. (Instead of really being 'English teachers,' most of these jobs are so-called 'conversational English teachers,' which means whatever it means.)
People tell me again and again that I'm a cinch. I'm not so sure. I'm still quite haunted by the idea that not being a blue-eyed, blonde-haired white boy is going to put me at an extreme disadvantage.
JET is a long process. If my application makes it past screening, I have to wait for an interview in February; in April I learn whether I'm in, on the alternate list, or rejected; yada yada yada, August, I get on a plane.
Meeting all the people I've met through language exchange websites, combined with feeling like there's no occupational opportunity for me at home, has made me want this more and more. I want to start digging and finding other reliable teaching gigs, and I want to figure out other ways to make this happen, just in case.
The Future?:
I wake up lately and it's like I have no energy until it's time to go to work.
I really don't know what's wrong with me.
I fight and I fight, yet the moment I relent, depression, angst, anxiety come rushing back in.
I'd been doing really well lately, but then, *pow*...
I'm so stuck in the muck of my life that I feel like I'm constantly playing catch-up. Trying to find the energy just to crawl out of bed. The things I want to do are such distant entities. Like trying to collect the stars with a net full of holes.
I haven't written in a long time. This basically sums up the backlog of my day-to-day life. It doesn't get that much of the things I've been thinking about. To tell the truth, I'm not really sure what I've been thinking about myself.
I've steadily gone from where I was before, waxing Zen enthusiasm, to where I am now. Lost.
I feel lost. Sometimes it sucks a whole lot. Sometimes things aren't so bad. I don't think I've figured life out yet, and maybe at 24, underemployed in the don't-you-tell-me-it's-over recession, it's just too early to even expect that.
We're still not out of the woods, folks. Grab the marshmallows, open up the Vodka, and fight off the cold.