masses. There’s me crucified. There’s my ability to separate the good from the bad, to draw the empathetic sympathetics and repulse the evil, self-absorbed, cold hearts. If I have a seizure in front of you and you want to help me, your heart aches at the sight of my suffering, then you are one of the devoted. You are saved. If you run the other way, if I make you sick or angry or cause you to laugh, then you are damned.
Sometimes I think that God and I have this unique relationship and that one day he’s going to make all of this up to me. One day he’s going to part the clouds and come down like a giant Monty Python cutout and tell me I am the one, I am his second son and I have passed the test, I have suffered and taught the masses about human compassion and now, at long last, it is time to come home.
So, on my thirty-third birthday I sat at home and waited. He took Christ at thirty-three and I had a strong feeling it was my turn.
Now, eleven months later, I am still here and I am still pathetic and I am still damaged. That strange little fail-safe in the back of my head, the notion that God has special plans for me, is rapidly expiring and each year that passes—faster and faster, existence a blur, my whole life approaching a void, approaching a crucifixion that may never come—I lose more faith. The closer I get to thirty-four the further I get from hope. Something has to happen soon, something has to save me.
Birthday reminiscence kills my anger dead.
I scoop up the Ajax-blue prawn, slip it into my pocket, and push the prawn trays back in place. Grabbing my backpack, I put away the two eviscerated Ajax tubes, the two full Ajax tubes, and begin covering my tracks. I am tempted to throw out the flour/Ajax mixture, but feel too dumpy to do anything but slide the vat back into its storage space. Somebody will discover my handiwork soon and all will be thwarted.
Who cares? I don’t really give a fuck.
Who cares? I don’t give a fuck about anything right now.
All I know now is that I am tired and these mood swings really take it out of me. I grab four twenty-ounce c oca- c olas (that anarchist spirit returns! Shut up, I’m only thirsty), slam one down in three gulps, retrieve my hooded sweatshirt, wrap the remaining three into a tight bundle, shove it into my backpack, and prepare to leave. Doubling back, I grab a large piece of foil from the prep line, enter the walk-in, wrap as many salmon and halibut filets as I can and then shove them into my backpack. A little something for my troubles. Switching off the lights I trudge through the restaurant, head lulling in defeat.
As I push through the side exit door a piercing alarm wails to life.
Chapter Four
Exodus
The ritzy seafood restaurant I work for is flanked on all sides by large expanses of well-lit parking lots. It sits wide open, curbside, on one of the city’s major arteries. When the alarm sounds, I jump with fright and instantly break into a cold sweat. There’s nowhere to run, but at this hour the world is mostly deserted and I may have enough time to get beyond the open concrete before an on-site security guard or a real cop shows up. Nevertheless, the idea of running, unprotected, brightly lit with a backpack full of empty Ajax tubes and seafood freaks me out.
There’s no way I could lie my way out of this one. I am ugly and suspicious and visibly nervous. There’s no way I could lie my way out and, as expected, my hand begins to buzz and twist.
Not now! Please not now!
The alarm continues on apeshit. Streams of distress weave wild from my palm. My knees weaken, synovial fluid solidifying. Refusing to give in, I break for the street. If I could just put a few blocks between myself and the restaurant, it should be all right. Three-quarters of a mile up the road the city gives way to a mini forest. It’s small, spanning only a few acres, but it’s dense and perfect for hiding out.
The incriminating contents of my backpack, despite the
Sometimes I think that God and I have this unique relationship and that one day he’s going to make all of this up to me. One day he’s going to part the clouds and come down like a giant Monty Python cutout and tell me I am the one, I am his second son and I have passed the test, I have suffered and taught the masses about human compassion and now, at long last, it is time to come home.
So, on my thirty-third birthday I sat at home and waited. He took Christ at thirty-three and I had a strong feeling it was my turn.
Now, eleven months later, I am still here and I am still pathetic and I am still damaged. That strange little fail-safe in the back of my head, the notion that God has special plans for me, is rapidly expiring and each year that passes—faster and faster, existence a blur, my whole life approaching a void, approaching a crucifixion that may never come—I lose more faith. The closer I get to thirty-four the further I get from hope. Something has to happen soon, something has to save me.
Birthday reminiscence kills my anger dead.
I scoop up the Ajax-blue prawn, slip it into my pocket, and push the prawn trays back in place. Grabbing my backpack, I put away the two eviscerated Ajax tubes, the two full Ajax tubes, and begin covering my tracks. I am tempted to throw out the flour/Ajax mixture, but feel too dumpy to do anything but slide the vat back into its storage space. Somebody will discover my handiwork soon and all will be thwarted.
Who cares? I don’t really give a fuck.
Who cares? I don’t give a fuck about anything right now.
All I know now is that I am tired and these mood swings really take it out of me. I grab four twenty-ounce c oca- c olas (that anarchist spirit returns! Shut up, I’m only thirsty), slam one down in three gulps, retrieve my hooded sweatshirt, wrap the remaining three into a tight bundle, shove it into my backpack, and prepare to leave. Doubling back, I grab a large piece of foil from the prep line, enter the walk-in, wrap as many salmon and halibut filets as I can and then shove them into my backpack. A little something for my troubles. Switching off the lights I trudge through the restaurant, head lulling in defeat.
As I push through the side exit door a piercing alarm wails to life.
Chapter Four
Exodus
The ritzy seafood restaurant I work for is flanked on all sides by large expanses of well-lit parking lots. It sits wide open, curbside, on one of the city’s major arteries. When the alarm sounds, I jump with fright and instantly break into a cold sweat. There’s nowhere to run, but at this hour the world is mostly deserted and I may have enough time to get beyond the open concrete before an on-site security guard or a real cop shows up. Nevertheless, the idea of running, unprotected, brightly lit with a backpack full of empty Ajax tubes and seafood freaks me out.
There’s no way I could lie my way out of this one. I am ugly and suspicious and visibly nervous. There’s no way I could lie my way out and, as expected, my hand begins to buzz and twist.
Not now! Please not now!
The alarm continues on apeshit. Streams of distress weave wild from my palm. My knees weaken, synovial fluid solidifying. Refusing to give in, I break for the street. If I could just put a few blocks between myself and the restaurant, it should be all right. Three-quarters of a mile up the road the city gives way to a mini forest. It’s small, spanning only a few acres, but it’s dense and perfect for hiding out.
The incriminating contents of my backpack, despite the
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