ahem.

The retail work is going terribly. That's all I'm going to say at the moment, in order to stay out of whiny-spleen-venting territory. I've pretty much worked eight days in a row, much of that getting up at 3 or 4am.

*Yawn*

The last few days, I've wanted to quit Wal*Mart for the second time. Beyond the usual host of personal reasons, (um, not my intended career path that I went to grad school for) it's just been a hectic time, with everybody on edge and becoming pissy and snappy at a drop of a hat. My store recently remodeled into a supercenter. When I left freelancing and went back to retail a few months ago, it was with the understanding, of sorts, that I'd likely get shuffled back into the department manager mix. Well, I was lucky to get the helm of a new meat department contingent on the supercenter re-openning. Today was the store's official grand re-openning. Approximately 5,232,921,009 things basically had today as a deadline, as people from the corporate end of things were going to inspect the store after ceremony. (Don't ask). A lot of the product actually didn't come in until last night. Which means, despite the stress of the deadlines, I had to get up and go to work at 3am, this morning, and I didn't leave the store until 3pm today. If you think that's bad, my boss hasn't had two days off in the last two months, it seems.

Blight -- 23 Days Without Medication

Previous installment can be read here. Buying the ebook can be done on Kindle or Smashwords, for 0.99$.

Five Months Later, and …

23 Days Without Medication

As stress relief, Floyd Cervenka desperately wanted to masturbate, but in his oven, a severed head laughed at him. At first, Floyd didn’t know whether it was a hallucination, or if somebody had put it there. If he retreated from hysterics long enough, he could rationalize it. He had not slept in 72 hours. Over the last three days, he had done nothing but eat peanut butter on white bread, and he drank about five bags worth Shop & Drop instant coffee, black without any sugar or creamer. He had also drank about a case of Lo-Carb Creature. It was Floyd’s idea of acting responsibly – IBSL was threatening foreclosure again, and he had a lot of work to do and a lot of money to earn.

Most of it consisted of consulting Gray’s Anatomy and his own, personal copy of the DSM-IV-TR and The People’s Guide To Pills. A medical website was paying five bucks for each medically adequate definition of drugs, illnesses and body parts. The work was so profitable, Floyd was afraid to go to bed, thinking that he’d wake and it would be claimed by somebody else. Then, he would be back to writing search-engine-optimized Botox articles for $1 each.

Before hearing a high-pitched cackle from his stove, he had taken a break from the upper arm’s brachial artery. He was surfing the net for naked girls, specifically for a brunette with tattoos. He was about at settle on a link that suggested, Nerdy Girls Need Hard Loving! That’s when he heard the cackling. Other noises were hard to describe, and the closest Floyd could manage was phlegmy cough after sucking helium.

When he opened the oven door, he dropped his coffee, and then he slipped on the subsequent puddle, once he tried to back away. That’s when he came eye-to-eye with the severed head. It didn’t look normal, though. The skin had turned a twinge of blue, and the eyes were only dark cavities. Still, they blinked. Often. The head’s mouth was drawn into a wide, brown-toothed grin.

Like many times before, Floyd sought to prove it wasn’t real, that this was just another hallucination or a left-over figment from one of his all-to-vivid dreams. He got to his feet and walked over to the oven. Reaching in, he grabbed the head by its gray-streaked hair . Instead of his hand going through an immaterial head, the thing’s hair felt greasy. He tried to raise it to eye level, and the thing slipped out and smacked face-first against the floor. Still, it didn’t stop laughing. Floyd stood over it and stared down at it for a long while. He kicked it, slightly, and it rolled.

“Don’t you ever stop laughing?”

The head slightly rolled over to face Floyd. It winked an empty eye cavity. Then, it stopped laughing for a moment. “OF COURSE NOT,” it rasped. Then, it went back to its phlegm-filled cackling.

Floyd gritted his teeth, and then, he lost his temper. Bending over, he grabbed the head by its greasy hair and flung it against the wall. When it didn’t stop cackling, he grabbed a broom from next to his fridge and started beating the head with the straw end. That did nothing. Floyd really didn’t want to do what he did next, but he felt he had no choice. He reached into his pocket for his phone.

“911—what’s your emergency?”

“Somebody is pulling a prank on me.”

“Oh Christ—Floyd, you’re not supposed to call 911.”

“Fuck you. There’s somebody fucking with me.”

“Have you taken your medications?”

“No, but that’s not the point.”

The dispatcher, a woman, sighed. “Please hang up, and only call this number when you have a real emergency.”

“This is a real fucking emergency.” He stared down at the laughing head.

“No, it’s not. Take your meds, Floyd.”

“Here,” he said. He put his flip phone next to the laughing head. “Hear that?”

“Hear what?”

“The laughing?”

“Floyd, I’m going to hang up, now.”

A sneer broke out across his face. Again, he stared down at the head. The empty eye sockets squinted, and elaborate crow’s feet spread out across the thing’s temples, merging with the four major brow creases. “Oh, fuck you.” Floyd opened the kitchen cabinet above his sink and started throwing glasses at the laughing head. “Fuck you, you fucking fuck!” When he ran out of glasses, he started flinging plates.

“FLOYD! You still there?”

“Where the-goddamned-else would I be? Ulan Bator?”

“Floyd…”

“You know,” he held the phone at arm’s length, “I HEAR MONGOLIA IS JUST FUCKING SNAZZY IN THE SPRING TIME!” He brought the phone back to his ear. “You hear me? Or will I need to start reading the copy I sold to snazzy-planet-dot-com last week?”

“What the hell is that supposed to mean? Do you need help?”

“Do you think I call 911 for the scintillating conversation?” He breathed deeply. “If so, I‘m so far from scintillated right now. If scintillation were a boulevard in Ulan-Fucking-Bator, it would be…”

The woman dispatcher sighed. “Alright, I’ll send somebody over.” Then, she hung up.

Floyd grabbed a forty of Jersey Reserve Malt Liquor from his fridge. He sat on the floor, crossed his legs, and uncapped the bottle. He took a sip and stared at the laughing head. However, fatigue mingled with his caffeine crash, and the alcohol just made it worse. He fell quickly asleep, resting his chin on his fist.

When he woke, somebody was nudging him with their wingtips. Floyd looked at the foot, and then upwards. He saw a black man in a Khaki trench coat staring down at him.

“Oh,” Floyd said. “Detective Johnson, it’s right,” he pointed. However, the laughing head was gone. “Oh.” Floyd clamped his eyes shut for a moment. “Oh, fuck.”

“That’s all you got to say?”

“Trell, it was here just….”

“You know what? I don’t know, and I don’t care.” He turned and strode out of the kitchen. “I have so much more important shit to do.” And he left.

Wearily, Floyd stood and returned to his computer. All the high paying medical writing jobs were gone. Floyd took a sip of malt liquor, deciding that he desperately needed to get drunk.

Unintended Retail Hilarity.

Assistant Manager: Are you consumable?

Me: No, I'm meat!

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

In retail, sections of the store are broken down into zones, sections, and departments. The wording will likely very by company. However, like any job, words become jargonized. While the above sounds EXTREMELY silly to most people, the translation is actually this:

Assistant Manager: Are you [part of the] consumable [section]? [Section being a part ofthe store containing many departments]

Me: No, I'm [part of the] meat [department, which is not part of your section. Therefore, leave me alone; you cannot pull me off task to complete whatever bullshit note the Store Manager gave you.]!

Blight -- Prologue

I'm thinking I'm going to start serializing some fiction for just the hell of it, just for kicks. Instead of writing something new and getting horribly behind, I'm going to start with something already finished, and then post an update every Sunday. This will give me time to write something new for this purpose, once this story has been completely gone through. Of course, if anybody's interested the whole story is here on Kindle for 0.99$.

Prologue

There were five men in tuxedos sitting in the front row, and Floyd Cervenka thought that was strange for a town hall meeting. The back of their heads looked exactly the same: jet black hair, combed straight and greased down. Besides those men, there was the usual smattering of senior citizens – all of whom had fallen asleep already. This week, however, he realized he was the only journalist in attendance. He sat there, pen poised, ready, and pointed at a blank page in his composition book.

Only, Floyd had nothing to write, at first. Monmouthside Height’s town hall meetings were banal to begin with. Mayor George Gurley spent most of the time talking vapidly about a being a “friend of business” and how “Conservative times needed conservative solutions.” Floyd gritted his teeth and raised his hand.

Mayor Gurley just scowled at him for a moment. “What?”

Floyd tapped his pen against his blank page. He held up a thick packet of new ordinances. “So let me get this straight. You’re going to raise property taxes, cut the funding for the library, defund the free clinic, and give hefty rebates to the real estate management industry?”

“No.” Gurley’s scowled deepened. “Those are austerity measures, and I’m creating a business capital incentive…”

“Bullshit.”

“All industries. Realty is just one …”

“And doesn’t the Gurley family own about a third of this town, anyway? So that means, by raising my property taxes, your family is going to pocket…”

“That is uncalled for. I could sue you for slander.”

Floyd grinned. He looked at the small group of sleeping senior citizens snoring around him. “Go ahead. Do it. Imagine the headlines: Slumlord Sues Local Whistle Blower. Certainly would call some attention to Gurley & Sons, Inc.”

Mayor Gurley turned to the five men in tuxedos seated up front. The whole time, none of them turned to face Floyd. “Pay no attention to him. He’s just a local whack job.” He turned back to face Floyd, again. “One who’s had a very long history of delusional mania—like the time he thought aliens had infiltrated our school board. He picketed for weeks on that one. Plus, there was the time he was caught masturbating in the…”

“Fucking hell,” Floyd said. “You’re going to bring that up?”

“Why not? Plus, three years ago, you once claimed inter-dimensional aliens took over the Monmouthside Republican Party.”

“Yeah? And?”

“You are just a crazy liberal. Like other crazy liberals. You were sued for unjust defamation.”

“That’s not important. You’re clearly trying to…”

“Have you taken your medications today?”

“Yes. But that’s none of your damn business. I asked a legit news question. Bringing up my mental health history is skirting the question.” Floyd tapped his pen against his composition book again. “So, answer me. How much of my property taxes will go into your family’s pocket?”

Mayor Gurley’s face flushed deep red. “How do you expect to revitalize this shithole of a town, if I can’t raise capital to…”

“Ah,” Floyd stood from his metal fold up chair. “You’re not denying it. Wonderful.” He made his way to the back of the hall, but before leaving, he stopped and turned around. “One thing. Who are the fucktards in tuxedos?”

None of the five men turned to face him.

“And why,” Floyd said, “are they wearing tuxedos? Seems a bit odd—even for business men.”

“If you must know,” the Mayor gripped the edges of his podium. “They represent a large financial company that’s relocating here.”

“Great.” Floyd rolled his eyes.

“I’m glad you…”

“That’s sarcasm, asshole.”

Floyd left the meeting. He didn’t see any reason to stay. After all, he had what he needed – the open meetings law required this type of monthly meeting, with all the newly passed ordinances available to the public for comment. Floyd figured he’d go back to his cubicle and leaf through the packet, before writing another scathing editorial.

He walked two or three blocks, seemingly not paying attention to the dilapidated houses around him, as well as most of the boarded over store fronts. However, once he returned to the Monmouth County Messenger office, he was slightly taken aback.

Desks, chairs, and computers sat on the curb. Floyd was surprised the computers were not stolen already. Somebody had nailed slabs of rotting plywood over the door and the storefront window. Floyd looked up, and instead of seeing a business marquee, he only saw chipped, white brick. He glanced around, not knowing what to think. Then, the boarded over door opened.

His boss D’Wayne Washington, a very fat African American man in a grey suit waddled out. He held out an envelope.

Floyd took it. “What’s this?”

“Everything I owe you, plus severance.”

“Why?”

D’Wayne shook his head. “You know the thing about the newspaper business and the Internet?”

“But…”

“Floyd, I’ve been losing money for two years, now. My credit’s gone. I have no advertisers. I’m sorry, but I’m bankrupt.”

“Aw, shit.” Floyd looked at pavement. “That sucks.”

“You don’t have to tell me.”

“I know.”

“I’m sorry I didn’t warn you,” He said. “I tried everything. I wanted new investors.”

“So, what are you going to do?”

“Move to Newark,” he said.

“Now, that is desperate.”

“A job is a job. I’d take one in Camden if it meant getting paid.”

“Well, best of luck with that.”

“Thanks.”

D’Wayne turned to reenter the boarded-over office. “Now, I have to finish moving stuff out.”

“Before you go.”

“Yes?”

“What about my health insurance?”

“It’s paid till the end of the month. I can get you the COBRA paperwork?”

“I can’t afford COBRA payments and pay my mortgage.”

He turned. “Floyd, I’m so sorry. I really hate that I’m doing this you. Especially now that you have your shit together, finally…”

“It’s okay. I’m sure I can find some sort of writing job with benefits somewhere.” He paused for a moment, slightly unsure of what to say. “Thanks for the steady work, though.”

They shook hands. Once he got home, he noticed a thick letter waiting in his mailbox. Floyd assumed it was just junk mail. Later, Floyd would regret not opening it immediately. A company called Interstate Business Savings & Loan (IBSL) had bought his mortgage off of First Garden State Trust.

Needfire, and ... Um, Whatever Happened To That Pound Chapbook?

For the foreseeable near-term future, Needfire Poetry will be going on hiatus at Belfire Press. This is something that Jodi Lee and have talked about, and we both agree that it's for the the best. To put it frankly, my personal life is a mess right now. It has been for years. However, the problems have accrued like this: my mother's failing health was always a distraction, but there was something a little bit more afoot.

I have a mortgage, and my wife and I got that mortgage at the peak of the housing bubble, when everybody was telling us to "Buy, buy, buy!" Problem is, I was a full-time-for-part-time-pay college adjunct back then. The thought was: after only a few more years of adjunct hell, I could finally land a full time position at least at a community college. That never happened, and out of financial need, I went to Walmart in late 2008. The housing bubble burst ... and now my wife and I have been constantly fighting off foreclosure, especially since our mortgage was sold by our lender to a predatory group of douchebags. So, now it's 2011, and the mortgage nightmare has never gone away. Which leads to one other place: online freelancing. I spend a lot of time doing it, partly because there is just so much debt that I have amassed, and I am constant need for cash just to keep creditors from coming after my wife and I. Actually, 90% of my freetime behind a computer is spent trying to squeeze nickels and dimes from the internet.

And so, that dovetails into The Ezra Pound/Ghost Chapbook that has seemingly taken years to put together. Forget about the circumstances/drama with the original publisher. The chapbook was then going to be published through Needfire, but the bad economy necessitated cutting it from the line up. Then, I was going to create a digital ebook/print chapbook imprint for Needfire, but after the ongoing financial problems I'm having, that seemed like a very bad idea. So, that leads me to right now. The book is clossally late. I still wish to do it, and I'm still going to try very hard to, soon, once the dust settles a little at work.

But, that also brings me back to Needfire going on hiatus. Jodi and I both agree that it should and will be revived at some point. However, it will be once everything is sorted out, and I can come back to running a imprint when I can devote much more time to it without freaking out about how up the air everything regarding my home is. Until then, my personal time will likely be spent either writing my own material or finishing off prior obligations like Pound.

Also, there's this UFO poetry anthology that I promised Barry Napier I'd help him with. Just in case anybody's curious, that book is his baby. He's the lead, and I'm just sort of an assistant -- we haven't really talked at length, but I think I'm helping with the slush. There may be some skullcracking -- ahem, I mean editing -- going on there, too. So, it doesn't really conflict with the reasons why Needfire is going on hiatus. But, more on UFO book a little later.

Wind, Rain, Thrown-Out Back, and Meat

So, just got off work. Hurricane Irene is set to romp around the Jersey Shore for a bit. The past few weeks I've been settling into the reality that my mother has passed on. I was "officially" promoted at Walmart since coming back, and I've been training at a store on how to set up and run a meat department. However, during all of that, I threw my back out and was in pain for quite awhile.