As I was saying to Willverine "that just happened." I had my hand raised, showing a purple kiss of bruise where I had mashed my finger. Meanwhile, people were "being nice" to other people, after they had stood behind the shelves listening to me recount something similar months before. Weird symmetry there, someone with a dim calculus working off of my material, and me backtrailing HER material, so I was, after doing my due diligence on the backtrail, sure where most of it came from.
I was certain there were no private moments, and for good or ill, at some point I had to accept them all as family, whether they were dangerous to me or not.
Chuck "painted a whole car one time."
Such a concentrated effort just to make someone quit their Walmart job. If only they put a fraction of that effort in anything else, we would really have some problems solved. Tropes. The "hole in the wall", and the "spider on the keys", the restless machine bits working, such as it was, without a conscience, at least such as they fondled at my material.
Which incidentally was the same stuff they so oft said no one read, which was part of why I pulled the old blog, because being not read at all, or laughed at about it, was as disconcerting as being widely-read, laughed-at, the object of wide-spread satire, while still essentially being a friendless loner marching through commerce like a pilgrim. Either actuality being somewhat dreadful, unsustainable for my own well-being. Meanwhile, behind their wording choices, my internal radar, my "spider-sense"(like Spider-Man's instinctive aversion to danger) would keep going off.
People "being nice" to people, and so forth, like dogs lying down with cats, and so forth, something un-natural that makes one do a double-take.
The question I used to ask myself was whether all those people hated me just enough to look so often for something to poke fun at.
But then, I decided to change my writing voice somewhat, no longer going the real journal way or the amateur journalist way, but doing something a little bit different. I said to myself that I really didn't care if they liked me or not, nary a jot, and more than anything else I was telling myself that they/you don't know me, but rather have a few details that you could do whatever with.
That was my re-assurance, that just like the prisoner in Shawshank, there was some part within that would not be bothered by any of it, no matter what kind of hellish pointless torture life might seem. For instance, I remember a time early on when I was "healing" when I would prepare my breakfast, take the meal at my desk, have a reading session of some element of Roman history. Then would come computer time, and new words and things were coming out of my mind, flowing through the keyboard, then appearing on the monitor. Guitar time would come. Another meal. Nap time. Fiction reading. News time. Incredible Hulk time.
Anyway, little-to-no outside time. None of that at all. I was convinced that wherever I went I was always expected and there was always a set of words they would use on me, like their "can't hear you" or their "I drop my phone in the toilet" or something completely screwy like that. And again, I say it was like being in jail.
And I say also again, they couldn't pay me enough to work in that store again. And I feel like they're should be some kind of compensation for all the extracurricular, especially how off-the-clock stuff got into the workday. I told one troll "they had a lawsuit against Walmart cause some Associates got locked in the store". And for once, its like one of those bastards knew exactly what I meant.
Like that scene in Ronin where the hero tells the Irish lady that "I never left", meaning he was still a CIA guy, just playing the role of a retired agent. Like, I never left either, because they were still sandwiched up my ass, however they do that. But you could test the limits of that, and actually have fun with that, like I when I pick my spots in the Walmart radio songs, when there is a really poignant line.
During the height of the turmoil, I walked through 642, light foot traffic around, and on the radio
"the people bowed and prayed
to the neon god they made.."
And I'm talking to the sound, like a madman "I'm not talking to you."
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