Things are better today than . . . ever?

During my conversation with my dad yesterday, I was asked the very generic "how are things going" question that generally provides me the excuse to say "fine" or some other unremarkable answer. But as I started to reply, I paused for a moment before responding.
"You know, Dad," I began, "this is probably the best year I've had out of the last ten. Last year at this time I was afraid I was going to die, and the same can be said of 2004. This year has been better than the last, and last year was better than the one before. I can honestly say I'm probably happier now than at any time I can remember, except for maybe parts of my childhood. So it's nice to be able to say that things are getting better."
He just kinda sat there and nodded. "Well," he said, "not too many people can say that."
"No, they can't."

I'm quite sure that most people would probably gasp at the thought that I consider myself to be quite happy, especially considering the rants which frequent this blog. Some people know a few things about my troubled past, most probably don't . . . or they've only heard rumors. I've thought about posting on some of the things which tend to plague my psyche, real shit, not the stuff I fabricate--but I probably never will because I think it would make some people a bit uncomfortable, myself included. And though I'm not particularly thankful to TGLJC for these things, they have certainly molded me into the man that I am today.

For example, I used to have a really shitty job. It was one of those jobs where you go to interview because you want to do something different or maybe you feel a little trapped wherever you are currently employed. Such is how it was with me. I was working as an assistant manager at Winn-Dixie, working alternating shifts and making about twelve bucks an hour. But the scheduling sucked and I barely saw anyone or could do anything because I lived in that bitch on weekends. Realizing that any further advancement would probably only occur after the deaths of those above me, I resolved to spare their lives and try to find some other means of gainful employment.
After being offered jobs with several different companies, I decided to go with a national rent-to-own chain, mainly because they stressed rapid advancement and paid about two dollars more an hour. The man who interviewed me was so impressed with my initial interview and Wonderlic score that I was immediately given all of the tests required for management which included about six hours worth of personality and intelligence tests. The personality test was perhaps the most bothersome, since they wanted to know so many details about my sex life, whether or not I had ever wanted to kill someone, and if I had homosexual thoughts. Very fucking bizarre.

Anyway, I take this job, spend a week watching those dumb-ass training films and soon enough I'm out delivering furniture and stereos to the most economically-impoverished community in the Dallas metroplex. My grandfather used to laugh and shake his head in amazement whenever he asked me about my job, always saying that someday I would wind up on the news in some gruesome story of murder. Besides delivering goods, I also spent a good deal of time on the phone calling delinquent accounts. Sometimes up to twenty times a day, leaving messages that became more and more unfriendly as the day progressed. If they still didn't bring me my money, it was time to hit the streets--just me, a list of past-due accounts and an empty delivery truck. It's really quite hilarious as I recall those days. We were forced to wear slacks and a white dress shirt and tie--and in Texas, that is not a good or comfortable combination, especially when it's about 100 degrees outside and you're lugging a fucking sleeper sofa down three flights of stairs. Keep in mind also, that I'm only about 5'10", 150 pounds and white. Regardless of all that, when the workday was winding up for most people, I was going from one shitty section 8 apartment complex to the next, determined to either get my money or get my shit.

I couldn't tell you how many times, in searching for a customer, I would walk up a flight of stairs past some really dirty guy that always would say--"They ain't home." I probably heard that shit about a million times. "Well, I'll see about that" was my usual response. Upon finding the apartment, I would knock politely once or twice and wait. There were always things to look for when scoping out the customer hiding in her apartment(sometimes it was him, but it was usually a her). First, after knocking, it is important to look at the peephole. You cannot see anything inside the room, but you can see if someone comes to the door, peeps through, and then walks away because you can generally see light coming from the other side of the door. When that light disappears briefly, then comes right back, you know someone's home. Other sure signs are the sound of a TV clicking off, or noisy children. And you always had to watch the blinds--people love peeking through blinds. So what do you do? They're inside with your shit that they're not paying for, nor will they call you to set up any type of payment arrangements. What would you do, do you think? Or better yet, what would Jesi do?

This is what I would do.
I usually began to beat on the door hard enough to shake the hinges. Not with your knuckles--that hurts--but with underside of your fist, like you might beat on a table. After you do this for about a good minute or two, then you start being really loud and obnoxious. "HELLO!! MRS. JACKSON!! I KNOW YOU'RE IN THERE!! WHY ARE YOU TRYING TO STEAL MY MERCHANDISE?" Of course, they are not deaf and you know that they can hear you, but what you really want to do is make sure the neighbors hear you. You want to piss them off. They will be mad at you and hate you, but they will also give your customer shit because they are tired of hearing the fucking repo man "ACTING A FOOL" where they live. At this point, the old man on the stairs would then yell up, "I already told you they ain't home, man!" To which I would cheerfully reply that I knew someone was in there because I saw them. "Oh, well maybe they is home then," he would say as he bummed a smoke from you then wandered off.

The response that you got from such tactics varied. Sometimes you got nothing. Sometimes I knew they were probably sprawled all over that rented mattress doing Jesi only knows what to some other equally disgusting person while I banged away like a grandfather clock stuck at twelve. Sometimes they would call the store and ask to speak to the manager (the irony here is that for a good period of my time there, I was the manager). Sometimes they would yell obsenities through the door. That always made me laugh. Sometimes they threatened to kick my ass. Sometimes that was funny, sometimes it was a bit spooky, particularly when it was already pitch-black outside and you were stuck in the ghetto by yourself. Sometimes, they opened the door up, and cursed at me to come in and get my shit because it never worked right any way (simply a way to justify returning the merchandise). Or sometimes they would act meek as a little lamb and were very embarassed. It was not terribly fun, but it could certainly be exciting at times.

I did this for about four or five years until I was fortunate enough to go back to school. So even though I'm simply writing all this down to keep from reading this book or work on that assignment, grad school is a much better (and safer) career choice. And I like it. And it likes me. And that makes me all warm and fuzzy. Sure, the money sucks, but at least I don't have to jeopardize my existence just to fulfill my job requirements.

There's nothing like a shitty job in the past to make you appreciate the one you've got now, right?