2007-03-25 - 11:06 p.m.
Tonight I am spending the evening with my stepfather, which I haven’t really done in a while. You see, it is often rather difficult to get out and about with my stepdad, who prefers to putter about his study, cruising the Internet and holding court in the AOL Republican Party chat room. Tonight, though, we have come out to the Unurban Café on Pico, where we’re sharing coffee as he watches the Go players who are clustered at nearby tables.
As I was growing up, my stepdad always seemed to me to be a fierce and rather intimidating presence. He did not suffer fools gladly and was incredibly quick to judge any one else’s shortcomings. Well, he WAS and IS a Republican, after all. I would not call him a forgiving man, but he is also probably the smartest person I have ever met, which is, I suppose, a major reason why I have remained so close to my family all these years.
Over the years, my stepdad’s health has faltered somewhat and he is afflicted with a variety of ailments, any one of which is quite capable of aggrandizing enough to shovel him off. He’s diabetic and quite overweight, suffers from emphysema as a result of a number of years of smoking two packs of cigarettes a day (he doesn’t smoke at present), and had what is called a silent heart attack a couple of years ago.
Anyway, so we have come out to have a drink at the Unurban, and I must admit that I am marveling at the effect of the march on time on this fierce fellow. You see, over the past few years, my stepdad has evolved from being unforgiving to being disturbingly sentimental and fond. It’s a little disturbing, if you want to know the truth. It’s like watching someone abruptly showing a vulnerability that you have to take pains not to exploit.
Like many of us, I have always turned a blind eye to sentimentality, which I consider weak and unearned emotion. But I am listening to him coo gently about what his grandfather was like, and how much he misses his deceased younger brother, and how he can’t stand going to New York because of all the ghosts of his past, and all I can think is that it is all strikingly unlike the stepfather I was brought up knowing. It’s very… soft.
But it is clear that the shadow of old age changes one’s focus: We stop looking towards the future and begin to realize that the stuff that was in the past are the events that contain the best moments of life. One loses hope and finds solace in nostalgia and memory. It is an oddly depressing thought.
Well, hello there, dear Blog-a-licious Blog. It has been a while, hasn’t it? I’ll tell you: I have missed you! You are my inner voice, my darling and beautiful interior soul, and I adore you. And there have been days when I have wanted to sit down to write to you, but have been hampered by a sense of awkward writing block-edness which prevents me from actually doing it.
But what do you want from me? Right now, I am working no fewer than six part time jobs. I have no time to do anything but work and cry. Not that I am crying so much, really. I enjoy being busy and I enjoy doing something different every day, which is certainly what ends up happening when you have six jobs. My head often just starts spinning as I am running from place to place, trying to keep track of what I am doing. Why, my datebook strongly resembles the dance card of a particularly eligible debutante, with its long list of appointments and commitments.
I am finding that I greatly enjoy my several shifts a week working at the library, which has an incredibly pleasant atmosphere. And even if the work is appalling and grubby, it’s brainless and at the end of every shift I get to just go and not think about it any more. You may come and visit me if you like. I am usually to be found behind a desk in the computer commons area. Or shelving books in the non fiction section, surrounded by homeless people and lunatics.
One thing I was not expecting from my time in the library is the fact that I would be under a state of near-constant sexual harassment. This is on my mind because next week I have been informed that, as an “Employee of the City of Santa Monica” I am required to attend a “workshop” on sexual harassment. I think the point of the workshop is to ensure that YOU are not sexually harassing anyone else, though perhaps it is also going to include helpful hints on how to avoid being harassed. I can’t imagine that the advice the folks who run the workshop will give is likely to be too useful, but perhaps there will be some judo kicks or arm twists involved. You never know.
However, if you had told me that, at age 42, I was going to have to fend off freaks all day long making passes at me, I swear to Jesus I would have told you that you were deranged. But in the comparatively short time that I have been performing this job, at least two people have made attempts on my person that someone who was more tightly wound and uptight could potentially describe as “harassment.” And, believe me, the harassers were terrifying horrors, too – otherwise I would not be complaining, as you can imagine.
The first time I was sexually harassed was actually by far the more disturbing of the incidents. I was shelving books in the children’s library, which is already a creepy enough place. I always make sure that when I go into the library I am wearing my library badge very obviously so nervous parents will be fully aware that, no, I am not some creepy middle aged ghoul, I am a Library Employee. One does not need to be afraid of me, no sirree! I am your helpful and kind Library Page. Your children are as safe as houses.
But anyway, the morning I am speaking of, the children’s library was deserted and devoid of children and adults, except for the librarian who was staring glazed-eyed into her computer consoles as they all do. That’s where the librarians get their messages from their alien masters in the flying saucers, you know. They’re beamed to them through the computer consoles.
I was puttering around the picture books, keeping an eagle eye on the only patron in the room, a woman in her 30s who was clearly mentally retarded. She was in jeans and a shirt, but everything was in sort of a state of derangement – the shirt was sort of untucked and the jeans were sort of barely tied together. And the creepy retarded gal was humming to herself as she walked back and forth in the stacks.
I tuned the lady out, and returned to my shoving books onto shelves. A moment or two later, though, I felt a gentle touch on my shoulder. And then some more pressure on my back. I turned around, and discovered to my horror that, while I wasn’t paying attention, the retarded girl had come up behind me, and had leaned waaay over, so her butt and the back of her crotch was essentially pressing against my body. She rubbed against me again and again, making a little moaning noise. She was clearly engaged in a sexual act, even while I wasn’t aware of it.
With little ado, I leapt to my feet and ran straight out of the room! I wasn’t going to have any of this! That is what I need in my life -- Some kind of a weird sex lawsuit because some creepy handicapped gal was getting her jollies from rubbing up against me. I left the room and did not come back until there were more people there, and the retarded girl had long gone. It was a close shave! I have told this story to some other folks, as well, and they all have agreed with me: This could have been real trouble and I avoided it most cleverly.
The other time happened just today, as I was sitting behind my desk at the computer commons, where I am supposed to be the “authority” figure who checks people in and makes sure that people are not talking on their cell phones while using the computers.
There is this creepy fellow – about 50, I’d say, quite fat, bald as a cue ball, and possibly homeless, as he is always trailing several bags and a suitcase behind him whenever he takes his seat behind the counter. He had a strong accent, too – possibly Russian but he might have been Greek. He also had about three teeth missing in the front of his mouth, which gave his round face a sort of jack-o-lantern appearance.
Anyway, this fellow has waddled his way into the room just about every day I am on duty in the room. And he has become increasingly familiar in an inappropriate manner, I have to tell you. At first, he was always calling me over to help him log onto his account, and thanking me with a variety of creepy and effusive compliments which resemble the sort of disturbing things chat room perverts say to webcam performers.
“Ahh, thank you! You are soooo handsome and sweeeeeet. Sooooo cuuute!” he might say, his words accompanied by his leering smile, the rictus of his mouth jarred by his lack of teeth. I might lean over to type in the man’s library card number, and he would use the opportunity to pat my back or grab my knee. Yucko! If I had to have a guy touching me, it could just as easily be someone attractive, really.
Anyway, today this fellow came up to my counter and asked me to check the name on his library ID. I dutifully ran it through my computer, only to discover that the creepy fellow had his card under a fake name – or at least, I assume it was a fake name, as the name in the computer was someone who called himself “SEMEN FUKKS.” I mean, really!
I returned the card to him, without mentioning the fake name – it wasn’t my job to check IDs, in fact. And I did not alter my expression in any way as I told him that everything was in order. He caressed my shoulder and cooed into my ear, “My dear, thank you soooo much, you are soooooo nice and kind and handsome. Thank you!” Ewwww!
Anyway, it has been a while since last we talked – but things are not as bad as all that. In fact, I had one bit of bona fide good fortune since the last time I updated here. Did I tell you about this? I was having a coffee at the Novel Café about two weeks ago, moping, as is my wont on occasion, when who should amble on in but none other than the theater editor of The Big Paper. He sat down and joined me for a cuppa, which was very kind of him to be sure, and he enquired as to my well being.
I told him that my reviewing career was in the toilettibus, with the Little Paper having pretty much dumped me for no clear reason, making it difficult for me to see plays, which, of course, is my first love. He thought for a moment, nodded sympathetically, and said, “Well, hey, why don’t you come and write exclusive for us? I’ll send you a lot more plays and you can vote in our annual awards!”
And so, even with the departure of the Little Paper from my life, I am pleased to announce that I have gotten a sort of promotion at the Big Paper, which is much more of an important deal, really. It occurs to me that I was hampering my career by writing for the Little Paper these years at all – it was preventing me from going exclusive to the other papers. And so now I am writing a couple times a week for the Big Paper.
My name is now in the Big Paper theater masthead, which is the exclusive domain of staff members only. It’s a promotion in all ways, except for money. I am not seeing one penny more than before. But it’s still a good thing, and it provides a small amount of The Glitter that we all know I was missing.
