What A Crap Day
by Tony R. Rodriguez
(Monday, March 19th, 2007)
Tyler’s tonguing my cheek with intense speed and I begin to think of the term Sexual Abuse. It’s ironic to know that my freshmen students have been studying what it means to be sexually abused. And here I am lying in bed — a victim with saliva drying miserably on my cheek. I pretend this isn’t happening. I pretend I’m somewhere else. I can’t move. I’m wearied. I’m dead to this world. I muster what strength I have and open my eyes and see Tyler’s coarse tongue and sour grimace. His breath saturates the air with a foul odor of day-old tuna.
Thank God he’s only a cat.
I toss him aside like sweaty socks and fall back asleep. Forlornly, Tyler wakes me up minutes later. I tolerate his persistent signs of affection and imagine it’s my wife, Naomi. It’s not, though. It’s been quite a while since she’s done something of that nature. The alarm clock’s maddening beep goes off and Naomi pushes me closer to the edge of the bed, whimpering that it’s my turn to hit the snooze button. I again toss Tyler and his strong-minded tongue off the bed and smack the alarm on the dresser — this means I’ll have another nine minutes of slumber.
I’m dreaming that Naomi’s licking my neck.
Naomi’s now purring erotically.
Damn cat.
I get up and swat Tyler toward the closet next to our bed. I tap the snooze button and push my palms across my cheek bones, and then across my forehead. My palms then play in circles around my flaccid belly as excessive yawns stream from my mouth.
The usual morning habits come into play, though I spend more time on the toilet than I would have usually. It seems I may have taken too many gluttonous liberties during my uneventful Saint Patrick’s Day weekend, often gorging on corned beef and hash with a wannabe Irish smile.
From the bedroom my wife yells, “Spray.”
I decide that I do need to spray.
Twice.
I finish my morning habits and grab my backpack, sleepily filling it with a Chuck Palahniuk novel, two recent TIME magazines, and an iPod. From here, I make my way to work. Once in my car I find a moment of solace driving down the same tired suburban streets of Fremont — the bleak roads I’ve been cruising along all my life. The volume on the stereo is vociferous and eye-opening. (I have no time to stop off and buy some coffee.) Then the morning commute becomes monotonous thanks to the many red stoplights I encounter. Annoyance fills my head. The music helps a bit. But then suddenly the stereo’s power flutters on and off like a crazed strobe light. And I begin to wonder if I’ll be experiencing any car troubles soon.
I need to be at school at 7:30 for a fieldtrip I’ve offered to chaperone. I’ll be one of four teachers attending. Some of the sophomore’s at Saint Augustine High School will be crusading to San Francisco to assist in various homeless projects. I arrive in the parking lot of Saint Augustine at 7:35 and see a sophomore girl who’s heading toward her morning class.
Pushing away an eye booger I ask her, Aren’t you going on the Sophomore Immersion today?
“I’m scheduled for my Sophomore Immersion next week,” she replies with beat eyes very similar to mine.
I’m going today, I respond in an abrasive tone.
The girl mentions that I should’ve already been at the BART (Bay Area Rapid Transit) train station at 7:30. She pulls out from her backpack this information guide. It’s on an orange piece of paper and it addresses her crusade in detail for the following week. I look at this orange piece of paper and shout:
Jes’!
Quickly, I skim the only parchment I’ve received from the fieldtrip moderator, a spiritual diva named Krissie. It seems that the paper Krissie gave me only holds group lists of what students are with what teachers and where each group is assigned to volunteer once in San Francisco. Below the lists are two names and phone numbers for emergency purposes — Krissie and someone else I don’t know. No other information is listed on the parchment. I decide to call Krissie once I’m in San Francisco, so I leave the Saint Augustine parking lot and make my way toward a Bank of America ATM a block away. I need to get some cash. I get the cash. Darting left and right through traffic I zip toward BART, shaking my head in exasperating frustration. It appears I didn’t receive the orange piece of paper everyone else must have gotten. Oh well. Such is life. Such is the paper-passing bureaucracy of any institution. Such is the plight of a Monday morning. Such is the plight of driving a car whose gas light has been on for two days, overtly indicating my tank is practically spent.
Thankfully I make it to BART and leap onto a train. The only seat available rests next to a Vietnamese woman who smells of dead animal and steamed cabbage. But I don’t want to stand. So I sit and lean back into the sit. The sophomores and chaperones must be a half hour ahead of me somewhere on BART. I’ll catch up to them once I’m off the train. I’ll plead ignorant once I meet up with them, which is the honest response anyway. I figured everyone was just going to meet early at school and caravan together. But I was wrong.
Seated behind me is an Asian girl in her early twenties with dark hair and dark eyes. Away she chats on her hot pink cell phone to some friend with a squeaky voice. Words slobber out of her mouth and fill the atmosphere of the stale BART train. I notice people slyly glancing her way and rolling their eyes at her pre-teen dialogue.
Through chapped lips she says, “What do you think? . . . I don’t trust him . . . He’s worse than Tommy . . . You know Tommy . . . Tommy, with the blue eyes . . . Yeah . . . Oh, yeah . . . That guy . . . ”
She goes on and on in that manner.
I insert my earphones and set my iPod to Recently Played. Sounds of the 80’s play in my head, artistically doing their best to drown out the teenage dribble coming from the Asian girl behind me. I listen to 80’s bands like A-ha. Bands like Tears For Fears. Naked Eyes. Then I move on to contemporary groups like The Shins. Keane. The Yeah Yeah Yeahs. The Strokes. The Sounds. Panic! at the Disco. Franz Ferdinand. The Arcade Fire.
An hour later, I reach my exit — 24th Street — deep in the heart of San Francisco’s Mission district. Once outside I realize that I’ve forgotten my jacket and the wind pushes me and stings slightly. I may be without the sacred information guide on orange paper, but I do remember something about having to volunteer at school named Saint Anthony Immaculate Conception. I walk about seven city blocks toward Saint Anthony’s on the corner of Folsom and Precita. And as I do so, I smile and smile. I lived in the City for about four years while still in college. I attended San Francisco State University and this Mission district floods my heart and mind with elation every time I bear my humble feet on her beat sidewalks.
I knock on the locked front office door of Saint Anthony Immaculate Conception. A Dominican sister opens the door and I ask her if she knows where the volunteers from Saint Augustine High School are located. She tells me that she doesn’t know and that I should ask the priests located in the rectory down the block. I make my way to the rectory and come to the conclusion that no one’s home. I find an open side door facing a driveway and I enter. Casually, I attempt to use the restroom when a janitor sees me.
With a shaky mustache on his upper lip he probes, “What are you doing here? Can I help you?”
I tell him my story and realize I’m better off finding my group on my own. So I leave. I call Krissie’s cell phone and only get a voice mail. I leave a brief message stating my current situation, yet I forget to leave my cell phone number. Rather than leave message number two on her voice mail, I text Krissie my contact info.
My stomach begins to grumble, though I’m in no need for food. I meander along the cracked sidewalks like a rogue tourist and stumble upon a coffee shop that offers a warm place to nest and await a reply from Krissie. I order a double mocha with whip cream and a walnut-fudge cookie the size of a CD. Pulling out the March 26th issue of TIME, I nestle firmly into a couch in front of a huge window and fade away into the disenlightened politics of 2007:
TIME reports that a recent BBC World Service poll suggests that 19 major world countries think America is mainly a negative influence in our world.
The BBC World Service poll suggests that 3 major world countries think America is mainly a positive influence in our world.
The BBC poll suggests that 51% of Americans think their country is mainly a negative influence in our world.
The poll suggests that 30% of Americans think their country is mainly a positive influence in our world.
It suggests that 19% of Americans are neutral.
I suggest polls are unreliable.
I suggest the BBC gets back to fair and balanced reporting.
I suggest the liberal media revisits the definition of “journalism”.
I look down at my cell phone resting on my lap and realize that the battery may die any minute. This would suck and damper my day further. So I turn to the cookie for happiness. The walnut-fudge cookie tastes best when chased with a swig of double mocha. Across the coffee shop a woman with short brunette hair plugs thoughts into the keyboard of her Mac laptop. She pauses. She surveys the room and makes eye contact with me. I slowly raise the TIME magazine so it covers my face. The cover of the TIME issue is a picture of Ronald Reagan with a tear falling pathetically down his right cheek. A moment later I gradually bring the magazine down an inch to see if she’s still staring.
She is.
She’s not typing a thing.
I stare right back at her in hopes of her turning away. But she just stares. So I stare back down at the pages of TIME and read on.
Canada, Mexico, Chile, Argentina, Brazil, Britain, Portugal, France, Germany, Greece, Turkey, Lebanon, Egypt, Russia, U.A.E., China, Indonesia, South Korea and Australia all think America is mainly a negative influence in our world.
Nigeria, Kenya, and the Philippines all think America is mainly a positive influence in our world.
I peek at the brunette and find that she’s still looking at me.
The BBC World Service poll suggests that the five most admired countries in our world are ranked in order: (1) Canada (2) Japan (3) France (4) Britain and in last place (5) China.
The BBC World Service poll suggests that the five least admired countries in our world are ranked in order: (1) Israel (2) Iran (3) America (4) North Korea and in last place (5) Russia.
I peek at the brunette and find that she’s still looking at me.
New article: Senator Sam Brownback of Kansas and former Governor Mike Huckabee of Arkansas seem to have the right idea of how religion and politics should correlate: As Christians, they believe more religious politicians should focus on the “Do Unto Others” version of politics opposed to the “Thou Shall Not” variety of many right-wing political persecutors.
I again peek at the brunette and she’s finally turned away.
Though the election is months and months away, according to a TIME poll Rudy Giuliani is currently 19% percentage points ahead of John McCain for the Republican nomination in 2008.
The woman with short hair packs her things and leaves the shop. I don’t think she did anymore typing. I watch her run across the street to a car parked in a bus loading zone. It appears she was looking not at me but out the window the entire time, patiently waiting for her ride. (I’m such a tool.)
And I read on:
According to the same poll, Hillary Clinton is currently 9% percentage points ahead of Barrack Obama for the Democratic nomination in 2008.
This poll also suggests that if Giuliani went up against Clinton this week, it would be Giuliani by 4% percentage points.
I look at my cell phone and see it’s not dead yet. There are no missed calls or text messages or anything. So I flip through more pages of TIME.
In another article a picture Iranian president Mahmoud Ahmadinejad stands proudly in some office in Tehran. I don’t bother reading the article because Ahmadinejad makes me irritable with a fierce rhetoric for which I won’t bother.
So I leave the coffee shop and wander the streets. I call the other number on the list and end up leaving yet another message.
Since no one was at Saint Anthony’s, I decide to check the paper I have with me and see where else the Saint Augustine sophomores are volunteering. I read that some sophomores will be helping out at a Salvation Army. My goal now is to link up with any group from Saint Augustine, whether it’s my group or not. There’s a Salvation Army nine blocks from here on the corner of Valencia and Cesar Chavez, so I trek the distance with determined purpose.
It’s closed.
There’s another Salvation Army location a few blocks east on Valencia.
It’s open.
Once inside, a lady who doesn’t speak English directs me by pointing her fingers to another lady who appears may speak English. She does. She invites into her office. She tells me she knows nothing of high school students volunteering at this location. I ask her if she would be so kind as to call another Salvation Army in the City and see if there are any students volunteering. She calls two other locations with no luck. But the third call was the charm. She confirms with a lady at the Salvation Army on Jessie Street in the South of Market Area (SOMA) that Saint Augustine High School students are there helping out. I get directions and the phone number to the Jessie Street branch and make my way back onto the tired streets of the Mission District.
My iPod comes in handy as the chilly wind continues to push me down the bitter mile toward SOMA. The music helps me forget that I’m freezing. I decide to take Mission most of the way there, intermittently wandering onto various side roads. Once I get to Jessie Street I realize the beaten world that surrounds me: litter everywhere, graffiti has massacred each wall from top to down, the smell of urine pervades the wind, directly above me a helicopter hovers, bums with missing teeth and ratty hair align walls where a graffiti writer has claimed his territory through his dog urine of acrylic paint. I hurry toward the Salvation Army and ring the door bell.
No answer.
I try knocking with forceful anxiety.
A guy answers the door and asks me to state my purpose, looking directly in the sky at the helicopter. I tell him my story. He responds that everyone just left. All volunteers have just gone home. I ask him about the Saint Augustine students and he responds again that no one’s here. And I shout:
Jes’!
He slams the door.
My cell phone vibrates.
I answer as Krissie, the fieldtrip moderator, questions with a confused voice, “What are you doing on Jessie Street? Your group is volunteering at Saint Anthony’s.”
I tell her, I went to Saint Anthony-Immaculate Conception and the Dominican sister there had no clue where I was to report.
She responds, “Not Saint Anthony-Immaculate Conception. You’re supposed to be at Saint Anthony’s Dining Room on the corner of Golden Gate and Jones Street.”
And I shout:
Jes’!
I tell Krissie that I never received the information guide on orange paper, only the sheet with the list of groups. It seems she may have forgotten to give me one — it happens. It was an honest mistake. I hold no ill feeling toward her. I hang up in order to save some energy on my cell phone and I progress onto Market Street, making my way with jaded steps toward the Tenderloin District.
I smell pot.
I smell more urine.
I see scabs on the faces of transients.
I see male prostitutes dressed as women.
I see myself walking faster and faster and faster.
I see Saint Anthony’s Dining Room and proceed with caution. Along the sidewalk of this dining room is an extensive line of people waiting for a free meal. There must be close to two hundred waiting in this miserable line — all appear beaten in spirit and in body. As I totter through the front door, carefully avoiding the less fortunate, I look down at the clock on my cell phone and realize that the time is now noon. Somehow three hours have come and gone since I first got to the City.
I connect with Krissie and some students from Saint Augustine, and my story plops out of my mouth with restless words. Krissie tells me that we’re no longer needed, that our time volunteering is up here at Saint Anthony’s Dining Room. We’re all quickly herded upstairs to a room where we connect with other Saint Augustine volunteers who were assigned to other locations that help out the poor communities of San Francisco. I tell the other teachers there my experience and they just smile and nod.
After the proper introductions, a staff member from Saint Anthony’s Dining Room turns our attention over to a guy named Alberto. With a humble smile, Alberto tells us all:
He’s a loser.
He lost his business.
He lost his wife and children.
He’s fighting his addiction to alcohol, cocaine, and methamphetamines.
The teachers and students stare at Alberto and keep their thoughts to themselves. After his brief speech the teachers ask questions and it’s clear that it pains him to answer. The students just sit there and listen to him respond and confess his life with restrained humility. Not a single student asks a question. They just listen with blank faces and an unnatural frozen disposition. This goes on until it’s time for everyone to get back on the BART train and return to Saint Augustine High School. As we leave, we pass the forlorn rags of collected people lined outside Saint Anthony’s Dining Room, each soul still waiting patiently for a free meal.
Once we’re all secure on BART, I pull out the second issue of TIME and decide I’ll read from it later. Rather, I open up the novel SURVIVOR by Chuck Palahniuk and continue reading his esoteric account of a last remaining cult follower turned celebrity preacher. As always, Palahniuk’s maddening prose jets me away from reality, and I find myself lost his world that seems all too realistic.
An hour later, everyone pours off BART and we part ways. I walk to my car in the BART parking lot. I start my car and find that the engine is having trouble kicking on. I try again and I finally get things moving. With an eager mind, I turn on the stereo to find the power still fluttering on and off. I kill the power of the stereo and just coast toward home. Two blocks away from my street I stop off at a gas station and fill my tank a bit — finally. I toss in twenty dollars worth of gas, which should hold me until my next pay cycle. I start the engine and nothing happens.
I pause.
I pump the gas pedal.
Nothing.
I pause.
I pump the gas pedal again and put the car in first gear.
Nothing.
And I shout:
Jes’!
Two Persian-looking girls in the car behind me giggle with passive eyes. I try the engine again. Still nothing. I get out and try my best to salvage some leg strength and push my car away. I move it to an open space away from the cars coming in and out of the gas station. I phone Naomi and get her voice mail. I figure my next move should involve calling a tow truck, so I do and find that one won’t be able to reach me for about an hour. Annoyingly, it comes to pick me up two hours later. The car tower hauls my car two long blocks to my home. When I finally get inside my place, I plop on the couch and toss my shoes off. Naomi sits next to me and smiles. Tyler leaps on my lap and I begin petting him with forceful strokes. Naomi sees that my day must have been horrendous, she giving me that little frown she always gives when she knows I’m perturbed.
Restraining my frustration I ask, Why didn’t you pick up your cell phone?
“You called?” she asks in a stunned voice.
I pull out my cell phone to prove to her that I had called but the power is now depleted. I tell her my day in thirty seconds. Naomi smiles at me with hospitable care. She walks to the refrigerator and pulls out some pre-made chocolate chip cookie dough. I tell her to make the cookies in a half hour. I smooth the tension from my face and inform her that I’m going to dart over to the Chevy car dealership just down the road. I complain about my car troubles, how this is the third time my car has failed me in some form over the past three months. Naomi tells me not to buy anything tonight. I smile back in agreement and borrow her SUV. A half hour later I return with some promising possibilities for a new car. My eyes are on the 2007 Chevy Aveo.
Naomi pulls the cookies out of the oven as soon as I walk through the door.
And with a fadeless smile I tell her that I love her.