Piece from "A Gigantic Orgasm of Anger/Depression about Work"

[I have a piece in Issue 21 of Foul: A Gigantic Orgasm of Anger/Depression about Work or I Dream It, He Builds It. You should buy it. It costs one dollar and features Brandon Wetherbee, Emerson Dameron, Sarah Joyce and other people I don't know]

I'm writing this from work. I have a lot of opportunity to write here, because I'm working at a public school and all the websites I like are blocked.

After a month of depression and unemployment, where I went on tour and blew though my savings, the jobs started to filter in. Pinky got me a job at a dj company. Sarah gave me the heads up on a temp agency. My Mom hooked me up with a part-time gig at the school where she works, and that's where I am now.

This was the second of four grade schools I attended, and the one I liked the most. It wasn't that much of a surprise coming back, in the sense of finding everything so much smaller than I remembered it, but the school is so much cleaner, so much less ghetto. There are murals and mosaics and a miniature shinto temple where sad brainy kids can plot their bloody revenge during recess.The playground, which used to be a half-block of concrete with a rusty jungle jim and a batting cage is now a lush field with one of those high tech playgrounds where the only way you can hurt yourself is by eating peanuts. Apparently, there are kids who can't eat peanuts now, lots of them, and kids who are vegans, and a shit ton of kids who play soccer.

I have been made aware of this because I work in the office, right across from the wooden bench that I used to sit when I had an ear infection, or faked an ear infection, or had gotten beaten up or pissed myself. It is honestly the hardest job I've ever had, worse than retail, construction, and actual teaching. I don't know anyone's names, I don't know any of the intricacies of afterschool judo or tap that the parents are curious about, or about high school service hours. I don't know what teacher works where or where the first aid kit is. I can't understand what anyone is saying before I buzz them in. It would be the easiest thing in the world for a pedophile to sneak in under my watch (and probably anyone else's).

"Hi, my name is [any possible combination of vowels and consonants]. I'm here to pick up [anything at all that sounds more like a name than a sentence] from after school."

My job, it seems, is to briefly intercept all the electronic influx, and stall it for a second before sending it back into the system, in as pleasant a tone as possible.

A stampede of tapdancers blows past the doorway, clicking like cicadas, and as overwhelmed as I feel, an administrator asks if I want to expand my hours: A full time gig helping a boy with muscular dystrophy. It seems like something I shouldn't say no to. A month ago I vowed not to turn down any job I was offered, ever, but I don't think I can handle the morning commute, or the responsibility. Still, I remember how hard it was to be a special needs student at this school, and not to have anybody worth a damn there to help out.

I don't want to think about it. There is a surprising amount of stylish, young Dads who come to pick up their kids and flirt with the surprising amount of sexy, young professional women that work around the office. I don't rememer any hot chicks when I was a student here, god, fifteen years ago, and I was a horny little kid. Then again, maybe that's why I spent so much time faking sick in the office.

[Currently listening to Tupac]