Hey, Somebody's Got To Clean That Up

Once in Chicago I worked as a temp in a college office. My supervisor was a middle-aged retired fashion designer who always reminded me of an old house cat, her feline grace impeded by decades of easy living: climate-controlled rooms and mochas with whipped cream. One slow afternoon at Speed-Eaze Car Wash, as my coworker Travis recounted how he'd stabbed his sister's rapist to death (we had previously been talking about how hilly Ohio is), I couldn't help but think that I'd strayed into another genus entirely.

Travis struck me as a precarious man who'd had his ears boxed all his life and learned to give as well as he got. Generally a friendly fella, unless you're black. He conjured in my mind the image of a bulldog, the big powerful old kind that are tired of fighting but not so tired they wouldn't rip you apart given motivation.

This morning was a milestone; I've been working for Speed-Eaze long enough that I was given my own uniform jacket. Navy blue with a patch on each breast: the right says "Speed-Eaze Car Wash," the left "Tim." I envision it being worn five years down the line by a 20-something not named Tim who will pick it up at the Athens Goodwill.

I didn't work; sullen fuck-off-I'm-not-getting-out-of-bed clouds pissed lukewarm rain on us all day. Still I stopped by the garage to pick up my jacket so I could wash it before I work tomorrow, since they starch the shit out of it and it's itchy as shit, or so my boss told me. As I was shooting the shit with her, Travis strolled in with shit on his shirt.

Jeff, the boss' brother, was curled over his boat, working silently and skillfully as he usually is whenever I see him. Travis was muttering something offensive, as he usually is whenever I see him. Something about Somali gangs, who live right up there (he nodded in no distinct direction) and some money being owed. Then a snippet of an anecdote: When he walked in, they had a gun right to his head, so he grabbed it and wrestled with him (Travis pantomimed the struggle, the hem of his gray shirt momentarily riding up to reveal a heroic beer gut), and that's when shots started going off. I stood awkwardly in the corner of the room, clutching my bike helmet. I had planned to nod goodbye, tell everyone to stay dry and ride merrily along, but suddenly it was too quiet. There was some more mumbling about the gangs I didn't understand, then: They're going to find that boy and kill him eventually. They're going to kill his whole family. It's sad, but that's just the way it is.

"What the fuck," Jeff rasped. I couldn't tell if he was talking about the boy or the battery he was working on. Thankfully, Harry, another bulldog, walked into the garage and Travis told him about how he got the shit on his shirt (a nacho mishap). They both laughed and I was able to go.

The Things I Do For Love

Mexico. Oman. Norwa—no! N...n...Niger. Good. Russia. No!

The country name game was supposed to keep my mind off the frigid winds howling around my ears as I stood on a corner next to an on-ramp to Route 33. It proved counter effective whenever I came up with a cold country. I struggled to stay equatorial, or at least temperate, but whenever I stumbled onto a Greenland or Ukraine it felt like the air nipped at my curled fingers a little more aggressively, like a friend's pet hamster when you were just trying to feed it a cookie crumb. And then you're mad at the hamster, but there's nothing you can do about it; it's just nature.

Being a professional sign waver in the middle of January (a vocation known more colloquially as “a shitty job”) requires a great capacity for mental escapism. Lord knows the thought of the seven bucks an hour I was earning wasn't going to keep me warm, so I did my very best to make believe I was anything other than a degraded, shivering, pathetic-looking undergraduate wage slave. I tried to take pride in what I was doing: I imagined I was a gallant standard bearer, overlooking not a slush-covered thoroughfare next to a Bob Evans but a war-torn battlefield next to a Valley Forge.

And the rocket's red glare

The bombs bursting in air

Gave proof through the night

That Goody's was having a going-out-of-business sale and everything in the store was 30-60 percent off

My mind eventually drifted to less fanciful thoughts. Like how as much as I pitied myself, I was making more than the workers at Goody's were about to. I mused on the irony of the situation, that my economic plight led me to a job where I advertised others' economic plight. I felt like a burn victim arsonist.

And really, I had no right to complain. Even as I stood there that day, I watched a crew of city workers shovel out a sidewalk across the street. Icicle-laden pickups sped by, kicking up slush the color of moldy onions. Where were they hurrying off to, I wondered? From out the passenger's side window of a Ford F-250 two foil packages flew with a cranky but well-meaning admonishment: “Next time dress for winter!”

As I examined my recently obtained “Toasty-Toes” foot warmers, I thought about that charitable stranger, and what she would have needed them for. It made me realize, as I have several times a day for the four weeks I've been in Athens, that there's a lot I don't know about this town. Since I got here, I've worked in a campus dining hall, a car wash, as a personal aide to a man living in the oldest house in Athens, and, least illustriously, as a sign waver. I've had opportunities to interact with a lot of fascinating people, and every one of them has had something to say about what it's like to live and work here. But it's only my first month. I can only imagine the vast sea of stories begging to be told. I would like to record these stories, and through them maybe paint a broader picture of what it means to be a working stiff in the incredible, complex, diamond in the rough that is Athens, Ohio.

At the very least, I figure, it beats the country name game.