Man-Child
Here’s the full extent of what I knew: I was going to be rejected. That’s the solitary ground rule for any writer struggling to get published. You will be rejected. You will be rejected several times. It’s one of the few truths in the life of a writer. When the first couple of rejections came my way, I was already braced for it. After all, I heard about it well before I even attempted to get published. Every book I read concerning the process of writing for money as well as every creative writing magazine told me on alternating pages that I would be rejected. More rejections came in and I decided that I was inquiring at the wrong publishing houses. More rejections came in after that and I decided that I was ahead of my time; one of many authors whose respect and fame would develop posthumously. Still more rejections came in after that and I deduced that everything I was writing was quite wrong and that I had no idea what the hell I was doing.
On Wednesday I checked my mailbox and saw two envelopes from publishing houses with which I had inquired. Both of them were too thin and light to be anything substantial, just more form letter rejections, politely refusing my work and professionally photocopying their signature on the bottom of the page. It was a beautifully devastating one-two punch from the industry, PA-POW!
A two-rejection day is hard to handle. It’s best to just chalk your day up as a loss and start fresh the next day, because in all honesty, there aren’t enough Rocky montages in the world to build your spirits back up to fighting status. But it’s not like I could simply get under the covers and cry away the day. I still had to get to my job at Regina Carter Gifts, where I worked as a stocker. I should have waited to open the letters until after work. It was the time between rejections that kept me motivated, for as long as those pieces of mail were not in my hands, I still had a future. My manuscript could still be sitting on the editor’s desk, waiting to be approved. No news was good news at that point. For as long as I wasn’t getting rejected, there was still hope that I could escape the job that I had been working since high school, but as for Wednesday, I was still stuck, and the door of opportunity had closed just a little bit more.
I was running on fumes at work. I was clocking overtime every day, and Regina Carter was using me. She was using me bad. More than using; she was running a train on me. They gave me less pay and had me working three times longer than was stated in my job description. My car was beginning to buck between gears, letting me know that the transmission was falling apart, along with the 250 dollars in my bank account, along with my sanity. It was bad. On top of that, my relationship with my girlfriend was nearing “shamble” status. She was tired of my attitude. I do nothing but bring her down, apparently. Maybe she could learn to deal with it. Maybe, she said.
So every day this week I was clocking in early, taking on 300% of my workload, walking up the fourteen-foot ladder, picking up the 40 pound box, carrying it down, up the stairs again, get another one, order pickers yelling for more numbers until I have a ten number backlog to fetch, then walk the 100 yards to where the order needs to go, ad infinitum. All the while getting texts on my cell phone from my girlfriend about how I’m a miserable grouch. My boss overheard me mocking him on Tuesday as I was expressing my disgust for his half-hearted “thank you’s,” which he always uttered in passing and without making eye contact. No matter, I was ready to be fired. But then again, there’s a woman who works as a packer, and she shits her pants. Honest! She makes more money than me, and has full benefits (a luxury which I do not possess.) I figure that woman, Doreen, is great job security for me. My boss could say to me, “Mike, your attitude is terrible.”
“Yeah, but Doreen shits her pants. She once sprayed the wall in the bathroom.”
“Yeah, she did do that once, didn’t she? Good point. Ok, get back to work.”
My boss didn’t mention the mocking he overheard earlier, but asked me if I wanted to work on Saturday morning at 7:30, after closing out on midnight the night before. I was busy and in a wicked rush, so I said something like, “Saturday can suck my dick.” Besides, my Mom asked me to drive up to Watkins Glen on Saturday to chop wood for my Grandfather, then drive back down on Sunday morning. Chop wood? Sure! I love it! I would love to drive four and half hours, chop me up some wood, then drive the four and a half hours back. Sign me up!
A text from my girlfriend read “You don’t need to grow physically, but emotionally.” My legs had begun trembling from strain on Tuesday, and I was wondering how I was going to keep scaling those ladders for another nine consecutive hours. The pickers began yelling out numbers immediately from two separate areas, six of them total when it should have only been two. No matter, I was just hoping that I wouldn’t fall off the ladder from exhaustion.
Another text came in from my girlfriend, telling me that she had spent the day hanging out with Bob. Bob was a mutual but distant friend of ours, a friend whom she had said a few months ago that if I hadn’t come along, she definitely would have dated.
“He’s sooooo much fun!” the text read. “He had me laughing all day long!”
I was presented with a number of options at that point. I could have turned my phone off, or at least have thrown it against the wall and cut all communications. I could have walked out of work and dealt with the consequences later. I could have cried. Instead, what I decided to do was sit atop the ladder and bask in self-pity. “Let it rain,” I said to myself, making waving gestures with my fingers. “Just let the shit rain down upon me.”
Self-pity can only emotionally cleanse you for a short while before you start to feel like a spoiled child and the self pity quickly turns to shame. For me, that cutoff point is about two minutes. Two minutes of sulking does the trick, usually. Then I began to ask myself, atop the ladder, did I really have it that bad? I began to think of disease-ridden individuals, mental retardation, starvation, destitution, and soon I was able to function again. I asked myself, have I ever really been hungry? I mean, real, third-world-flies-on-your-face starving? Even at my lowest and most destitute, I was still eating rice three times a day. I wasn’t feeling happy, but I was able to at least move my throbbing legs. I got back to work.
While rushing past my number 2 boss, he mentioned the Turkey Lottery at 7:55. I stopped in my tracks. The annual ReginaCarter Turkey Drawing! I asked my boss how many turkeys would be given out. The pickers were screaming for more products, but I was sidetracked. They would be giving out sixteen turkeys. Sixteen!
Life suddenly had a purpose. My sole determination did not become about being accepted by a publishing house, fixing a shoddy relationship, mending bridges with my boss, or trying to find the forest among the trees. No. I needed to win a turkey. The turkey will solve all, I told myself. If I can just win a turkey, the world and everything in it will be alright.
I did not have to psych myself up to get excited over the prospects of a fresh frozen turkey. I immediately thought of various fixings to make with the turkey, the smell of it in the oven, and the box of wine in my refrigerator. It gave me turkey-bumps up and down my arms.
My one name in the drawing box with 68 other names would not be enough. I needed to win this bird. I needed assurance. When life wouldn’t let me win, I would make myself win. I decided that after the 5:30 shift clocked in, I was going to work them over. Now, on paper, it may not seem like anyone would be willing to give up a free 15 pound bird the week before Thanksgiving, but they’re out there. What I needed was to find a bunch of people who had no attachments to the holiday; people who didn’t know about pilgrims, Abe Lincoln, or Indians; people who couldn’t recall a cheesy and awkward Thanksgiving play in elementary school, or reminisce about the terrible verbal family massacre of Thanksgiving 1989, wherein Uncle Ted got wasted and accused Aunt Laura of being a “two-timing whore.” I needed to talk to the immigrants. Immigrants were the key to my turkey salvation, for relying on my name alone to be chosen out of the lot would surely end in failure.
I felt my phone vibrate with another passive/aggressive text message. The message had something to do w
ith how I don’t listen.
I went straight for the gullet. I replied back, “I don’t have time to hear that nonsense. Tonight is the annual ReginaCarter Turkey Drawing! I’m so excited! If I win one, I’m gonna invite people over for some fowl and box wine. It’s gonna be off da hook!”
There was no response. I texted further, “What kind of box wine goes best? I would imagine a dark wine, robust and rich, peppered with week-old aged perfection that will soothe the palate. But hey, I guess all of those adjectives are true if your wine comes in a classy rectangular cardboard box!”
The order pickers were getting irritated as I hid in the shadows of the stock shelves, texting about my potential turkey.
I went on. “The proper spigot selection is key when choosing your box wine.” The order pickers began yelling more numbers, but I ignored them. “There’s the twist and turn knob, which promises that no drop will be spilt, which seems a tad arrogant. There is also the push tab. This is the one I prefer for it makes me feel like an athlete on the sidelines of the big game, drinking from a large tub of Gatorade.”
I finally got a response. “What the hell are you talking about?”
“The spigot, dammit! The mechanism used for optimal box-wine extraction!”
There was a long span of inactivity between us until she wrote, “You better win that goddamn turkey.”
“I called in some favors, and I got 5 co-workers to yield their turkeys to me if their name gets drawn. I’m already thinking of a title for Sunday: Mikey J’s First Annual Fowl Ball!” You know, ‘Ball’ as in gala event.”
“Do it, Mike.” She texted. “You can win that turkey!”
The employees were shuffled into the cafeteria at 7:45, but only I had an expression of optimism, desperation, and excitement. “Some may win a turkey,” I thought, “but only I will find purpose in that turkey.”
Another text from my girlfriend: “I can’t believe I’m actually excited about this. I’m actually in suspense.”
“Shh! Shhh!!” I wrote back. “It’s starting!!”
My boss began calling names, and for every first name that started with “M” my eyes grew wide. Mark won one, but he hardly seemed excited. As did Maria, Melody and a woman named M.J. who had a mulleted gray hairdo. I knew I was next. I felt it in my being.
My boss took the next slip from the box. “Mike…” I ignored the fact that there were 4 other Mike’s in the warehouse and I raised my arms triumphantly. “Jenkins.” Applause. I held my arms up there for a moment, then back down to cover my face in disbelief.
I had won a turkey. It was incredible to feel such elation, such hope. I knew that after I had won the turkey, things were going to take a better turn for me.
The next name was Ivana, a Polish immigrant dame who I’d struck a deal with. Now I had two turkeys. When I heard the next name called, I muttered, “Oh, shit…” It was Ashish, a college student from India who didn’t want his turkey and had promised it to me.
I had three turkeys at twenty pounds apiece. Three! I told my girlfriend of the good news. “I did it! I had a dream, babe.”
“Will I see you tonight, my Turkey King?”
We were going to talk. We were going to work things out for a little while longer. But that would be later. That night I reveled in my victory of overcoming insurmountable odds.
Contents
Schrӧdinger’s Monkey