Labor Pains

by C. A. Huggins

  For example, I’ve accidentally overheard my mom talk to some of her friends about what I actually do. First of all, she never gets it right, and sometimes even tries to spruce it up and add some flare to it, as if it were a breakfast nook she’s designing. Unfortunately, there are no drapes pretty enough to dress up human resources. “Oh, he oversees . . .” she says, or something to that effect. It goes horribly wrong, and I always pretend I don’t hear. But sometimes when the same person comes back to me and asks how things are going at my job, they get underwhelmed when I spare them the boring details. The enormous wave of letdown is inevitable; the only desirable approach is complete avoidance.

  I’m sure some people would note that this is the career I’ve chosen. Thus, I cannot be mad at anyone for not being pleased with my job. I would first correct that stooge, because it’s a job, not a career. A career is an occupation someone performs during a period of time (I’ve looked it up). And there is no way I can see myself doing this job for the rest of my life. But in retrospect, I didn’t think I’d be doing my job as long as I have. This is my job, and I do it not because I want to. It’s more of a vital necessity. How else would I pay my bills? What would I do if I got in an accident and needed health care? Which reminds me, I should take advantage of my medical insurance and go to the doctor once in a while, instead of saying I have a doctor’s appointment and staying home.

  And the notion that I was the one that chose this job is a bit of a fallacy. Sure, I filled out the application, put on my suit, interviewed, sent a follow-up thank-you letter to the interviewer, and accepted the job. But this job kind of decided on me. Mr. Jenko told me when I was in his high-school guidance-counselor office I am average. Where do average people go for careers that they can be passionate about? Regrettably, I don’t have an answer. If I did, I would’ve exhausted that avenue by now. But I do know the average end up toiling away in the cubicles of STD-type offices littered all over the world. Even my co-workers who work in the office in India, I’m sure their professional lives aren’t what they thought they’d be. They’re sitting doing my job, but with a twelve-hour time-zone differential or some shit. I couldn’t fathom sitting in a cubicle at 2 a.m., waiting for the last few hours to tick away so I can pack up my stuff to go home. That would be incredibly brutal on my spirits. But I guess their options are slim as well.

  Most aspects of my daily life have become excruciatingly repetitive, and going to lunch is no different. All of the shit-talking and same faces sometimes make me want to escape from spending my one free half-hour with Jake, Eddie, and Dontrelle. They always have some drama that I really don’t care for, and it grossly outweighs my need for their companionship. When those instances occur, I make an effort to flee to lunch by myself at least once a week. It can be as simple as me driving around for a half-hour. But with gas prices the way they are, I tend to lean toward sitting in my car in the parking lot and listening to the radio. But I don’t like sitting in our lot; I prefer to go to one of the neighboring companies’ lots. I don’t want a co-worker to see me sitting in my car, for fear of them coming up to my car and disturbing my break by asking me questions, or feeling obligated to engage them in banal small talk. I don’t know why seeing somebody alone makes an onlooker think that person needs company. Sometimes people just want to be alone, and you should leave them that way. That’s what I always do, but then again, I’m a lot more advanced than 99 percent of the human race when it comes to properly recognizing the feelings and needs of others.

  I’ve learned from past experiences that taking a nap in the car is a bad idea. One afternoon, after a late night, I dozed off and didn’t wake until three hours later. I hurried back to work, with lines on my face, drool stains on my shirt collar, and wrinkled clothes. The only thing missing was the morning erection, and that’s because I smartly walked it off while repeating the theme song for the Golden Girls in my head. Something about thinking about Dorothy and Blanche can turn a man flaccid in a matter of minutes.

  Other times, I head to the mall for lunch. The good thing about the mall is, it is a buffet of options and you’re not tied to doing one thing. You have the variety of eateries in the food court. It always blows my mind that some third-world countries don’t have food at all or have to walk miles for clean water, but I’m capable of buying Nathan’s hot dogs or walking two feet to the left and getting a slice of pizza from Sbarro’s. There’s a Chinese place that sells Cajun food in addition to regular Chinese food. I’ve never been to China or the bayou, so I’m not sure how the two cultures mixed. But I’m sure somewhere along the line they traded recipes. And that’s what I’m eating today. I do a pretty respectable job of picking my two dishes to go with either the rice or noodles for a very low price, since I found the nametag of a Macy’s sales associate left on one of the tables last summer. So when I wear the pin, I get the 15 percent mall-employee discount. It’s not much, but every little bit helps. Now the mall excites me to the point I have to take a step back and realize that all of this actually excites me. Then, I get a little depressed. I really shouldn’t get thrilled by the food court.

  The apex of my pathetic fawning over the food court was the five months it was closed for remodeling. I walked past the blocked-off area anticipating which new restaurants would be in the revamped fast-food heaven. I wasn’t the only one looking forward to the unveiling. There were others who tried to peek in to get a glimpse of what was being constructed. And I stood there for a bit too, hoping to overhear a rumor of what chain was coming to the mall. This would undoubtedly turn to shame when I realized how pathetic it was. My life shouldn’t hinge around a food court, but when you’re a cubicle civilian seeking enjoyment out of your mundane life, those are the types of things that get you going.

  Another great way I spend my break at the mall is to people watch, a favorite pastime of mine. I can post up on a bench with a Sprite and watch people shop or simply loiter. It’s amazing to see how they interact with one another. There’s the man holding the woman’s purse, standing outside of the store and looking confused as to how he had gotten to this point in his life, but if he’s lucky his significant other allows him to sit on a bench, with her shopping bags, of course. Sometimes he tries to sit next to me, but I can’t associate with an emasculated man who’s watching shopping bags like a guard dog. He’d bring down my lunch-break spirit with his saddened, hopeless demeanor. There are the senior citizens who are simply happy to be out of the houses. They’re different from Robbie’s mall audience. Their families have not forgotten them and cast them away in a nursing home—yet; they’re at the mall under their own will. Maybe their families didn’t get a chance to forget them because they’ve outlived them. Who knows, really? But they’re active, maybe more so than I. They never buy stuff. I think they like the exercise of walking around in an air-conditioned building, as opposed to their other hobby of calling benefit centers to find out the whereabouts of their pension checks and other assorted benefits.

  There are also the young people who bounce around the mall as if it’s the greatest place their teenage brain knows the world has to offer. And it very well may be the case for them. There are the young girls who walk around in packs like alley cats. Now, this is where I always get a borderline pervy type of feeling in my gut, but I ignore the self-conscience feeling. I do tend to contrast their clothing with what I was accustomed to back in my day. Girls never wore such skimpy clothes as these young chicks, but I watch attentively as they walk back and forth, as if it’s my television. I always tell myself each one is eighteen, but in my heart of hearts I know better. Yet I won’t let it interfere with my daydreams.

  Today, I’m going for the riskiest way to spend my lunch break in the mall, but it’s also the most rewarding. But everything worth a damn does involve some unpredictability. I’m going to spend my time shopping. If I was to truthfully classify what I do, I’d probably say browsing instead. But the clerks don’t know that. I can jump from store to store like a pro, knowing exac
tly what I want to look at. And if they don’t have it, I keep moving. I examine each article of clothing like they’re clues at a crime scene; even the most seasoned salesperson can be duped into feeling I’m really considering buying something. Sometimes I try on clothes. The workers who’ve seen me enough now know I’m only browsing. They don’t pay me any mind, and I’m more than fine with that. It allows me to operate unhindered by their quest for a sale. If their bosses are around, they have to say their obligatory “Can I help you with anything?”

  It doesn’t matter what I’m browsing either. Sometimes it’s housewares, or it might be furniture. Today, I’m going with clothes. I need to prepare because as soon as I get this promotion I’m going to need some new managerial-looking work-wear. Maybe a turtleneck sweater will be appropriate, or a blazer with patches on the elbow. I might even get a pocket watch with one of those chains attached to it to look extra important. How can anyone deny taking me seriously with one of those things? I wonder if they have any cashmere sweaters left over from the holidays. If I’m lucky, I can find a cheap turtleneck. Where’s a clerk when you need them? I find one.

  “Excuse me, but do you have any cashmere sweaters?”

  “I think we have some on the clearance tables over there. Do you need any help finding sizes?” the clerk responds.

  “No thank you, I can handle it,” I say, as I walk in the direction she pointed. This stuff might be cheap enough to buy. I don’t really need any gaudy colors. Something stern but extra-professional will do the trick. I continue to sift through the sales table. I’ve never had a cashmere sweater, or anything that was cashmere for that matter. Shit, these are soft. Feels like a pair of fresh out-of-the-shower titties. I don’t disturb the tidy order they have everything in. Anything I look at I put back in its place. If I unfold something, I fold it right back up. It keeps me on a nice even keel with the clerks. I don’t fuck their shit up. They don’t fuck with me.

  “Excuse me. Excuse me, sir,” I hear a woman say as I search for my size. She raises her tone. “Excuse me, I am ready to check out. Can you ring me up?”

  I turn around, and it’s a woman of about forty years of age. She’s talking directly to me. Now, this is the drawback of going shopping in the mall while on my break. I look the lady up and down with disgust that should be reserved for someone who spat at me.

  “No, I cannot ring you up. You want to know why?” I don’t give her time to answer. “Because I don’t fucking work here. I’m here shopping, just like your retarded ass.”

  She’s dumbstruck. And I don’t let up, because she really fucked up my mood.

  “Why would you think I work here? Because I’m a well-dressed black man in a store? I can’t possibly be shopping, right? Do I have a nametag on?” I feel my chest to make sure I’m not wearing the nametag I used to get 15 percent off my Cajun Chinese food. It’s not on—that would’ve negated my diatribe. “In this day and age, I can’t believe it.” I turn around, leaving the completely shocked woman staring at me. I hear her scurry off as my back is turned.

  This happens all too often. Typically it’s an older white person, but lately they’ve been getting younger and dumber. Still white, though. Every time I’m shopping someone comes up to me and asks if I could help them with something. When I was younger, I’d politely tell them I don’t work there. But I attribute not noticing the overt racial implications to my naiveté. Now, I have only two ways of responding, and it depends on my mood. If I’m in an okay mood, I’ll ignore them by pretending I didn’t hear them. I mean, they could be bleeding from the chest or have fallen down and broken a hip, and I’d still keep going on about my business like they’re a ghost trying to warn me of something. This is the most non-confrontational method. And it works most of the time. But if I’m in a horrible mood, it comes out a whole lot worse. Two weeks ago, this old man who had to be in his mid-sixties asked me if I could measure his foot. I told him that “the only way I will measure your foot is if you can arrange your mother and wife to give me a double blowjob.” Most of the time the people are so fucking stupid they still think I work there and tell a manager on me. I bet they even tell their friends about the rude customer service they received from a department-store clerk. My response will hopefully keep them away from the store for fear the same event will occur again. Or, in the best scenario, they will wise up and stop assuming all black people who are dressed professionally and in a store are workers. Either way it’s a win for me. This instance today might put me on edge for the rest of the day.

  Today was one of those days in the northeast when the weather teases you. It’s not technically spring yet, but it’s an unseasonably warm winter day. The kind of day you can drive to work with your windows open, or if you were wearing a sweater over as shirt, you could opt to take the sweater off because you’d start to sweat a bit. On these types of days it’s standard that at least every hour someone in the office has to voice how they can’t wait to go outside, as if they’re a six-year-old waiting to go out and play. It’s always the co-worker with the loud, obnoxious voice too. And if it’s after lunch, they comment on how hard it was to come back in.

  While Jake, Dontrelle, and I are discussing where we’re going to lunch, Eddie listens because he still doesn’t have a say as to where we go. And I doubt he ever will.

  Jake stares out of the window and says, “You remember back when you were in college and the weather finally broke for good? Not like today, but when you knew it was gonna be hot from then on.”

  “Hell yeah! Hell yeah!” Dontrelle says, as I nod in agreement.

  “It was like an event,” Jake continues. “Girls would start breaking out the miniskirts and shorts.” He takes a moment to reflect by looking out the window, as if there are girls tanning in the parking lot right now.

  “They might be sunbathing right there on the quad,” I say. I can almost smell the suntan lotion and body sprays. “That was the shit. Oh, don’t forget sitting out on lawn chairs and drinking beer out of water bottles.”

  “Hell yeah! Hell yeah! I did that shit too,” Dontrelle says.

  We all stand around glowing like kids who came home from trick-or-treating, with our own fantasies and memories bouncing around our heads.

  “I was more of a sundress man, though. I love them shits to this day,” I say.

  “How about playing hacky sack with a group of good buddies? Then going to the library to cool off while reading some nonfiction?” Eddie says.

  We all turn to look at him. He wasn’t even in the conversation, but he chimed in with that lame attempt. And one would think, being the closest to his college experience, he would have memories that were not so fucking lame.

  “Man, we didn’t do that shit,” Jake says.

  “Dumb motherfucker,” says Dontrelle.

  “I know you have to miss all that shit,” I say.

  “Not really,” Eddie replies. “I was always busy trying to study for exams and putting finishing touches on projects for the semester.”

  “You’re a piece of shit. You know that?” Jake says.

  “I think you missed out. You should’ve lived a little,” I say.

  “I lived by putting my all into my work. I wanted to prepare myself to enter the workforce. That’s what college is for. Training me to work. So I could get the job I wanted. I knew there’d always be time for fun and games, especially after I graduated. Work hard, then you’d have more money and resources to play later in life.”

  “You’re depressing the shit out of me,” Jake says. His expression has changed from jovial to sullen. Eddie’s comments have sapped all the fun out of our memories. “I’m out of here.”

  “Buzz kill like a muthafucka,” Dontrelle says. He and Jake both walk back to their desks on that somber note.

  The great spring-like weather of yesterday has passed like the teenage-girl tease that it was, and it’s a regular chilly, wintery Thursday. The sky looks like an old undershirt that was used to wash an old Volkswagen. Everyon
e’s running around trying to complete their work. Times like this are when the office is the quietest. I have Eddie doing follow-up calls to disgruntled retirees. I’m filling out reports. Floyd hasn’t been around lately. Maybe he’s too busy. But I really need him to notice all of the hard work I’m putting in. I don’t know what I have to do to get noticed by him. Hope he’s getting word from somebody I’m busting my ass. If not, I’ll be doing this shit for nothing.

  “Do you know what you’re going to do next week for volunteer day?” Eddie says.

  I look at him with my standard “What the fuck are you talking about?” look.

  “I asked you about this yesterday as well,” he continues.

  My look doesn’t change. I hope he’s starting to realize I only listen to about 10 percent of the things he says.

  “Next Friday we have the opportunity to work for one of the many local charities. I’m doing Habitat for Humanity,” he says. “Jake is helping out at a shelter for abused and battered women.”

  Typical Jake. This is really the first time I’m hearing about this and actually listening. “How much do we get paid?” I say.

  “Nothing. It’s charity,” he says. “STD’s been doing this for the last ten years.”

  I give him another puzzled look, because I have no recollection of a volunteer day. I don’t know what it’s going to take to convince him of that. “No pay, huh? That’s probably why I don’t remember. I can’t go work for nothing. I don’t do free labor. Listen to me. It’s not worth it.”

  He makes a facial expression that has to be his version of getting angry, because he looks like I just shot him with a water gun filled with piss right before he takes a prom picture. “I don’t get it.”

  “What?” I say.

  “It makes no sense that you hate this place so much. It’s a job. Some people—”