I coulda been pithy without this pain
Growing up in upstate New York, John Gotti was a mythopoetic figure, especially in my life. My stepfather’s father was first-generation Sicilian, and I always believed he “knew people.”
John Gotti had a nickname that had to be shared in exactly this way. It demanded it, because it was so satisfying.
Someone mentions Gotti, and you say “Ah, yes, the Teflon Don.”
And then you wait. And after a pause…
“The Teflon Don?”
“Can’t make anything stick.”
Y’see that? Satisfying.
My job shares this quality in way. I work the monkeycage at Seattle Repertory Theatre.
*pause*
“Monkeycage?”
“Yeah, because a reasonable intelligent monkey can do my job.”
Buh-dump baaaah. Satisfying.
The monkeycage is the tiny hut-like office at the stage door entrance of the theatre. During the day, it operates as the main administrative desk, but I and my fellow simians work the off-hours. Sometimes, the incredibly off hours.
I have been here two hours, and I have received a single phone call from the guy working before me telling me he had walked off with the front door key, and have buzzed two people in. They are the only souls I have seen or heard, and it isn’t likely to get hopping any time between now and 10:30 when I finally lock the place down. I’ll be back here tomorrow, Sunday, morning at 9, and could well see nary a hide nor hair until my relief comes at 4.
I’m going batshit crazy already.
Granted, much of the allure of this job is the solitude and almost utter lack of responsibility. If the place doesn’t burn down, it’s been a good shift. I can read and write without 35 pounds of small child hanging off my arm. I’ve been known to drink on the job, often at the behest of my supervisor, and in fact have a bottle of Beaujolais sitting next to me at this very moment.
But, damn, did I mention the batshit crazy part?
It’s a terrible price to pay for a pithy nickname for your job.
I knew I shoulda asked Grandpa Tony for an in. Then I coulda been pithy and cool.
“Jim Jewell. Ahh, yeah, the Oily Whore.”
*pause*
“Oily whore?”
“He’s a slippery fuck.”
Satisfying.
John Gotti had a nickname that had to be shared in exactly this way. It demanded it, because it was so satisfying.
Someone mentions Gotti, and you say “Ah, yes, the Teflon Don.”
And then you wait. And after a pause…
“The Teflon Don?”
“Can’t make anything stick.”
Y’see that? Satisfying.
My job shares this quality in way. I work the monkeycage at Seattle Repertory Theatre.
*pause*
“Monkeycage?”
“Yeah, because a reasonable intelligent monkey can do my job.”
Buh-dump baaaah. Satisfying.
The monkeycage is the tiny hut-like office at the stage door entrance of the theatre. During the day, it operates as the main administrative desk, but I and my fellow simians work the off-hours. Sometimes, the incredibly off hours.
I have been here two hours, and I have received a single phone call from the guy working before me telling me he had walked off with the front door key, and have buzzed two people in. They are the only souls I have seen or heard, and it isn’t likely to get hopping any time between now and 10:30 when I finally lock the place down. I’ll be back here tomorrow, Sunday, morning at 9, and could well see nary a hide nor hair until my relief comes at 4.
I’m going batshit crazy already.
Granted, much of the allure of this job is the solitude and almost utter lack of responsibility. If the place doesn’t burn down, it’s been a good shift. I can read and write without 35 pounds of small child hanging off my arm. I’ve been known to drink on the job, often at the behest of my supervisor, and in fact have a bottle of Beaujolais sitting next to me at this very moment.
But, damn, did I mention the batshit crazy part?
It’s a terrible price to pay for a pithy nickname for your job.
I knew I shoulda asked Grandpa Tony for an in. Then I coulda been pithy and cool.
“Jim Jewell. Ahh, yeah, the Oily Whore.”
*pause*
“Oily whore?”
“He’s a slippery fuck.”
Satisfying.
posted by JJisafool at 6:22 PM
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