Ralphie

There’s this guy that comes in to the restaurant where I work. I don’t know what his name is, but we call him Ralphie. One of the servers gave him this name because he works at Ralphs supermarket down the street. We know this, not because he’s told us, but because he wears a shirt with the Ralphs logo on it.

Ralphie is, in a word, gross. He’s a big guy with dark hair. He is always unshaven and his clothes do not fit right. His hands are always filthy, his nails caked with dirt, looking like he just clawed his way out of a landfill. He usually has snot all over his face and he looks like he has not showered in months. He never gets a table, only sits at the bar. He is always carrying a newspaper and loves to watch sports on the TV. Mostly ESPN.

On the surface, this sounds revolting, right? Some filthy guy sitting at your bar that you have to wait on, that grosses everybody out and that other customers complain about because he is so unappealing to look at. Yeah. Welcome to my world.

But the intriguing thing about Ralphie is that he is not just some gross guy that comes in to the restaurant. He’s not stupid by any means, but there is definitely something “wrong” with him. I put “wrong” in quotes because I believe that everyone is the way they are supposed to be, and there is no “wrong,” but for the sake of putting it in terms that people will understand, I will say there is something “wrong” with him. He doesn’t speak. He yells incoherently and points to what he wants on the menu. You can kind of make out vague likenesses of words if you pay real close attention, but it’s very difficult. It sounds almost like when a deaf person talks, except much louder.  I’ll admit, the first time he came in and sat at my bar, I was horrified. I had no idea what he was saying and I had to keep asking him over and over. I was beyond embarrassed. I felt horrible that this man was trying to tell me something and I couldn’t understand him. But after a few times, I kind of got the gist of what he wanted.

He usually orders coffee or a Coke. When you put it down in front of him, you have to hold the glass a certain way and do it very quickly, because before you even put the glass or cup down on the counter, he is reaching out for it, and he will touch your hand if you’re not fast enough. You have to walk away when he eats. Unless you have a non-existent gag reflex. It’s one of the most disgusting things I’ve ever seen. He has no manners whatsoever and gets food and drink everywhere, including all over his face. One time he sneezed…….I was mortified. As you can probably guess, he does not have the social skills or wherewithal to cover his nose and mouth when he does this. Thankfully, my fellow server Tony offered to clean it up, because I just couldn’t. He is a saint for that.

Now, it sounds like I may have described someone who is mentally challenged. I mean, obviously, he has the social skills of a 3 year old, but his mind is sharp as a tack. He will recite sports scores to you, tell you who is playing who on a certain day; it’s like he’s a walking sports encyclopedia (I just sang the Jiminy Cricket song in my head as I was typing that word…..) He is very good with numbers, and always pays in cash. If you give him the incorrect amount of change, even by a penny, he will correct you. And he always tips 20%. It’s the strangest thing. Sometimes he’ll disappear for a few months at a time, but he always comes back again. You’ll see him walking around Pasadena, or at Starbucks with his newspaper under his arm, talking--or more accurately--yelling to himself.

I have so many questions about Ralphie. Does he really work at Ralphs? Or did he just get his shirt with the Ralphs logo from Goodwill? And if he does work there, what in the world does he do? Not to be mean, but I definitely don’t want him touching any of the food that I consume. He’s filthy! Where are his parents? Where does he live? Who does he live with? How old is he? Was he like this as a child, or has it gotten worse or better since he’s gotten older? How does he view the world? Does he know that people are disgusted by him? And if so, how does that make him feel?

One of my co-workers told me that he saw Ralphie walking down the street once with someone who appeared to be his mother. She was holding his hand and had her head down, as if ashamed that this was her son. How must that feel? To have a mother that is ashamed of you?

There used to be a bartender that worked at the restaurant. I’ll call this bartender “X.” X does not work there anymore. X would be outright mean and blatantly rude to Ralphie on a regular basis. For no reason other than the fact that he was gross. While I totally get that, and share in the discomfort of having to wait on Ralphie (did I mention that we kept a canister of Clorox Disinfecting Wipes behind the bar and would have to put on rubber gloves and use them to clean up after him after every visit?), it somehow always seemed so wrong to me.  What kind of soulless malcontent do you have to be to treat someone that way? Especially someone who’s “less fortunate” than you? I mean, yes, he’s disgusting, but he is still a human being, right? It broke my heart a little every time I saw X be mean to Ralphie. But, I was just as guilty, I never spoke up to defend him, or told X that such behavior was unacceptable. So, as my penance (no, I’m not Catholic…….I’m a recovering Catholic, so it’s still engrained in my brain….but that’s another story for another day), I try to be extra nice to him whenever he comes in. I try really hard to overlook the fact that he makes me want to gag, and I always smile and act as pleasant as I can. It’s not easy, but don’t I owe it to my fellow human beings to be kind whenever possible? And it’s always possible.

I Hate Pussies

I hate pussies.

 

 

Not nerds or geeks or wimps, Trekkies, or even that peace-preaching pacifist that refuses to fight or say a bad word about anyone, even when he’s getting the shit kicked outta him. I’m not talking about any of those guys. In fact, more power to them. No, I’m talking about the spoiled-rotten kid whose parents were too busy arranging play dates and getting their kids into the best school money can buy to realize that they were turning their kid into a spoiled little bitch. That’s the kind of pussy I’m talking about.

 

 

Working in the food service industry for the past decade, you better believe I’ve seen my share of misbehaved kids. I want to go up to the parents and shake them, “What the fuck is wrong with you?!?!” But god forbid they discipline precious little Dylan/Jacob/Tyler/Logan! No, they’d rather let him run around the restaurant and be a fucking nuisance. I can’t wait for the day when little Dylan/Jacob/Tyler/Logan is running around like a crazed maniac and bumps into a server carrying a hot cup of coffee. Ok, maybe that’s a little harsh, and of course I would never wish pain or harm on any child, but you get what I mean, right? I mean, Jesus Christ, I was a kid once too, and I would never ever in a million years even think of acting that way in public. And I never got hit as a kid, either. Although I know a lot of people my age would agree with me and say, “Yeah, I woulda gotten the shit kicked outta me if I acted like that.” Well, all I needed was the death-look from dear ol’ Dad. He never had to lay a hand on me, all he needed to do was glare at me with that “You better knock it off now!” look in his eye, and I knew I’d better behave. And guess what? I did. So did my brother. And so did (most of) my friends. But of course, this was in the mid 1970’s. Oh, how times have changed.

 

 

Unfortunately for kids in today’s society, it’s not as easy as that anymore. Today, kids live in a world where “every kid makes the team.”  I’m sorry, but that is some bullshit if I ever heard it. Why do we feel it necessary to give every kid a trophy, even if they sucked? It’s fucking stupid. It gives kids a false sense of worth and security that doesn’t exist in the real world. And what happens when these kids grow up and they don’t “make the team,” or “get the trophy?” They become pussies. Whiny, petulant, maladjusted assholes.
 

Whatever happened to kids learning defeat and how to accept it gracefully? “Everyone has to be equal.” Well guess what, motherfucker, everyone isn’t equal, and the sooner your kid learns that, the better off he’ll be. Newsflash! Not all kids are good at sports! Why are we so goddamn afraid to say that? Because kids will get their feelings hurt? Are you fucking kidding me? Isn’t it better that they learn about hurt feelings and that it’s part of life, but it’s okay because you get over it? Isn’t that better than delaying the inevitable and letting them think they’re good at something when they’re really not? Kids are so resilient, they bounce back easily. Especially with some encouragement from Mom or Dad. A kid who learns defeat and how to overcome it early in life is going to be a lot better adjusted and have a lot easier time transitioning into adulthood than one who thinks that he is good at everything and grows up with a sense of entitlement. It seems to me that some parents are putting an awful lot of pressure on themselves to “protect” their kids, when they’re really just protecting themselves.

 

 

You know what I say? So what if little Dylan/Jacob/Tyler/Logan sucks at basketball? Who gives a shit? I’m positive there’s something else he’s good at. Maybe the skinny kid that has one leg longer than the other and wears coke-bottle glasses and can’t run or throw a ball to save his life is a fucking musical genius! Maybe he’s the most insane trumpet player you’ve ever heard! Maybe the girl who’s not nimble enough to be a cheerleader is a math whiz. Maybe, if given the chance, she’ll love science so much that she’ll discover the cure for cancer. Not everybody has to be good at everything. That’s the beauty of living in a society like ours. You can be an individual. You can embrace your uniqueness. Unfortunately, a lot of parents miss the boat on this.

 

 

Now, I’m not saying that all—or even the majority—of parents today are like this. I have many friends and relatives my age who I think are wonderful parents and their kids are lucky as shit to have the privilege of being raised by them. And I’m not saying that these aforementioned parents are intentionally trying to fuck up their kids. But, it’s amazing to me that they don’t realize what kind of people they are turning their kids into. How can they be that blind? Someone needs to slap these people.

 

 

Don’t get me wrong, I am all for giving kids their space and freedom. I think they should be allowed to express themselves artistically or otherwise. I have no problem with tattoos (obviously!), piercings or dying your hair hot pink. But at four years old, a child should maybe be allowed to pick out her own outfit for the day, NOT have the freedom to run rampant like a bat out of hell in a crowded restaurant and speak to adults in a disrespectful way.

 

 

I want to tell today’s youth: Go out and play! Get dirty! Learn some heartache, lose a game! Suck at something, but be proud of yourself for trying! Fall down and skin your knees, shit, break a bone if you have to! Do whatever you can to express your individuality, and above all, HAVE FUN!

 

 

Otherwise, thirty or forty years from now, the world is going to be run by a bunch of spoiled, pussified assholes, and that won’t be any fun for anybody.

The Dark Side

To most people who know me, my love for the 60’s is apparent. I mean, c’mon, my email is flowerchild1771. This peaceful, idealistic alter ego is much easier for me to show to the world than my other half. My dark(er) side. I love heavy metal. Iron Maiden, Black Sabbath, Ozzy, Metallica (before they sold out). I also love…..old school gangsta rap. Yes, it’s true. Ice-T, NWA, Public Enemy. Those guys are so bad-ass. Does that make me strange? Do you know anyone else whose record collection includes Air Supply and NWA? In fact, I even have some classical CD’s. The only thing I can’t stand is country. Well, ok, and most of the 80’s pop music. It’s kind of ironic, even though I loved the metal of the 80’s, for the most part, I think the music sucked, yet that’s the era I grew up in. If I had a choice, I would pick any other era to have been a teenager in, based solely on the music. The 50’s rock n roll was groundbreaking and rebellious, with pompadours and poodle skirts and classic chevys; the 60’s were all about long hair and burning bras and free love; the 70’s were about bell bottoms and power to the people. All eras I would have given anything to grow up in. But the 80’s??? Bor. Ing. But, I digress….back to my dark side.
 

Aside from this peace-loving, barefoot idealist, I have another part of me that I don’t show to the world very often. I guess it’s my darker half. Did you ever read that book by Stephen King, The Dark Half? Well, it’s not like that. Not at all, actually, but...it’s just a part of me that loves heavy metal, and toughness and being tough. I first held a gun when I was 7 and by the time I was 9, I was a pretty good shot with a pistol. My arms were never strong enough to be that accurate with a rifle, but I could kick the shit out of some coke cans with a .38. The fact that I knew how to handle a gun made me feel so tough and so proud. “Don’t fuck with me cause I’ll cap your sorry ass!”
 

When I was in junior high, one of the toughest girls in school wanted to fight me. Funny, I’m friends with her on Facebook now. Anyway, she wanted to fight me, and my dad was pissed. He was actually going to teach me how to box. No daughter of his was gonna get beat up by a bully. Turns out, it was all a misunderstanding and she didn’t want to fight me at all, but my dad was actually going to teach me how to fight. My mother was horrified. I was fuckin pysched up for it, too. I try to hide this violent side of me, but when I listen to metal or some hard core gangsta rap, it makes me feel invincible. And violent. Not that I would ever act on these feelings, but I can talk a good game. Throw in a little Boston accent, I’ll fuck that shit up.

 

 

Is it wrong for a white girl from a blue collar suburb to like gansta rap? I mean, how could I possibly identify with lyrics like:

 

 

“Straight outta Compton, Crazy mutha fucka named Ice Cube, from the gang called Niggas With Attitudes?”

 

 

But for some reason, I love that shit.

 

 

“What about the bitch who got shot? Fuck her! You think I give a damn about a bitch, I ain’t a sucker!”

 

 

As much as these lyrics mortify the peace-loving hippie side of me, they energize the dark side of me. They give me strength. Power.  I want to blare that shit out of my stereo when I listen to it in my car, but I don’t dare. Why? Because I have no right to listen to that music. I'm white. I'm a girl. And I never lived in the ‘hood. Well, ok I lived in the projects with my boyfriend when I was 20, but this was Liberty Ave projects in Woburn, not fucking Compton. Apples and Oranges.

 

I guess it’s funny sometimes to try and reconcile the different parts of yourself, but who says you have to? I love the hippy chick in me just as much as I love the heavy metal tough ass bitch. I just don’t let one of them come out to play as often as the other.