String Theory

I constantly bitch about my day job, which features an endless stream of phone calls from true idiots. People with PhD’s who can’t read, lack basic social abilities, are about as observant as a dead ferret, and tend towards cruelty when things don’t go exactly as planned.

But nothing prepares me for my weekend job, where I spend ten hours or more perched behind a desk deep in the bowels of a mansion that rents itself out to weddings. Dealing with brides and families and wedding planners is crazy enough, it doesn’t help that almost every event has some sort of special need. The job is seasonal, so I’m heading back soon after three months off…and I’m already flustered by this upcoming event’s special need.

My boss sent this email:

Hey –

Setup begins at 4:30. Expect 85 guests. Should be over by 12:30.

They need to leave the truck here Friday night before dusk at the end of the parking lot with a string tied to the house. They say the truck has to be “connected” to the building.

Okay… I was actually motivated enough by that to look up what the fuck. It’s a Jewish thing, but the explanation was lacking when working with our friend Google, so I went and asked my Jewish supervisor at my regular job, after properly scolding him for the murder of Our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. His reply was to stare at me blankly and say, “String?”

He also told me that Jesus was crossing against the light and his death was accidental because Jewish women can’t drive and maybe it was dark out.

So I said Judaism was a flash in the pan and wouldn’t outlast the century.

Anyway, with no answers coming, I resorted to blurting out the question every time anyone stepped into my office, because that’s how you make people go away.

“Hey, Nacho—“

“ARE YOU JEWISH?!!? Do you know about string?”

No real answers that way, I guess. I’m constantly weighing what’s important in my life – driving people off and living in fucking peace for just fucking five minutes or getting answers to crazy shit. I feel plagued by crazy shit and, therefore, often pining for human companionship where I and a special someone (no fatties) can reach a mutual intellectual conclusion as to why people need to tie up trucks with string, or can’t read simple directions, or ride the train smelling like shit without the excuse of vagrancy.

I realize, though, that all of my anti-social behavior stems from constant customer service. Five days a week at my normal job talking to people on the phone who fill me with a desire to fly out to where they live, knock on their door, and then vomit on them. Then the weekends consumed by the weddings where my entire shift is spent turning the thermostat up or down to suit the needs of the guests. That’s fine but, literally, I’ll have to make a change every five minutes. Several times, guests have lined up at my desk with conflicting temperature complaints and it’s turned into a battle amongst themselves, during which I slip out the backdoor and lie down on a picnic table somewhere in the dark gardens.

At least talking to idiots on the phone has an out. I can hang up on them, or they’ll go away eventually. I’m a captive at the weddings, forced to face these soulless fucks and cater to them. Okay — thermostat shenanigans make sense. But I’ve had brides accuse me of making it rain. One wedding planner asked me if it was possible to remove a 150 year old oak that was in the shot behind the happy couple. It looked a little too old and gnarly and could it be cut down before the ceremony – which was taking place in 20 minutes!

This is how the world works. It’s how people think. I am more afraid of insane wedding planners and people on the phone who don’t know their name or address than I am of all those serial killers amongst us. With the killers, you know how it’s going to play out. A little bit of rape, a little bit of mutilation, death. Amen. I’m not afraid of being abducted and slowly murdered because, then, once they’re done fucking my eye socket, it’ll all be over. No more bills, no more rent, no more having to be nice to people and not being able to throw up on them.

If I could have any superpower, it would be the ability to throw up at will. And I mean serious pea soup projectile freakish puke. I’d spend every day walking down a different street picking people out at random, gripping them by the shoulders, and spraying them with an unrelenting blast of the foulest vomit ever.

Maybe I’ve been living in the city too long? No! I’ll not be self-deprecating. Let’s face it – 90% of the people in DC fucking deserve to be covered in puke. And it’s my god-given duty to deliver that puke. Yes! To run up to people on the street all 28 Days Later style and grab them and slam them to the ground and puke on them like a dog that just ate an entire German Chocolate Cake.

Sorry, that’s a tangent. Will someone just tell me what the fuck is up with the string?