The Joke

"Jesus!" I thought, and by even picturing what my commute would be for a job that didn't give a rat's ass about me. After four years at Columbia, I was more than accustomed to utilizing the public transportation, and also the scene of many bits I've transcribed onto this blog. Hundreds of hours have been spent on those trains and city buses - many characters, but not one as such as tedious, pointless, and emotionally aggravating as my one-month position of a busser of a privileged restaurant near the lake front. The nameless restaurant will be called The Joke for this piece, sense it seems very fitting, at least for me.
To make a short story even shorter, here's the narrative brass tacks for the sake of venting and time management. Through a friend, I was brought on the first day to bus tables during the summertime of 2019. I trained for a few days as both a runner and a busser, paid and everything, and then it was time to get the actual payroll a-comin'. For some supernatural/insane reasoning beyond my control, the hours were being piled in for the already existing employees while I was rewarded with one-day shifts. For these shifts, I would be cut by 10, done by 11, on the train by 11:30, and home between 1 and 2 in the morning. I wasn't given breaks, instructions on how to get meals, and was neglected by the servers like some new kid walking into school and all the other brats are questioning his presence. Mocked by other bussers, talked down below a social class radar I would assume from the managers (with the horrendous and ill-tempered General Manager never acknowledging me - only with directions and demands). They were nice when the shift would begin, and when I was cut. In one month, they told me I can look for another part-time job since business is slowing down, and very nicely to be exact. After that brief talk, they never gave me another shift. They kept sending me employee emails, but I didn't dare glance if my name wasn't on the schedule.
Also the head chef is definitely an Angelica from the Rugrats cartoons: whiny, bitchy, and just why does she keep yelling at her fellow cooks? Are all head chefs this foul and unnecessary? There was almost no respect and complete favoritism. At the previous restaurant, it was mostly respect and love among the crew. And I'm aware that not all restaurants are the same, but you don't have to make things more stressful than they already are. I'll name her Thorny Cunt, because despite being a cute brunette with attractive tattoos and an oftentimes steady personality, she was also a real thorny cunt.
Recently, in the cold, I traveled to the woods with Rosie, a companion of mine who was down to watch me torch my uniform and toss it into the river. The obvious vices were in hand, along with a mini portable speaker to say, "Bon voyage, you rat bastards!" to the beat and heart of various tunes. It didn't last long, only to be disappointed when the wind would interfere with my cheap pyrotechnics.
We both went home and I contemplated on my actions and the justification for them. They were almost pointless, just like my employment at The Joke. I imagined myself one day stumbling in there and going straight for the bar. Bartender asks what I want, I tell him/her/it that I want the best beer here and an order of fries, I've heard they're very tasty here! Walks away, puts in order, and I'll be in the mode of what I can do to cause mayhem there. I can say the beer tastes like asswater with soap, and I smash it against the ground and exclaim, "Are you trying to poison me, you drunken slime?!" I can comment on the fries being undercooked and start pretending to feel grossed out of my mind, telling the other customers they're being tested like animals and the chefs are high on heroin in the back - there's drips of lazy slick in the food, men in suits! I could go streaking to the back and search for that assjunkie busboy who mocked my cleaning skills, the moronic son of a gun. OR...I can step onto the deck with two water bottles in hand, screeching that, "I'm the king of the world! AHHHH!"
But these are merely figments of pure fiction only I can dream and write about. Wishful thinking? Perhaps? Joy of thinking of doing? Absolutely. One day I will visit The Joke, talk about my employment, and get super hammered because it's like pulling broken teeth when discussing small matters with these folks. But a final cheers to a damned job is the fitting end, at least for these humans. I like my imagination more than my reality sometimes, and I suppose that's the lesson I can take away from this. Obviously search for a better job and work on my mental muck as well, but what more can I ponder on something that brings both questions and frowns to my day?

Lance on Wattpad

A creative movement I worked on back in my junior year college has been fully uploaded to Wattpad. I wrote it during a writer's block moment at a time where I needed to craft something for a grade. I can't recall what exactly inspired this particular piece, but it's nonetheless something that my peers might expect from me: weird stuff.
It's a short story about a young man who gets into a messy situation just by going to the wrong place at the wrong time. All four parts are up.
Enjoy, guys.
Much love.

https://www.wattpad.com/story/202649551-lance-or-ill-lit

For Marion

The news was merely delayed when I first heard about it. My mother wanted me to ask my ex why there were so many officers on site near her house, in close proximity to Nagle Avenue. I told her I would, soon discovering that it involved Marion-Mario Tahiraj, a former Taft classmate and cinematographer that I had the pleasure of knowing. I remember back when he brought a vape after getting busted for possession. We shared the brand new pen under the tables at the cafeteria, hoping that the pigs-in-training wouldn't notice our fatuous activities. There was also a time when we were in the same group for a massive history project. We filmed it, with Marion coordinating the camera, music, editing, and further touches to finalize the assignment. Our teacher, Plencner, rewarded us with a B, and to me it was an achievement since no one else was up for making a film in such short time.

After high school, like most of the bastards moving up to higher education, we went our separate ways in an amicable but unacknowledged fashion - we simply stopped talking, no drama in the mix.

College rolls by, breaks in-between, the usual collegiate route.

Then the 18th of January in 2016 comes by, my friend is killed in vehicular warfare with a tree, due to the intoxicated irresponsibility of Mishel Lame, both were admitted into the same hospital, where Marion was pronounced dead.

There's not much I say can about Marion, only that he was sincerely a great guy to be around with. And despite how many times I try to imitate Herbert's voice from Family Guy, Marion would always do it better.

Take it up with whomever is up there, dude.

Much love.

https://link.kikitime.com/post/78e1f1f8-1dbd-4a44-9a8a-e1b053a9eae3

Heart-stopping Contact

Retrieved Post from Deleted GREAT AMERICAN TRAGEDY Blog, a blog I worked on back in early college.

Heart-stopping Contact

She said that she wanted to look into the storefront to stop for a while in order to catch a breather. I didn't blame her, our lungs desperately needed a break from all of the smoking that we shared.

The storefront showcased three mannequins with different attires, all within the square of bright red to enclose the window's darkness by shoving it away. Whoever was in the back walking from one end of the hallway to the other was oblivious to our stance.

We didn't move much, only to keep our temporarily loose balance intact. But as we stood in front of the window, I caught a glimpse of her everlasting eyes as they stared into mine. I felt the world spinning still for one quick second, I felt my heart stop for two, and the eye contact merely lasted for three. Those three seconds. Those damn three seconds killed my high, because I felt the intensity of instant love, yet I had to ignore it. I was becoming scared of the notion of falling in love in again. Okay, perhaps not scared; perhaps not in the mood or mindset for it. I tried to fight off the thought for a while, but that wonderful image crept back into my mind for the remainder of the night.

She smiled a little and then proceeded to advance our walk, away from the storefront. I shook myself awake from the heart-stopping contact, given the fact that I lost my breath, pulse, and heartbeat altogether.

And the worst thing is, she'll ask me if I'm okay, and I'll continue to lie, like I always have.

Heart-stopping Contact - https://link.kikitime.com/post/44ef17ed-b62d-4d39-8bc7-feb588624d96

Take A Book, Give A Book

In Chicago, and perhaps elsewhere, remains a little phenomenon where denizens craft a wooden casing display and shelf and store out in front of their house, storing literature for those to take and simply give back. In regards to where and when it exactly started is unknown; one by one they would pop up around the city within residential blocks. They’re hard to spot due since there are so few of them, but when one does locate said wooden display, they’ll find themselves shifting through the load to find a treasure they weren’t expecting.

The whole idea of it is to spread literature, kindness, and sharing amongst human beings. If you are carrying a book on you and you just so happen to stop by one of these, you could trade in the one you have in exchange for a fresh read.

Each box is different in its style and presentation, but they all consist of the same task by storing in books of any genre for the public to approach, inspect, and hopefully take a book with them. It works better than a library since you won’t be charged for turning in the rented book late. There’s no rule where it states that if you take one, you don’t have to trade one in, though that seems to defeat the purpose of these.

I spot these on my daily walks I take instead of going to the gym. They’re usually about an hour to two hours long because I’m enjoying myself with my headphones cranked all the way up. I never see anyone by these wooden boxes, but I imagine I’m just missing them, minutes before my arrival or after.

I snapped a couple I’ve found in the last month or so. As aforesaid, they’re few in number, so it’s a rarity to find them, and it’s not like there’s an app or a website to look on and see where all the nearby boxes at. Maybe there is, but I believe that takes away the adventure aspect about it. They’re meant to be surprises on your journey, like finding a five-dollar bill on the floor or seeing an old friend along the road. It’s not expected, it’s not planned, and it’s not even a thought preconceived before you step out the door. It’s one of those joys in life that are hard to find but easy to embrace.

Mayhap I’ll bring a book that I’m interested in having any longer on one of my walks, with hopes of running into a box to make the trade I haven’t been able to perform.

Mayhap one day.

https://link.kikitime.com/post/e71d8a25-d3b1-400c-98e2-88c8cdbefa58

Firefly

The weather is ever-changing around the globe as issues and shifts in global warming continue to rise. It’s caused even the most beautiful seasons in the Windy City to feel like hell on more days than one can think of. Though the picture has little reference to the whole notion of global warming, it was a curious thought that struck me when this little buddy left me to fly away to their mate.

I can’t decipher the sex of it, but its beauty remains nonetheless revered. To those who may not know, this little beetle is a lightning bug, or more technically a firefly. A flying insect that emits a glow from its abdomen area, producing a noticeable green glow in the nighttime when the sun disappears.

As a child, these cuties would show up in great numbers, creating this summer scene where the dark sky with orange pollution and stars in few sights were combined with flying dots of green. A peaceful atmosphere disturbed only by noise back then.

This past summer, however, finding these glowing critters became a challenge: it was hard to find them in and around the city. If I did manage to find them, they were only in the single digits as opposed to the dozens I was familiar with. And I was out for a chunk of the summer instead of writing (as I should’ve been) and playing an insane amount of video games into the twilight time.

But no matter what I did, from taking lengthy walks with my headphones on to meeting up with friends, I couldn’t seem to find them as much as before.

It got to the point where I didn’t even see one at night. Maybe I’m just tripping, maybe I’m going blind or something, but locating any of these little ones has sorely declined in memory.

Recently, one just happened to be flying near me. As per usual, I can’t recall what exactly I was doing – probably on another long ass stroll around my neighborhood if anything – but I was able to flow my hand to the speed of the insect to match it, catching it, or more so allowing it so land on my finger without struggle or harm.

It stayed a bit, glowed as expected when needed, and eventually it extended its wings and went away. It wasn’t dark yet, but its presence was enough for a quick photoshoot. A firefly amongst the masses, only to appear by itself.

Firefly - https://link.kikitime.com/post/ec140e55-9db3-4b1a-8640-a1047069c1aa

Joker on the Railway

It was just one of those days in the town, dazed and probably confused, where I, or we, strolled through some busy streets after an outdoor event, where I looked up at some point in time and saw something interesting: today it was the Joker. Not a cosplayer domed up on a fix or even Phoenix himself, but a soft toy about 3 feet tall that included all of the iconic features of the notorious comic book villain, from the creamy makeup to the sinister smile. He's staring down and laughing at the street as he clings onto the rail tracks, at the city that resembles one of Gotham City and vice versa. A Joker stuck, laughing below with cars zooming by.

I quickly snapped the scene before I walked away to shelter, now a physical memory of mine of a smile that mirrors the crazies of the city. A smile invented by society, even now so merely grasping it up high, only to laugh and stand in the end. 

Ha ha ha ha.

https://www.kikitime.com/post/eb86c65e-14ad-496c-9632-f4801a55619c

THAT LOOKS LIKE A GUN

My sister and I were shopping for groceries at the Wal-Mart near our residence on a normal day in the lives of two millennials getting goods for home when a random encounter took place before our eyes, as we were prepared ourselves for the checkout at the register when this black lady in her aging 50s approached the area for the mini-aisle you glance at as you gather your stuff onto the registry belt for purchase about a suspicious item that sparked her outrage: a blowtorch for grills and whatnot that looked "like a gun".
I filled the belt with our goods as this woman walked alongside an employee, where she pointed out the item hanging on the rack that stood less than five feet from me.
"This one," she said as she took out one copy of the item behind its family of replicas, "This is something the police are gonna point out and do something about - that looks like a gun!" she exclaimed openly as the residents of Skokie and northern Chicago readied their checkouts. I was placing food onto the belt when this annoyed citizen approached the side aisle by me, bitching about how this item that should be taken off the rack entirely, and nothing else. At the time it seemed futile to me, and it still does because of a firing item that is used for cooking and grilling and hopefully not for any other outdoor use (otherwise the user would be getting themselves into a whole heap of useless trouble). Maybe she had a low-life offspring that got into gangs and got themselves shot or some unfortunate incident had occurred at a family barbeque, but for a place that sells all kinds of goods for reasonable purposes to the public, it seemed absolutely stupid to me for this mess to cause a scene when everyone is just going about their routine.
"No one cares," the elderly woman said aloud after the agitated customer left with the employee to see "the manager", leaning on her cart with a smirk of privileged sophistication as she connected with me about the annoyance with the situation - her and along with a few others that sort of just snickered at the situation and moved on.
My sister didn't say much but kind of chuckled at what unfolded, but I couldn't help but wonder why a person would act in such a way...until I encountered her once again in the parking lot, standing by the curb mumbling to herself right outside the Wal-Mart as cars drove on by. I didn't know how to interpret her because I couldn't figure out her dialogue, but she sure as hell wasn't happy with the outcome of her situation, and the air and people of Skokie shall pay the price of some open-mouthed complainer who won't shut up, all in due to some blowtorch that just happens to look "like a gun."
Is there sympathy to be expressed? Mayhap. But to those merely shopping, in the peace and comfort of a Wal-Mart that intends to do no harm to the consumers, not really.
I'm naming her Patty, because I can't think of a better, more suitable name for this individual.

Arrival on Damen, Coming 2021

New CTA construction plans are scheduled to take place very soon as the mayor of the city and Department of Transportation begin to move forward on a new Green Line station being assembled between Damen Avenue and Lake Street. Residents of the West Side are invited to witness a glass-covered bridge being added as Columbia College's Folayemi Wilson is set to create murals that will focus on the history of Chicago's West Side.
Ever since 2011, the city had planned big things for the civilians of Chicago for upgraded and new stations to be a part of a development initiative for public transit. If this newly designed station is going to be as fancy as the reports say, who knows what other glass-based stations can be thought of for all the other stations that run in, around, and out of Chicago, with Jefferson Park's Blue station being close to completion from the outside of things.
In the meantime, those who attend the special events at the United Center will now have a closer safe-ish spot for them when this anticipated Green Line station arrives 2021.

The Artist

The world is filled with art, and in it comes those who are artists, painting their surroundings and dreams in ways sometimes only they can fully perceive. I've encountered and witnessed a grand amount of artistic folks in my life, both young and old, but no one quite like The Artist himself, whom I caught sketching away like a madman on a mix of coffee and coke on the Blue Line one day.
Who knows what the hell I was doing that day; most certainly I was heading somewhere and so was he, albeit in opposite directions but lives of our own, of course. I glanced over to him, merely a few seats away, to see him scribbling and doodling away an image on a pad (I believed he utilized a case of colored pencils for his creation), in-tuned with music plugged to his ears. His wavy and loose white hair flowed with the motion of the moving public train, while rocking simultaneously to what seemed like to be a mix of Beethoven and the Beatles. That's what he looked like to be: a Londoner stuck in the 60s/70s, always riding high to the waves of his day. He had a very peculiar pattern and rhythm, though. Something about the way he swayed and drew, ultimately focused yet so comfortable, amid strangers in a place where you can run into anyone or any action in the city.
This wondrous gent donned black clothing, while sporting black shades and wired in with tangled Apple earbuds - armed to the teeth with a sleight of hand that also caught the attention of a couple others around him. The Artist was fully immersed, dedicated to the craft, no matter the weather, place, or speed. He's probably one of the few residents I would have liked to have met. Get a glimpse into the worlds he sees and creates.

Street Drums

They flock to the middle of the busy streets for the sake of your attention, beating to the plastic buckets with drumsticks without the caution for public safety.
They swing and tap onto the bottom of these said buckets, gettin' down and out as cars drive right on  by.
They succumb to the same rhythm once the ideas run dry, huddling back to the corner swarm, for they never perform alone.
They don't mean you no harm, no, no, merely to show-off that they can drum.
They love to point with their sticks toward one or two cars, mumbling something or even nodding before positioning themselves in the midst of traffic; the stance of that of a concentrated hunchback.
They bang away, the instrument placed between their thighs, only to create sound for a moment before moving on to another spot.

Nick Cannon would be proud of them, though.