She was a good bike...loyal and faithful to her owner. I'm sure she was loyal and faithful to various other, more responsible owners before her.
Her active days came to an abrupt end when a wreckless rider thought she was coherent and dexterous enough to pop a wheelie at night after a few cocktails. I'm sure Red (aforementioned bike) wanted to pop that wheelie. She did everything she could to try to get up onto that curb. If she could have flown, she would have. If determination was enough, Red would still be with us. But physical laws of this universe prevented it.
As momentum rised and caution declined, the moment approached. And what, in the imagination of the rider, was supposed to be a beautiful and agile manipulation of human, machine and nature, turned into an abject display of negligence, which in turn resulted in the ultimate demise of said, bike.
Red halted at the curb and owner flew forward. After peeling herself up out of a most contorted position (after what I think was a momentary loss of consciousness), owner regained mind function and ran to Red. She looked to be in tact, albeit a little beaten up, and owner rejoiced for her bike's (and her own body's) apparent durability. But aaah, her relief was premature and neither body, nor bike would prove consistent with owner's delusions of adequacy.
Once owner started walking her bike, she noticed the flat tire (with rubber dangling and falling off the tire) and bent wheel and axle glaring her in the face. It took a minute to sink in, but owner began to realize what she had done. Red's wheels were still reluctantly turning, but the damage was too great, the knife had cut too deep. Thus, owner made the diffiult decision to let Red go and there she sits, locked up to a lamp post, looking out over the National Mall.
As I said, she was a good bike; loyal and faithful to me. She transported me to and from my job for over four months and I am greatful to her. She came from Rockville, Maryland and before that I'm not sure where she was. She had one squeaky break that made me so agitated, but now I see that maybe it was just her way of demanding attention, as we all have a tendency to do from time to time.
But as for Red, I want you to know that I'm sorry for putting you out of commission. And from the bottom of my heart, I thank you for your service to me. You were a beautiful mystery and you will not be forgotten.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Friday, September 21, 2007
The Self-Righteous Douchebags I have to Serve
So I'm a waitress at an upscale restaurant in downtown D.C. Our clientele is varied, but for the most part, I'm used to serving the business class and government affiliates. Some observations...
They sit down at their tables, exchanging pleasantries and such, squeezing out their most casually professional faces to sit down for a business lunch. I greet the table, getting a feel for who I'm dealing with (government, real estate, financial officers, sales reps, etc. etc.) Sometimes, there's a jokester at the table who tries to induce a smile out of their visibly agitated waitress. I ask for their drink order and wait while they exchange glances, trying to deduce if anyone else at the table wants an alcoholic beverage as desperately as they do. Once one person gets a confirmation look from somebody else at the table, he or she (usually he) takes the lead and orders a beer, or maybe a liquor drink if he wants to exhibit an overt display of balls. The others at the table let out a sigh of relief, as now it is acceptable and socially appropriate (as rules of etiquette dictate that one cannot drink alone) for the rest of the company to order the drinks they have been thinking about drinking since the anouncement of the lunch they have so eagerly awaited.
Then I come back with their drinks and take the food order, which is never a simple process. They all have questions, as their liberal educations have taught them never to take anything at face value. They must get a full and thorough account of the options before letting me make the decision. They ask for my recommendations and I tell them what to order. If the person is aware and sensible, he or she will order what I recommend, but occasionally, I'll get the ones who ask what I prefer, then brazenly order the thing I tried to steer them away from. And that's fine, but begs the question... why ask at all if you already knew what you wanted? Maybe it's that liberal education rearing its ugly head again (well, I guess it's not always an ugly head, depending on the context of its emergence).
Now that the majority of my speaking role is done, they're free to start their meeting and I'm free to quietly observe what is at best, a steady gallup of getting people up to speed on recent developments and at worst, a disorganized mess of scatterbrained ideas, mixed with unprofessional and not so subtle or astutely executed sexual jokes. Most of these people just talk in circles, without a logical direction or outline. One time, I had two employees of PEPCO meeting at my table (our D.C. electricity supplier) and I was seriously unnerved by their 10-minute discussion of a female co-worker, clearly prioritizing that over a binder full of work in front of them on the table. Suffice it to say that, in my observations, the "business lunch" does not yield much productivity. It seems to me like those sitting, eating and working alone accomplish more than the group effort involved in a meeting.
But hey, what do I know, I'm just a waitress.
They sit down at their tables, exchanging pleasantries and such, squeezing out their most casually professional faces to sit down for a business lunch. I greet the table, getting a feel for who I'm dealing with (government, real estate, financial officers, sales reps, etc. etc.) Sometimes, there's a jokester at the table who tries to induce a smile out of their visibly agitated waitress. I ask for their drink order and wait while they exchange glances, trying to deduce if anyone else at the table wants an alcoholic beverage as desperately as they do. Once one person gets a confirmation look from somebody else at the table, he or she (usually he) takes the lead and orders a beer, or maybe a liquor drink if he wants to exhibit an overt display of balls. The others at the table let out a sigh of relief, as now it is acceptable and socially appropriate (as rules of etiquette dictate that one cannot drink alone) for the rest of the company to order the drinks they have been thinking about drinking since the anouncement of the lunch they have so eagerly awaited.
Then I come back with their drinks and take the food order, which is never a simple process. They all have questions, as their liberal educations have taught them never to take anything at face value. They must get a full and thorough account of the options before letting me make the decision. They ask for my recommendations and I tell them what to order. If the person is aware and sensible, he or she will order what I recommend, but occasionally, I'll get the ones who ask what I prefer, then brazenly order the thing I tried to steer them away from. And that's fine, but begs the question... why ask at all if you already knew what you wanted? Maybe it's that liberal education rearing its ugly head again (well, I guess it's not always an ugly head, depending on the context of its emergence).
Now that the majority of my speaking role is done, they're free to start their meeting and I'm free to quietly observe what is at best, a steady gallup of getting people up to speed on recent developments and at worst, a disorganized mess of scatterbrained ideas, mixed with unprofessional and not so subtle or astutely executed sexual jokes. Most of these people just talk in circles, without a logical direction or outline. One time, I had two employees of PEPCO meeting at my table (our D.C. electricity supplier) and I was seriously unnerved by their 10-minute discussion of a female co-worker, clearly prioritizing that over a binder full of work in front of them on the table. Suffice it to say that, in my observations, the "business lunch" does not yield much productivity. It seems to me like those sitting, eating and working alone accomplish more than the group effort involved in a meeting.
But hey, what do I know, I'm just a waitress.
Friday, September 14, 2007
The Restaurant
Ok, I know you all have been eagerly awaiting the next post and I have been withholding, I know. But I have been working a lot lately and I don't have a job, with access to a computer so eat me. Instead, I have a job with access to conceptually and cooperatively oblivious people who interact like cavemen and behave like children.
Thus far, I have not written much about work, because when I'm not there, I prefer not to think about it. However, all I have been doing lately is working so I guess it deserves some attention.
So, I bike to work, which is probably the most therapeutic 10 minutes of my day. The first person I encounter usually is this one valet guy who started approaching me about a month ago. He comes up to me while I'm locking up my bike so he'll get about 2 minutes of face time with me before I go in. Originally, he was trying to pull me into a scheme where he would pay me to use my bike to park cars. But, to my disappointment, I think he was just using that as an excuse to talk to me since the whole plan that we mapped out doesn't really make logical sense and I don't think he would have paid me anyway.
Anyway, I still don't know his name and you know how a window passes for introductions...and when put off they become harder and harder to make. All I know is that some people I work with refer to him as "Heavy D" since he's a little meatball of a man with a tiny head. He certainly knew my name though. The first time he ever approached me he said "Hello Vanessa" and when I asked how he knew my name he just gave me a creepy a look that said "that's not all I know about you." One night after work I went to the bar across the street and he came over with some of the other valets. He ended up driving my friend and I to a bar across town and it turns out he drives this tricked out rangerover with sweet rims. I asked him if it was one of his valeted cars and he got all hot and bothered. But seriously, would you think a valet guy could afford a car like that? Anyway, he asked what I wanted to listen to and I said Christina Aguilera and he puts the musice video to Lady Marmalaide on the TV screen in the front. My friend and I were jamming out at first, but then things just got kind of awkward seeing as though that video is pretty sexual.
Ok, so that's Heavy D the first guy I usually see coming into work. He tries to make small talk...sometimes Im receptive to it, sometimes I'm not in the mood. Then, I enter the restaurant...a place, just like most other places of business, managed and operated by self-serving, hypocritical morons and worked by underachieving, lackadaisical weasels, just trying to make a buck between other, more exciting times of the day.
I will delve into this microcosm next blog, as I am tired now and don't feel like talking about my work anymore.
Thus far, I have not written much about work, because when I'm not there, I prefer not to think about it. However, all I have been doing lately is working so I guess it deserves some attention.
So, I bike to work, which is probably the most therapeutic 10 minutes of my day. The first person I encounter usually is this one valet guy who started approaching me about a month ago. He comes up to me while I'm locking up my bike so he'll get about 2 minutes of face time with me before I go in. Originally, he was trying to pull me into a scheme where he would pay me to use my bike to park cars. But, to my disappointment, I think he was just using that as an excuse to talk to me since the whole plan that we mapped out doesn't really make logical sense and I don't think he would have paid me anyway.
Anyway, I still don't know his name and you know how a window passes for introductions...and when put off they become harder and harder to make. All I know is that some people I work with refer to him as "Heavy D" since he's a little meatball of a man with a tiny head. He certainly knew my name though. The first time he ever approached me he said "Hello Vanessa" and when I asked how he knew my name he just gave me a creepy a look that said "that's not all I know about you." One night after work I went to the bar across the street and he came over with some of the other valets. He ended up driving my friend and I to a bar across town and it turns out he drives this tricked out rangerover with sweet rims. I asked him if it was one of his valeted cars and he got all hot and bothered. But seriously, would you think a valet guy could afford a car like that? Anyway, he asked what I wanted to listen to and I said Christina Aguilera and he puts the musice video to Lady Marmalaide on the TV screen in the front. My friend and I were jamming out at first, but then things just got kind of awkward seeing as though that video is pretty sexual.
Ok, so that's Heavy D the first guy I usually see coming into work. He tries to make small talk...sometimes Im receptive to it, sometimes I'm not in the mood. Then, I enter the restaurant...a place, just like most other places of business, managed and operated by self-serving, hypocritical morons and worked by underachieving, lackadaisical weasels, just trying to make a buck between other, more exciting times of the day.
I will delve into this microcosm next blog, as I am tired now and don't feel like talking about my work anymore.
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