- Monday Night Off
- Essay On Homosexuality
I'm actually going to welcome the probable sight of a light Tuesday night crowd of "regular" tourists tonight, rather than the thousands of L.G.B.T people that had been here all weekend.
I have determined that homosexuality is indeed a personality disorder, and that one of the prevalent traits in its sufferers is their self centered mindsets.
"They're all about themselves," said the tarot card reader whom I see often around the Lilly Pad.
Back In 1992...
I am reminded of a guy whom I worked for once, who managed the Dominos pizza store that I delivered pizza out of. He was gay, and had actually "come out of the closet" with an announcement made at a party when he had stood up and asked for everyone's attention, then began his soliloquy with: "Some of you have probably figured it out already, but I'm gay..."
The fact that he had wanted everyone at the party's attention, coupled with his pretension that people had already focused their attention on him enough to have figured out already that he was gay, shows that he, at least, fits my profile of gays being self centered.
But, I was one of his better employees.
"You want a lot of hours and don't care when you work. Every manager wants you," said Scott at one point, as that was his name.
The owner of the Dominos that I worked out of owned 9 stores. Any of the other 8 store managers would let me deliver out of their stores when I was off from Scott's store. I had learned the maps for each delivery area, and could pretty much name every street in a huge region of west central Massachusetts.
I wound up going to jail while I worked for the guy, and had to sit in there for a while.
I'll save my rant for another post about the ludicrous situation where a person who is not guilty might have to sit in a jail cell for a long time (8 months in Virginia, for example) awaiting a court date just to be acquitted.
I called Scott at the store, collect, from the jail, and asked him if he would do me the favor of bringing my paycheck to the jail, where I would sign it over to him, basically. I had known him for a couple years, at that point.
He was there promptly.
Our checks came every 2 weeks, and so mine was pretty large, almost $600, which was "a lot of money back then."
He told me there in the "visitation" area, that he would go to the bank the next morning before work and then just mail the money out when the mailman arrived later on, and it would be put in my account.
I breathed a sigh of relief.
Economics of Confinement
In the jail, there is a wide gap between the haves and have-not's. It is the difference between someone who is a drug addict who wakes up broke and in withdrawal every morning, or a shoplifter who is caught stealing beer because he has no money for beer, and someone who actually holds a job.
An indigent inmate gets a bar of low quality soap that barely dissolves in water, and a meager "hygiene kit." An inmate with money in his account becomes a wealthy man.
He can order from the commissary, items to make his stay much more pleasant; from candy bars and other snacks, to writing tablets and pens, and even a radio with headphones or a black and white TV upon which a deposit is made and is rented throughout the stay, and, perhaps at the top of the list, cigarettes; the most popular "currency" in the place, which could be used to buy anything that is available there, from the food that the trustees that work in the kitchen smuggle out (a pound of the cheese that they grate and which goes on top of each inmates grits in the morning in amounts calculated to bring the caloric value of the meal up to Federally mandated levels and no more -3 cigarettes). An inmate with money on his books can finagle a way to eat twice the amount of calories as the indigent guy.
It can actually be pleasant, sitting there in a private cell, getting a newspaper every morning, drinking coffee and poring over it; doing the crossword puzzle, checking the TV listings for what might be entertaining; sitting up at 1 AM listening to informative and entertaining AM radio broadcasts, or cranking rock and roll through the headphone, because you don't have to be up for work in the morning. And, every Saturday morning, The Grateful Dead Hour came on public radio.
If you don't feel like getting up to answer the breakfast bell at 6 AM, no problem, because you boiled water using your commissary bought "stinger" the night before, and ate a big serving of Ramen noodles with plenty of cheese, and had eaten three dinners earlier in the evening -yours, and the ones of two other inmates who had been dying for cigarettes.
I sat there in jail as a few days went by and no money was put in my account.
I had told a few inmates that I had almost 600 dollars coming, which was a rookie mistake on my part.
That opened up the floodgates for what I wouldn't until 20 years later start calling skeezers to come into my life.
Random inmates had come by and given me things, upon the contingency that I would pay them back (with interest) as soon as this money that I was talking about, came.
More time went by.
I called Scott at the store. He had gotten busy and hadn't had time to send the money, but he had cashed the check. He just needed to get an envelope and a stamp and had just missed the closing of the post office, but he was going to get to it, "tomorrow morning" (again).
"You ain't gettin' no money, you're just playing us, trying to get free cigarettes! Give me my book back, and my pen! How long you in here for, 'cause if I see you packing up to leave, I'm gonna break your jaw before you get to the front gate!" was typical of what I was hearing from other inmates, even though I had worked and earned almost 600 dollars.
I anxiously related this to Scott, during collect phone calls which he told me would have to end because the store owner had freaked out over how much the county charged for those collect calls from the jail.
I wound up calling that same owner, for whom I worked in 8 other stores besides Scott's, and he was able to coerce Scott to "Just send him his damned money!," and the money arrived at the jail, and wound up smoothing out what was to be several months of confinement for me; which I might elucidate upon in a future "back dated" post which I will stick in its chronological order of 1991.
The point is that, I strongly suspected, and do more so now, that Scott was playing some kind of childish game; tittering over the angst in my voice when I called, and getting some kind of pleasure out of not sending me the money.
Enter the Southern Decadence Festival gays, 24 years later walking past and not tipping me; though they are not so green as to not know that I was working for tips, as if deriving some satisfaction in watching me play yet make nothing.
They were probably more likely to put a tip in my jar, if I had something visual, for example, a huge stuffed animal. "Make sure you feed your little Panda bear!"
And, isn't that one of the central issues that is argued over in regards to homosexuality?
In Scott's case, he chose not to send me my money.