Who threw this hard boiled egg that struck my foot?  There are children starving in third world countries.

Where did humanity go wrong?

I’m waiting at the bank, and I have a paycheck I need to cash.  I haven’t been to the bank much since August, and I’m accustomed to the branch in North Carolina.  There, I would have been greeted immediately with bright smiles and kind words.  There, the bank manager would have known my name and come out to shake my hand whenever I was finished with the teller.  There I was spoiled, I guess, because here I’m not getting any of that.

“Can I help you?” the teller, Kim, asks me.

This is a very interesting question to me, and I sometimes wonder if people realize how stupid they sound when they ask it.  Am I in an antique store?  Is there some chance that I am just browsing around the bank?  I’ve been waiting in line with my check and deposit slip for five minutes.  Do I need help?  No, I’d rather you let me just crawl over the counter and let me do this myself.  I try to hold back this type of sarcasm in banks and airports, so I simply respond with an enthusiastic, “Yes you can!”

I’ve filled out my deposit slips and I’m ready to go except I didn’t write in the account number because I haven’t memorized it.  I know I should have it somewhere in my wallet, but, at this particular bank, I can simply swipe my debit card and my account is magically pulled up onto the teller’s screen.  I hand her the slips and take out my card, and I become aware of the two other tellers to my right having a conversation.  

I’m not exactly sure how it works in other places, but in the South, people like talking at work.  It’s a way to pass the time and share your opinion with co-workers, and it makes the workplace a more comfortable environment.  I don’t have a problem with people talking while they’re at work, I do it all the time, and I don’t really care that they’re chatting it up as if I’m not here.

I look at Kim.  She’s still looking at my slips.

“You don’t know your account number?” she asks.

“No, but I have my card.” I say, and hold up my Visa proudly.

She rolls her eyes.  “Now I gotta start over,” Kim says, and she presses a button on her keyboard a bit harder than is actually necessary.

I’m not going to point out to her that she should have seen on my slips–the slips that I am required to fill out in order to start my transaction–that I hadn’t written down my account number.  But, I know it is my fault for not knowing, and, although I could care less what she does on that computer as long as my balance is correct when I leave the building, I forgive her and convince myself that her little moment of sass might have actually been her way of saying, “Sorry sir, but this might take a little longer than you expected.”

Why was she so surprised about me not knowing my number? Is everyone else memorizing this stuff? Personally, I think I look a lot like the guy who doesn’t know his own checking account number.  The girls a few feet down the counter from Kim and me are talking more loudly than before.  One of them, Patty, seems to be a little pissed.

“[This bank] doesn’t pay me enough,” Patty says.  “I don’t care about whether they need somebody to fill her shift.”

Geraldine agrees whole-heartedly.  Geraldine is the other teller.

I look at Kim.  This transaction shouldn’t take much longer.

“And Steve called me in last week to work and I didn’t have any gas,” Patty says.  “He said that he was going to pay for my gas. There was only an extra twenty-eight dollars in my check on Friday.  I’m sick of that.  They are always telling us we’re getting special stuff that we never really get.”

“Mmm-hmm,” Geraldine says.

At this point, I’m starting to get a little antsy.  I only have a few minutes left on my break, because, just like Patty, Geraldine, and Kim, I am working.  Kim is finishing the first part of my transaction.

“That’s what it’s been like ever since Steve got his promotion, and Kim was saying the same thing last week,” Patty continues.

This is fantastic.  Now, they’re involving my teller in the fray.  Kim looks their direction, and then she opens her cash drawer. Come on Kim, don’t give in.

“How do you want the fifty?”

“Twenties and a ten,” I say.

“They gave you twenty-eight dollars?” Kim says.

“Huh?” Oh my god, it’s over, I’ve lost her.

“Yeah, last week,” Patty says. “And I just can’t say it enough, they do not pay me enough to go through what I go through to be here.”

“You’re lucky Patty,” Kim says.  “Twenty-eight’s a lot.”

“Not enough to get here from my house,” Patty assures all of us.

I want to scream.  I want to say, “Me!  You have to pay attention to me first!”  I want to tell Patty to stick it where the sun don’t shine and smile like the rest of us.  I want to slow motion walk out of the bank and calmly put on sunglasses as the little building explodes behind me.  I want to make up some quick Nick Cage stuff and rile them up. I don’t do any of these things. I let them talk, and, before I know it, Kim is holding out two receipts and fifty dollars.

“Have a nice day.”

I should get into my truck and forget about the whole situation.  This happens all the time.  It’s just bad service.  It’s not the end of the world.  I should just let it roll down my back and let it slide.

“Thanks,” I say, and I leave.

I just wish we, as a society, would learn to respect each other and acknowledge the fact that we all hate working.  If Patty really hates this bank so much, maybe she should be looking for another job instead of bringing everyone down, co-worker and customer, with her moaning.  Trust me Patty, no one wants be at the bank, and, somehow, you’re making it even worse for everyone.

We all have a niche to fill.  Some of us will be bank tellers.   Some of us will be politically charged gansta rappers from Sri Lanka.  Some of us will push a wheel barrow back and forth along the same path for our entires lives, and some won’t do anything at all.  Whatever the case may be, I plan to make the best of my situation.  I’m sorry for the Kims and Patties and Geraldines, because they are digging their own never-ending hole of boredom and apathy.  Take your own advice and just have “a nice day.”  Fake it, if necessary.

Problems arise, however, when there is no relatively sober person in the group. Decision making becomes a democratic process in which the voters, pollsters, and candidates are all completely wasted, and everything gets really useless and loud. Something like this happened in Florida eight years ago. Anyway, the point is, I’ve decided to ‘take it easy’ for the next few days.

Instead of debauchery, I have turned to nineteenth-century Puritan romance novelist, Nathaniel Hawthorne, for entertainment during the night hours. Now, let me preface a bit by saying that I was one of those lucky high school students who did not have to study The Scarlet Letter in English class. I read Alas, Babylon and loved it, got halfway through The Poisonwood Bible and couldn’t stomach it, and am still pretty sure I was too much of a punk to really understand both One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest and Heart of Darkness. I’ve never read anything by Hawthorne until now, and it’s only because the bookshelf I happen to be perched beside has nothing but a few books which, I’m not afraid to say, are too feminine for my taste, a field guide to reptiles and amphibians, and a book of Hawthorne’s short stories.

While I’m very tempted to pick up the field guide, I opt for the stories; I’m in need of a little bit of narrative. Plus, I’ve read a few short stories from this era and they tend to be either witty and satirical (eg. Guy de Maupassant) or extremely revealing in character (eg. Anton Chekov), so I’m expecting the American Hawthorne to be a sharp Mark Twain type.

I read two stories. First, “The Ambitious Guest,” a nice little story about a nice little family and an innocent young traveller with big dreams. As I read, I’m a little disappointed that the narrative seemed to be mere philosophical dialogue between generations during a time before cars and phones which I find interesting enough, but I’m hoping for something a bit more character-driven. By the time I finish reading, I have changed my mind about this seven-or-eighteenth century family, and I’m enticed to read another tale.

“Young Goodman Brown” is the story of a newlywed Puritan man from Salem who secretly decides to meet with the Devil one evening so he can secure his future as a husband and a citizen. Apparently, Young Goodman Brown loves his dear wife, whose name happens to be Faith, and he fears that he won’t be able to cut it without a bit of help from evil. The Devil appears to Goodman Brown in the form of his own grandfather, and the two men walk through the dark forest. Brown is very reluctant to sign his soul over, so the Devil asks him to walk just a bit further so that he might persuade him. Brown is still worried about his reputation. The Devil reassures him:

“I have long been acquainted with your family as with ever one among the Puritans; and that’s no trifle to say.”

Sure enough, as the Devil and young Brown continue down the path, they meet several of the most pious members of the Salem community, all of whom are on their way to a Satanic ceremony deep within the woods. Brown is disgusted and tells the Devil to leave him alone. The Devil complies, leaving his staff behind in case Brown changes his mind.

“And what a calm sleep would be his that very night, which was to be spent so wickedly, but so purely and sweetly now, in the arms of Faith!”

This clearing of his conscience was soon interrupted by the rest of Salem chasing a young woman through the woods in the fashion of an angry mob. Brown realizes that they are chasing Faith, and, though he screams out to her, he is too late and unheard because the mob mocks him deliberately cackling, “Faith! Faith!”

“‘My Faith is gone!’ cried he, after one stupefied moment. ‘There is no good on earth: and sin is but a name. Come, devil; for to thee is this world given.’”

With that he speed walks all the way to the ceremony and presents himself to the Devil, but there is one surprise. A second candidate for soul-selling stands by Young Goodman Brown. The veil is lifted, and Faith stands at the altar of Evil. Brown tells her to “look toward Heaven,” and suddenly he wakes up. Since he cannot be sure whether or not he dreamt the entire evening he goes on to live a life of distrust for everyone around him, including Faith, and “his dying hour was gloom.”

I found it interesting how quick the main character became holier than the holiest of the clergy and elders of his town. The fact that the people who taught him right from wrong were capable of doing such wrong made him incapable of turning his own soul over to evil. The story has several themes, but the most prolific commentary might be the perspective of authority.

We expect religious leaders, teachers and mentors, and government officials to maintain a higher level of morality than we expect from ourselves. Goodman Brown couldn’t stand that his reverend and deacon were practicing witchcraft, even though he was about to do the same thing. Does this make him a hypocrite? I don’t think so, since I think it takes a certain kind of person to be a leader. Politicians who have affairs, teachers who become pregnant with the children of their students, and priests who cross the line with altar boys do not deserve to be in the positions they’re in simply because they must have been unfit leaders from the very beginning. Although, if, like Brown, the actions of others are the only things by which we gauge our own ‘goodness,’ then are we really good, or merely good enough?

Wow. Hawthorne has me thinking. It’s funny, because I look back at the Chekovs and Twains and Hawthornes and I think that, no matter hom many e-books I can fit on my iPod, no matter how many historic reports are available to me on Wikipedia, no matter how much BBC news I can absorb in a day thanks to modern technology, these men still knew a hell of a lot more about the world than I do now. That’s a fact that is worth appreciating. I’m still just a punk, but I bet all the greats had to break past punk-dom at some point. Imagine the scrapes those guys woke up with in the morning, after a long night of getting drunk on steam boats.

I’m not sure if I should be feeling comfortable, or if perhaps I should be lecturing myself about the problems with the concept of relating in any way to a person a thousand miles away who lives on rice alone.  I’m sure I have no idea what its like to live a life of poverty, and I don’t think that I do.  However, regardless of the obvious differences between us, I hope that there is someone on the other side of the world enjoying a bowl of rice right now and maybe, just maybe, thinking about me.  Rice is a joy to cook and an even greater joy to eat, and perhaps the plate in front of me is enough to feed an entire family for three days, and perhaps it isn’t.  Instead of dwelling on these important, mind boggling questions, I eat quietly, trying to convince myself that I need to sleep so I can go to work in the morning.  There’s a lot on my mind these days, and I don’t mind shrugging off some of the weighty stuff every once and a while to enjoy some light, meaningless fun, but, alas, work in the morning has me home and contemplative at night.  Of course, I should be anxious about getting ready to move, getting the money together, the truck, how to map out the trip, what happens when I get there, but the two most pressing worries on my mind are dinosaurs and fleas.  

Why, when I am about to spend more money on living than I ever have before, when I am faced with finding a job in an industry that doesn’t want me, doesn’t need me infecting its alleged purity any further than the last guy, when I am about to enter a social scene where things that have never mattered to me are going to matter to my friends and acquaintances, when the very structures of everything that I’ve ever known are going to be smacked with the kind of change that could make even the most uppity politicians shake in their empty suits, why, I wonder, am I sitting here, not sleeping, thinking about dinosaurs and fleas?  

I learned, this week, about the crurotarsans.  These croc-like reptiles lived alongside dinosaurs for millions of years, and were, until recently, considered by most of the scientific community to have been bested by the dinosaurs thanks to good, old fashioned, survival of the fittest.  Now, one team has made a strong argument that the crurotarsans might have actually been better suited to adapt to life on Earth than the dinosaurs, but, somehow, disappeared and left the dinosaurs to rule the world for another hundred million years or so until the Cretaceous-Tertiary Extinction event, or, as the dinosaurs called it, ‘One Hot Summer of Sin.’  I wonder if Sarah Palin believes that all the dinosaurs went to Hell when they died.  They deserve to, stealing all that thunder away from Adam and Eve and their funny, talking snake.  I was glad to learn that we are still learning interesting things about our planet’s past, because sometimes, when I turn on the news, its hard to cope with how bleak its future looks. 

Things could be worse, of course, we could be facing a legitimate extinction event (besides Palin).  It could be the Middle Ages.  We could be throwing body after body into a wheel barrow, hoping God doesn’t choose us next.  Most simple folks, although they had a little more perspective of science than the dinosaurs, and a lot more awareness of their own mortality, depended on religious faith to save them from the Plague.  I can’t say whether it worked or not, but my limited understanding of some practices of Christian-Scientology and the recent decision of many Texans to stand their Hurricane Ike-pounded ground lead me to believe that we, as a species, haven’t changed much.  Many of us find it easier to leave life up to fate.

Fleas were a pivotal catalyst in the spread of the Bubonic Plague, but that’s not why I’m thinking about them.  Fleas were also around when the dinosaurs ‘ruled’ the Earth.  Maybe fleas spread a plague to the crurotarsans that didn’t affect the dinosaurs.  Then again, maybe Raptor Jesus simply led the pseudo-crocs to the pre-historic pearly gates in some kind of Jurassic Judgment Day.  

Still, who’s really winning?  I think the fleas have all of us beat.  Not only have they survived millions of years, a multitude of natural disasters and, most impressively, the human race, fleas are a phenomenon which has been experienced by a large number of different species throughout history.  They affect dogs and they probably affected mastodons, they jump on wolves and sheep, they drink the blood of Kings and peasants alike, and they never, ever die.  Its strange sometimes that something like a flea can make me feel so small.  

I guess shared experience is a good thing, because it reminds us that we are all exactly the same in some small ways.  Whether we’re rich or poor, Democrat or Republican, American or Russian or African or Iraqi, whether we’ve seen a million places or we’ve never left the village, we’re all part of the population of the world.  Even if that’s the only thing we have in common, I still think its enough.  
I hope to see a live dinosaur one day.  I also hope that, right now, if there is someone out there eating rice, feeling existential all the way across the ocean and miles away, I hope they don’t have to worry about fleas as much as I do.

The company wants to slap temporary tattoos on the tops of the heads of its more follicle-ly challenged customers.  The tattoos are part of a new ad campaign promoting faster lines in airports.  They are offering NZ$1000 (that’s $666 here in the States) to any chrome dome ready to transform himself into a human pop-up.

But why stop at airlines?  Why stop at temporary?  Why stop at heads?  There must be a million ways for advertising agencies to jump on this breakthrough in marketing, not to mention the boost we’ll have in jobs across the globe.  Think what would happen to the economy if corporations sponsored our very physical presence!

It works on a smaller scale as well.  Joe Car Salesman can open a parlor on the show room floor.

“I’ll knock another two grand off the price of that Tundra if you don’t might getting a little ink done on a prominent part of your body,” Joe would grin.  ”We were just inspected last week, and Turbo’s got the gentlest touch in town.”

Turbo is the secret code name for every tattoo artist in the world, and Turbo has an occupation which is destined to thrive in this new, piercing endeavor of publicity and socio-commercial responsibility.  Artists will make serious bank doing sleeves for Microsoft and tribal, lower back, tramp stamps for Animal Planet.

Realtors and pharmacies, community colleges and temp agencies, pastors and pimps alike can find a place for New Zealand’s brilliance.  A tattoo is a statement that says, “Hey, I believed in this when I got this done.”  If I believe that somebody believes in something, that might just get me to believe in something too.  This goes past the market, past classifieds and want ads, I think the world of politics would be foolish not to pick up on the trend.  Imagine Sarah Palin with the Ten Commandments engraved across her back.  That’s sex appeal, but it manages to keep the Evangelists smiling all the way to the White House.

Thanks New Zealand.  You’ve turned this ‘tenderfoot’ into a true believer in the primal art of ‘pounding skin.’  You hear that, corporate world?  I’m a blank slate, and I want to have brand names scratched out onto my arms like ex-girlfriends by next quarter.

Things are looking good for the world of ink.

What is it about an unappealing atmosphere that I find so unappealing? I paid three dollars to be here.  The three dollars covers the cost of the DJ.  They charge covers when there is a local artist, on Karaoke Night and, it seems, whenever owner thinks there might be a good turnout.  I think someone gave him some bad information, because the place is practically empty.  There is a decent stage here, and in the middle of this decent stage is a laptop on a table.  The laptop is plugged into a cheap PA system and there is no DJ in sight.

‘What did I just pay three dollars for?’ I ask the bartender. 

He frowns.  I’d be embarrassed too.  He’s apologetic and I order a beer.  He’s quitting smoking, so I recommend the patch.  I look around.  Apparently, I am the only person drinking here who doesn’t also work here. Half the employees are off tonight, and they are all getting drunk, and I know they didn’t pay cover.  I nudge the blonde one and ask her what’s up with the laptop.

‘It’s DJ Dirty Dan,’ she assures me, and then she does a shot of Liquid Marijuana.  

‘Who?’ I ask. 

She points across the bar.  It’s ‘DJ Dirty Dan.’  He’s doing a shot of Liquid Marijuana.

Two songs by Dave Matthews play in a row and I’m wishing I had ordered my beer to go.  Never been a big fan of Dave.  Next on ‘DJ Dirty Dan’s Superstar Megamix’ is a little childhood anthem called ‘Whoop! There It Is.’  I don’t know if that’s the actual title of the song or what–in fact, I don’t even know who performs ‘Whoop! There It Is,’ and I don’t care.  I should be writing down the set list on cocktail napkins, but I’m too busy writing letters of complaint, and I’m trying as hard as I can to make my letters of complaint sound more like letters of complaint and less like death threats.  I’m sure there was a Jack Johnson song.  ‘Sweet Home Alabama’ and ‘The Thong Song.’  Themes from television shows.

I order another beer.  I mean, that’s what I’m here for, not Sisqo, Coolio or Bon Jovi, and I’m not going to let any of them ruin my night.  That’s when Aerosmith comes on.  By this time ‘That Guy’ is replaced by another, smaller guy, and ‘That Guy’ saddles up at the bar a few stools down from me.  The song is ‘I Don’t Wanna Miss a Thing’ from the motion picture Armageddon.  Hit me with a bloody asteroid already.  ‘That Guy’ knows every word.  I don’t know him, but somehow I’m sure that ‘That Guy’ has a really hot friend who plays Rock Band with him who calls him ‘Bear’ who tells him he’s an amazing singer.  But Bear’s hot friend doesn’t have to suffer tonight; she doesn’t have to listen to his sad Steven Tyler.  

It’s close to the end, and I think Liv Tyler is putting her hand on the NASA monitor waving good bye to Bruce Willis or that nice young man from Good Will Hunting.  The only thing I can remember from the movie at this point is Steve Buscemi and the mini-gun.  I’m not a violent person.  ‘That Guy’ is a little red in the face as he gives it everything he’s got for the big finish, and the song is over.  Silence.  ‘That Guy’ takes a shot of Liquid Marijuana.

The silence is interrupted.  This is a familiar tune.  Orchestral.  And, suddenly, it hits me.  We’re listening to the same song.  ‘DJ Dirty Dan’ must have gone to the little boys room.  We’re stuck in power ballad hell.  I slap my nicotine patch, give a Charlie Brown ‘ARGH!’ and I ask for my tab.  ‘That Guy’ starts singing again.  The bartender takes my money and gives me my change and I give him a good tip (always tip your bartender well, especially when there’s bad music–remember, he/she can’t leave).  Obviously, I came out on the wrong night.

The music killed everything, not the three dollar cover.  I’d pay a ten dollar cover as long as I didn’t have to listen to that noise.  And I’m not even going to blame the music itself, any one of those songs would have been fine if it was played in the middle of a substantial and recent playlist of dance and hip hop songs.  ‘DJ Dirty Dan’ was playing a list of songs that people remember from middle school pizza parties.  I want to call them ‘novelty songs,’ because they make people say things like, ‘Oh my god!  This used to be that song!’ and ‘I haven’t heard this song since nineteen-ninety three.’  This is the music that frat guys think other people like to listen to.  These are the songs that make up the majority of their ‘Party Mix’ and ‘Road Trip Jammin’ CDs, and they play these CDs in their Jeeps when they’re buying beer for freshman girls.   

Look, I’ve got nothing against frat guys or freshman girls, but I’m also not trying to get laid by frat guys or freshman girls; so why should I have to stomach the pathetic alt-rock plumage that serves as a dry humping soundtrack for males of the species who have less taste in music than a garden hose?  I shouldn’t.  I guess what I’m saying is this:  A DJ should be a real DJ if you’re paying him.  However, to the owner of the bar:  Don’t bother changing for my sake, because I won’t be coming back.

Too bad for the bartender, quitting smoking will be a lot harder in his shoes.  He was cool.  Before i left, he gave me a shot of Liquid Marijuana on the house.