KARMA

There was a time when I took my anger and pain out on others. Okay, I lied. I still do it. Just less these days. But I used to be awful. I never let anyone off the hook. The hell. I took it out on everyone.


One day I’m working a shit job slicing lunch meat, and some lady with a speech impediment comes in and orders a pound of “tookie”. I asked, “tookie?” And she nodded. I looked at her. Silence. Then she says, “Tookie.”
I looked at her. “Tookie?” I ask.
The lady with her, about the same age, says nothing. I figured they’ve come from a home for the mute or something. I knew damn well what the first lady wanted. But she was gonna have to work for it. Because I didn’t like her looks. Fake blonde at her age? Ought to be punished for such a travesty. I stood there, staring. I hated slicing lunch meat. I hated using that rotary slicer. Fuckers are responsible for more lost fingers than rabbits, squirrels and power saws combined. I could sell cigarettes and soda all night long and not care, but lunch meat? God I detested it.


The Tookie woman never budged. There was a long line at the register. I didn’t give a fuck. I wasn’t giving in to the centenarian suicide blonde and that was fucking it. “Tookie”, she repeated. I shrugged, and asked “What the fuck are you talking about?”
Finally her friend says it for her. Her “friend” liked watching Tookie Woman suffer as much as I did. I sighed, got the turkey breast from the case, slammed it onto the slicer and deliberately sliced it extra thick. Four sandwiches and that shit would be gone. She–they–never came back. Now stay with me. This is going somewhere.


Fucking asshole comes in one night. Wants one piece of Braunschweiger, holds up his thumb and says, “like this.”
I say, “Like what? You want it the length of your thumb or the width, or are you communicating your dick size?” Braunschweiger Man gets pissed, storms out. Month later, he’s back. Orders the same thing. It’s for his bloody dog for pity’s sake. Oh, but it has to be cut just right. So I take the roll out and use a knife to slice it. “No! That is not acceptable!” he shouts. Now for a second, I’m stunned. This motherfucker is so particular and testy that I think maybe he’s a undercover shopper gonna tell my boss on me. I apologise and soon he decides to take the shit. He pays and leaves. Month goes by. I had time to tell my manager about Braunschweiger Man. She tells me not to put up with abuse and if he orders that shit again, refuse to serve him. Sure enough, he gets this mean look on his face. Holds up his thumb. I say, “Stick that thumb up your ass.”


He turned a molten-steel red. “What?”
I said, “Get the fuck out of here, and don’t come back, you dick cheese!”

Couple years go by. I land a great gig making acetylene gas in a union plant. Couple more years go by. They close an office and open a new office section in our building for customer service representatives.
And Braunschweiger Man is one of them.
And he remembers me.


A year goes by. There’s a company-wide restructuring. Braunschweiger Man winds up in a position of authority over me. And he remembers.
And behind the scenes, he is a corporate ass kisser. And he works some strings. The union gets busted. I’m on the street.

I saw him a year later. He got fired. Brags he’s selling insurance now and getting rich. I’m a security guard in a fucking dollar store.

I still hate Braunschweiger Man. I haven’t seen him in a long time but between us, I’d have lost the union job anyway as my condition got worse. Lost the dollar store job too, but one day, honestly, I just woke up and I couldn’t move. I was sick, I was depressed and I wanted to die.

Of course, I had PTSD all along. Severe clinical depression with bipolar affective disorder and PTSD all tend to worsen with age. But that misses the point. Braunschweiger Man remembered. And he took the opportunity to harass me. Because every one you are mean to, and every one you make fun of, and every time you choose to fuck with someone or just take shit in general out on them, it comes back to you. Every time.

I’m not here to preach. I still get off on cussing Republicans and evangelicals. But I know it’s really wrong. I do. And I feel bad sometimes. I wonder, can I really call myself a Christian what with all the sinning I do?

At least I’ve learned a lesson: if you’re ever working in a convenience store slicing lunch meat and you get a customer who gives you the shits, just do the best you can to do your job. Later on, he’ll decide on his own to shop elsewhere. People like that are never satisfied with anything, and never stop acting like spoiled, pompous, entitled assholes. They never stop looking for people and places that will take their shit and kiss their ass. Oh that’s right, I forgot to tell you. Braunschweiger Man was a deer-hunting, beer-bellied, fuckball republican. Nowadays he’d be wearing a red hat. He’d be a MAGA Nazi.

Tookie woman was a casualty who was innocent. I never saw her after that but trust me: karma remembers. I know. I lost… everything. It wasn’t worth it. Kindness serves you better. ❤️☮️

Rupert

Thirty Five is the number after which I lost count. That’s 35 traffic accidents I could remember when I tallied them during a conversation with a friend. I was working for Potomac Airgas in Catonsville Maryland, later just plain”Airgas”. I ran a machine called an Oxweld acetylene generator and weighed cylinders empty then filled, which gave the net weight of the gas inside. The guy I was working with was a real prize and even though we were friends, he looked like a pirate to me, with red hair coming out of his nostrils and ears. He’d been there since the Union Carbide days. That was until a horrific accident at a Union Carbide plant in Bhopal India killed 8,000 people after a leak to the atmosphere of methyl isocyanate. This is still considered the worst industrial accident in history. The injured, many permanently, also numbered in the thousands and Union Carbide ceased most gas and liquid operations, and the Catonsville plant was taken over by Airgas. Rupert had seen it happen. He was glad to be rid of a verbally abusive foreman, so he stayed on.

He was a big man. He rode the biggest Honda motorcycle I’ve ever seen and still he looked like he was fucking a football. He said of my automobile accidents, “Jesus Christ, Mike!” but yet he often asked me for a ride home. He was timid about it, one time asking, “Think you can lift me up?”

I sympathized. It’s not easy sometimes, asking for something you need. Your tongue doesn’t work right. But I didn’t get that because we were friends. He had asked for a ride home before.

I didn’t like doing it. He lived in the Hampden section of Baltimore, very far out of my way.

I answered the question as to whether I could lift him up with, “Only if use the forklift.” My tact and generosity were limited because I’m an asshole.

Besides, he was so big, he made my Mazda 323 lean so hard to the right I had to compensate while steering. But it was worse when he had to get out. He had to open the door, turn completely to the right, his back facing me. His pants would ride down and I had to look away, because I didn’t think there was that much crack in the entire fucking city.

Then came the smell.

You got it: straight, dirty, ass.

I tried to make it to the end of the block, window down for fresh air, but never once did that work. At the stop sign I invariably had to open my door, lean out and heave my guts up. I’ll bet I had absolutely no red meat from all the Quarter Pounders I ate in 1977 stuck in my intestines. You’d have to flush like you do before a colonoscopy to be as empty as I was.

He once asked me to pick him up for work. In the morning. I waited but ended up having to knock on the door. His wife answered and said “Come in. He’s almost ready.”

The stench was so overwhelming that their cat burst through the open door. I thought it was gonna run. It didn’t. It just stood there. I knew what it was doing. It was taking in all the clean air it could before being trapped again in that godawful house.

I dared not touch anything. I felt filthy just standing there. A movement caught my eye. Roaches inside the glass base of a table lamp. Roaches climbing walls, big motherfuckers, too, biggest I’d ever seen. One took up a position inside the glass of a wall clock, and I was sure that he was a sentry, keeping watch on the new intruder who might one day end up as food. I had nightmares for weeks, maybe longer. I never gave him a ride again.

It ended up that he got fired anyway. I had no sympathy this time. For shit’s sake, I once saw him eat a KFC four piece. It was all gone in five bites, bones and all. You can’t do that!

The last time I saw him was late summer 1999.

I’m sure he’s dead now. Because, chicken bones?