That's pretty much what my weekend was made of. Thanks for KJou and Roxlander for their unwavering support via text message and phone. I really needed it after the verbal abuse I suffered at the hands of an asshole named George. I'll call him "King George" since I was never given a business card, a phone number, an email or any place where I could find him or his last name.
My US Open gig didn't work out since this bastard got within 2 inches of my face and called me "useless" upon arriving at 8:08, just a few minutes after the appointed time. Sorry, but after a 2-hour train trip and four trains? I had to go to bathroom. Blame the hazelnut coffee from Steve's bagels, don't blame me. I'm not that psycho astronaut chick who's going to wear diapers just to barrel through the struggle of a work day. If I had a phone number, email or cell #, I would have certainly called to say, "Hey, I'm on the grounds, just a few feet away from the main entrance. I'll be over as soon as I wash my hands." But, I wasn't given any information to do that. I also wasn't given a chance to take away my credentials and now I realize--much to my horror--that this dickwad has all my financial information if he'd like to retaliate. My address, phone numbers (phone & cell), social security #, emergency contact, my name, nickname, and previous employers. It was part of the whole "signing up" process. That, kiddies, scares the living hell out of me. He proceeded to scream at me two more times, and I walked away. "That's it, I'm done," I said to myself. I had a bad vibe all week about this guy, and my fishy witchiness struck a perfect chord. You could call it a harmonic morning, indeed.
The fact that he was acting like a dick around nothing but black and latino people also struck me as particularly ironic. I guess he thought since I was white I'd agree with him. Um, asshole? Saturday was the 2nd anniversary of Katrina's groundswell. I was talking to a few older black guys that work the summer circuits at Randall's Island and Central Park's vendor events. They were quite impressed that this very pale lady knew as much as she did about race, politics, jazz, hip hop and stupid, arrogant white men. Funny--the biggest one of them all is named George, too. AS IN "BUSH."
Still, I slept in yesterday and didn't get up at 5.30 in the morning. I received no phone call, no email, nothing. Whew! Let's hope this ends here. The funniest thing about the whole incident is how calm and professional I was. In years past, I would have got in this person's face and cursed him out right then and there. I stood with my arms folded and looked him dead in the eye before I walked away. I think a well-placed call to the United States Tennis Association would do some good. I think they might like to know exactly how their vendors treat people who are practically begging to work for $12 an hour, particularly since Levy Restaurants has a ten year contract with the USTA. $12 an hour? After taxes, that's a bit more than minimum wage. A JOKE.
Nothing was said to me about uniforms, tips, orientation, what I would be doing, where I'd be working, or how long my days would be. King George even screamed at his mother who was sitting at the table guarding the credentials, of which now I'll never see mine. If he chooses to retaliate, well, I think the media would be a good format, particularly since I know how much money was lost last year. Those two black guys told me how cashiers walked away with tips, skimmed from the registers in their pocket, and generally didn't do squat. I've had enough of Bag of Rocks, Bitchy Conchitas, Baldos, Sad Sacks, Priveleged Yentas and other assorted narcissist megalomaniac assholes. Why should I scream and yell? It's only going to hurt my blood pressure and bring back my ulcer. I bought a lovely printer from TekServe for $65, I'll just zap out a nice letter to the powers that be. Email is too dangerous, after all, it's public. It could get forwarded. A certified letter? Well, at least I'll know who signed for it.
I will not be abused anymore by corporate assholes. Yes, my job hunt is still dead in the water, but I'm looking towards animals, one of my favorite things. Cats I'm great with, dogs fetch, sniff, and need walking. I need walking. Sitting behind a desk for six years has turned me into a cow. I could use a romp in the park with Fido chasing a stick or a frisbee. My main point? If I'm going to be broke, I'm going to be happy.
Perhaps I wasn't meant to be rich, but that doesn't mean I don't have a rich life. I have loyal friends. I have people that love me. My mother adores me. I have a few really good mentors--although they may not be in NYC anymore--that would go all out to counsel me, give me a heads up, and help me fight the good fight, whether it's with a pen or a sword.
That's worth much more than King Georges or Queen Conchitas anyday. And I'm getting my Steri-Fab to kill these damn bed bugs today. I won't be cleaning my mattress or my dressers. I'll be engaging in chemical warfare. Wooo Haaaa!
I'll keep you posted. I'll be eating cake when King George gets to eat CROW.
