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The Exquisite Corpse - A Journal of Letters and Life
Edited by Andrei Codrescu
ec chair poetick kultur anti-amthropomorphism
gallery zounds the making and unmaking of person
new economics of late capitalism
diaries and memoirs translation and her retinue
working class sweat
the corpse reads classics letters the book of revelations and epiphanies
the making and unmaking of person
Working Class Sweat & The DTs (best band of the oughts)

by Damien Thompson

Hangovers are the worst. They are evil devils based in trickery. I come to work still spinning and I feel creative and quick-witted. I smile at everyone that comes into the store and I go the extra mile to give everyone something nice to leave with. Whether it be, "Have a good day," or "Enjoy this weather." On a normal day, I might have trouble consistently dredging up the motivation to greet and be kind to certain cocksuckers of this little world of convenience. Not today. Today I joke with the regulars. I run outside to help put air in a lady's tire, while I have a minute. I wish all the chronic gamblers good luck with their lottery tickets. I'm compassionate and complimentary to the really strange ones who come in and stumble around before leaving without a purchase. And then something goes terribly wrong. The gallon of beer in my stomach has long gone sour. If I had internal flies, they would buzz around in shiny, green cacophony, and distribute their filth throughout my bowels. I now must rush over to shut the radio off because if he fucking sings "Who do you love" one more goddamn time, I might just come unglued and twist this next customer's head off his neck. There is too much noise. Too many people are asking me stupid questions, and not waiting until the person ahead of them moves out of the way before they reach around and shove money in my face. They hurry in and out of here, not looking me in the eye, and saying "gimme" this and "gimme" that. I just want to sit down. I'd really like to read some of this new book I brought with me. Man, do I have to pee. Yeah, but this is work. You do come here to work. I know that. I know. But, if this fucking guy would just hurry up and pick his fucking lottery numbers, I could run back and use the restroom. But, instead, he talks to himself. He stands there with his gaze focused on the numbers sheet and says, "Uhhh...uhhh...umm...uhh." I have a flare of anger, and I can hear the sickening, meaty, smack of flesh on flesh as my imaginary punch lands square on his cheek. That sound has always made me sick. I heard it often in junior high, when young, dumb humans would set prearranged times to meet up and create those noises together. It was an exploration in ignorance. But today, I play that sound over and over in my head, and it harmonizes with this dumbfuck's "umms," creating quite a symphony of displeasure, to my standards. What if I hated this job just enough. But you do. But what if I hated it just enough, that I did flip out? I created an artistic expression of hate for convenience and turned it into a film at eleven, attacking customers like some shadowy wolf-man, turning over displays and leaving a trail of bodies, M&M's, and lottery tickets in my wake. I would be unconscious of the twisted grin on my face and the strand of drool running out of the corner of my mouth. My eyes would dart back and forth, protecting my every angle, but with confidence. I would run to the canopy over the gas pumps, and effortlessly shimmy up the pole. On top, I would howl and beat my chest, daring anyone to come and clean up this mess.
     Oh God, my head is spinning. The guy who had accidentally picked up a Mensa test instead of a lottery ticket is long gone. It has gone quiet again, and I'm really feeling tired. I know that in a while, the cars will all come back, and the cattle will file in and out, allowing me to build up again to a frenzied fantasy. Until then, I think I'll drink as much water as possible and just hang out.




home archives submit black market comrads hot sites search ec chair peotick kultur anti-amthropomorphism
new economics of late capitalism gallery zounds the making and unmaking of person
diaries and memoirs translation and her retinue
the book of revelations and epiphanies working class sweat
the making and unmaking of person the corpse reads classics letters

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