It sounded like firecrackers. I didn’t really consider the first two pops. It wasn’t July, but there were several young children who lived at the motel; I figured there was just some adolescent mischief going on outside of the office. It was about 6:30 pm. By the time my brain realized that the sounds were louder than any normal M-80 or cherry bomb, two more pops accompanied by the screams of several adults reached my ears.
Within seconds I had a 35-year old man in the front office bleeding from the bullet in his leg. I was on the phone with a 911 operator reporting that shots had been fired. I didn’t have to tell the emergency hotline where I was, or who I was; I dialed those three digits at least once a week. I dialed LMPD’s non-emergency number more often than that. I was working at the Economy Inn, or more affectionately, the asshole of Louisville. We didn’t rent by the hour, but we did rent by the week. The Economy Inn is a great place to go if you are running away from your spouse and kids and want to spend six days in a dark room with a hooker, high on meth. You couldn’t deny that the place had character.
Real life guns with real life intent to murder are pretty scary. This is especially true when the bullets are flying fifty feet away from you. The next time a gun was flashed on our property (to our knowledge) it was by a man who was threatening to kill himself and others. It was obvious to everyone there that he was over the edge on crystal meth, and was experiencing a very unpleasant ending to the partying. The good ol’ boys of the LMPD got to break out the SWAT gear, assault rifles and all. It was apparent to the witnesses that the servers and protectors were fired up to play with their seldom-used toys. The man eventually came peacefully, likely after feeling as if he had just awakened from a dream in which he was fighting off an aggressive alien race.
This second story is heresay. I didn’t see it myself. I slept through it. I was staying in one of the rooms on the very back of the property, and did everything I could to block out light and sound so I could get some real rest after my graveyard shifts. Waking up to some varied form of ruckus was standard operating procedure; the ruckus had to be staring me in the face for me to care at all.
When you work at least fifty hours each week at a front desk and are surrounded by the scum of the Earth, you can tend to shut off outside stimuli. A whole week could pass by where a toothless addict wasn’t cussing me out and threatening me because I wouldn’t let him or her slide with five bucks. That next bad day would erase all memories of everything else. It would be someone who was on their last stab at life trying to get away with anything because they had nothing to lose. Or I would have forgotten to write something down because of how busy we were. Both situations ended the same. There would be hours of arguing, watching videotape, and begging and pleading.
When the offer came to work somewhere on the other side of town for twice the money, I thought that there was an angel on my shoulder. It was sheer luck that I met the terminal manager of Kentucky Truck Plant. I leapt at the opportunity with a naive optimism that I had won the lottery. I was ecstatic to leave those crack babies behind. Little did I know that a new set of villains would control my happiness.
The next few things I am about to say are not addressing the group of people as a whole, only the select group that works at KTP. These words are also the extent of my rage. I didn’t know I was capable of this kind of hate until I met this group of people. I recently lashed out at a friend with similar emotions. That regrettable event is what sparked the reflection you are currently reading in this post. I might be scarred for life, but keep in mind that what I say is a truly reasonable attempt to be unbiased. The last thing I want you to know is that KTP is known around the country in the auto-handling industry as “The Beast” and “Hell.”
The Teamsters at KTP are the worst kind of people imaginable. They aren’t cute. They are straight up assholes. Every single one of them. Even the ones that were held in the highest regard eventually showed their evil side. Every last one of them. I can eventually forgive a cracked out mom who yells at me because she is two dollars short on her rent. I even paid out of my pocket several times. She worked at Popeye’s and lived at a motel; her life was shit. Can I ever forgive a man who threatens to rape my mother because I’m not going to give him $30 an hour to move two extra trucks as opposed to the $20 an hour he usually makes? No, I can’t. What I can do is stop caring about him. I can forget about my wishes to watch pineapples be shoved up his ass in the depths of hell. But I can never look at that person, smile, and wish them a Merry Christmas. I can never ask that person how their day is going. I can never respect that person.
One day I was in charge of 28 Teamsters. Every single one of them told me to fuck off as they collected their time cards; they were all leaving four hours early with full pay and it still wasn’t good enough. Fuck the Teamsters. The unions are a necessary thing, and they probably still do some good. This group twisted the meaning and purpose of everything. Their only goal, every day, was to score as much off of you as possible, by any means necessary. The worst part is that they were stupid. That isn’t me being petty or childish; these adults just weren’t intelligent people. Ten minute arguments over what the product of 8 and 7 is cripples my will to live. When you are told the pen is red when it is clearly writing blue, it seems that six feet under is a mighty good place to be.
The experience made me think of one thing: school. You have the same ignorant cool guys who make fun of you for being smart, but get their girlfriends to copy your homework so they can stay on the baseball team. The teachers always tried to comfort you with the knowledge that one day you’ll be their boss. What the teachers don’t tell you is that, even though they are subordinates, the idiots will still do everything in their power to make your life hell.
I honestly regret ever leaving the Economy Inn. Yes there were guns, crack, meth, prostitution, and lots and lots of tooth decay. Yes I knew drug dealers by first name who would smile as they paid in ones that they had just collected off of their hooker shawties. At least there was a feeling of community. I was the landlord awaiting rent payments. Everyone who wasn’t on a speedballing rollercoaster actually showed respect. At KTP I felt like I was the last human on Earth. I had to eliminate the evil zombie race of Teamsters if anything good or kind was to have a chance of survival. If I post any fiction on this blog and someone dies a gruesome death, you’ll know I had the KTP Teamsters in mind. You know it has got to be fucked up if I’m willing to take bullets, half the pay, and a constant smell of hand sanitizer over it.
The scars? I forget that people can be nice and decent. I catch myself assuming the worst possible outcome for every situation. I don’t even know how to act anymore. The two jobs I’ve discussed are the perfect parallel to dementors. Soul-sucking is a strong adjective, but I think I now know what it means. I am a people-pleaser. I try to make everyone happy. Joy comes to me when I feel confident that others are enjoying themselves. People-pleasers have to find the right business I guess.
I now know that money can’t buy happiness. It can’t fix every problem. With the choices I’ve made, I’m probably doomed to be pretty poor for the rest of my life. I am finally OK with that. I now know that when I find something that isn’t half bad, I’m going to hold on to it and cherish it. I’m going to be mindful of everything I can do to make that joy return. I know what to not take for granted. I have been humbled.
Within seconds I had a 35-year old man in the front office bleeding from the bullet in his leg. I was on the phone with a 911 operator reporting that shots had been fired. I didn’t have to tell the emergency hotline where I was, or who I was; I dialed those three digits at least once a week. I dialed LMPD’s non-emergency number more often than that. I was working at the Economy Inn, or more affectionately, the asshole of Louisville. We didn’t rent by the hour, but we did rent by the week. The Economy Inn is a great place to go if you are running away from your spouse and kids and want to spend six days in a dark room with a hooker, high on meth. You couldn’t deny that the place had character.
Real life guns with real life intent to murder are pretty scary. This is especially true when the bullets are flying fifty feet away from you. The next time a gun was flashed on our property (to our knowledge) it was by a man who was threatening to kill himself and others. It was obvious to everyone there that he was over the edge on crystal meth, and was experiencing a very unpleasant ending to the partying. The good ol’ boys of the LMPD got to break out the SWAT gear, assault rifles and all. It was apparent to the witnesses that the servers and protectors were fired up to play with their seldom-used toys. The man eventually came peacefully, likely after feeling as if he had just awakened from a dream in which he was fighting off an aggressive alien race.
This second story is heresay. I didn’t see it myself. I slept through it. I was staying in one of the rooms on the very back of the property, and did everything I could to block out light and sound so I could get some real rest after my graveyard shifts. Waking up to some varied form of ruckus was standard operating procedure; the ruckus had to be staring me in the face for me to care at all.
When you work at least fifty hours each week at a front desk and are surrounded by the scum of the Earth, you can tend to shut off outside stimuli. A whole week could pass by where a toothless addict wasn’t cussing me out and threatening me because I wouldn’t let him or her slide with five bucks. That next bad day would erase all memories of everything else. It would be someone who was on their last stab at life trying to get away with anything because they had nothing to lose. Or I would have forgotten to write something down because of how busy we were. Both situations ended the same. There would be hours of arguing, watching videotape, and begging and pleading.
When the offer came to work somewhere on the other side of town for twice the money, I thought that there was an angel on my shoulder. It was sheer luck that I met the terminal manager of Kentucky Truck Plant. I leapt at the opportunity with a naive optimism that I had won the lottery. I was ecstatic to leave those crack babies behind. Little did I know that a new set of villains would control my happiness.
The next few things I am about to say are not addressing the group of people as a whole, only the select group that works at KTP. These words are also the extent of my rage. I didn’t know I was capable of this kind of hate until I met this group of people. I recently lashed out at a friend with similar emotions. That regrettable event is what sparked the reflection you are currently reading in this post. I might be scarred for life, but keep in mind that what I say is a truly reasonable attempt to be unbiased. The last thing I want you to know is that KTP is known around the country in the auto-handling industry as “The Beast” and “Hell.”
The Teamsters at KTP are the worst kind of people imaginable. They aren’t cute. They are straight up assholes. Every single one of them. Even the ones that were held in the highest regard eventually showed their evil side. Every last one of them. I can eventually forgive a cracked out mom who yells at me because she is two dollars short on her rent. I even paid out of my pocket several times. She worked at Popeye’s and lived at a motel; her life was shit. Can I ever forgive a man who threatens to rape my mother because I’m not going to give him $30 an hour to move two extra trucks as opposed to the $20 an hour he usually makes? No, I can’t. What I can do is stop caring about him. I can forget about my wishes to watch pineapples be shoved up his ass in the depths of hell. But I can never look at that person, smile, and wish them a Merry Christmas. I can never ask that person how their day is going. I can never respect that person.
One day I was in charge of 28 Teamsters. Every single one of them told me to fuck off as they collected their time cards; they were all leaving four hours early with full pay and it still wasn’t good enough. Fuck the Teamsters. The unions are a necessary thing, and they probably still do some good. This group twisted the meaning and purpose of everything. Their only goal, every day, was to score as much off of you as possible, by any means necessary. The worst part is that they were stupid. That isn’t me being petty or childish; these adults just weren’t intelligent people. Ten minute arguments over what the product of 8 and 7 is cripples my will to live. When you are told the pen is red when it is clearly writing blue, it seems that six feet under is a mighty good place to be.
The experience made me think of one thing: school. You have the same ignorant cool guys who make fun of you for being smart, but get their girlfriends to copy your homework so they can stay on the baseball team. The teachers always tried to comfort you with the knowledge that one day you’ll be their boss. What the teachers don’t tell you is that, even though they are subordinates, the idiots will still do everything in their power to make your life hell.
I honestly regret ever leaving the Economy Inn. Yes there were guns, crack, meth, prostitution, and lots and lots of tooth decay. Yes I knew drug dealers by first name who would smile as they paid in ones that they had just collected off of their hooker shawties. At least there was a feeling of community. I was the landlord awaiting rent payments. Everyone who wasn’t on a speedballing rollercoaster actually showed respect. At KTP I felt like I was the last human on Earth. I had to eliminate the evil zombie race of Teamsters if anything good or kind was to have a chance of survival. If I post any fiction on this blog and someone dies a gruesome death, you’ll know I had the KTP Teamsters in mind. You know it has got to be fucked up if I’m willing to take bullets, half the pay, and a constant smell of hand sanitizer over it.
The scars? I forget that people can be nice and decent. I catch myself assuming the worst possible outcome for every situation. I don’t even know how to act anymore. The two jobs I’ve discussed are the perfect parallel to dementors. Soul-sucking is a strong adjective, but I think I now know what it means. I am a people-pleaser. I try to make everyone happy. Joy comes to me when I feel confident that others are enjoying themselves. People-pleasers have to find the right business I guess.
I now know that money can’t buy happiness. It can’t fix every problem. With the choices I’ve made, I’m probably doomed to be pretty poor for the rest of my life. I am finally OK with that. I now know that when I find something that isn’t half bad, I’m going to hold on to it and cherish it. I’m going to be mindful of everything I can do to make that joy return. I know what to not take for granted. I have been humbled.
No comments:
Post a Comment
Join in on the fun! The only thing that we ask is that you please take a moment and check your grammar, punctuation, etc. It makes it much easier for everyone involved in the discussion. Thanks!