About a couple of weeks into my Vendi time, this greasy, bald biker showed up. His strategy, intentional or otherwise had been to sleep in the court of the Za Shack and then clock in just as the guards were descending on him. It was frustrating at first, because I had had the whole place to myself, and developed a good relationship with the customers and the machines, and this new employee threw me off my routine, but he ended being real respectful, helpful, and he wasn't a complete idiot.
He called himself Spider and had a bunch of spider web tats covering his elbows, neck and stomach. He told me he was deep into twelve-step culture, as a result of having previously been deep into a twenty-year prison stretch, as a result of being even deeper into meth. God knows where he'd heard about VendiJob. Like me, Spider couldn't get work anywhere else, and he needed something to do in between meetings.
Spider was a good guy. Didn't talk much, and was passionate about punk rock- he was always tuning the VendiRadio to the in-house PUNK IS POWER station. I didn't give a shit about punk, or music in general,but I found the punk beat usually helped me keep moving forward through the mindless tasks.
About a month in, a third dude showed, this big beefy black guy with dreadlocks who always wore disco era sunglasses. His entrance was pretty remarkable. He literally ran into VendiJob, busting through the commerce of the court one morning with the bulls at his heels. One of the guys tried to tackle him as he was figuring out how to clock in. Security surrounded the place with their bikes and tried to make him leave, but he whipped out his cell phone and started screaming about his rights, and then some of the crowd who had gathered, lawyers I think, started shooting the whole thing on their phones, so he was allowed to stay.
He called himself Rasto, which, as he countlessly explained to me and Spider, meant that he was part Rasta, and part Bro. He didn't like the disinfectant die we had to wear on our hands and face, this fleshy orange powder that got sort of sprayed on you in the employee restroom, proving to the public we weren't spreading filth and disease, and truth be told sort of marked you after your shift,because it didn't wipe off all that well. He also didn't like Punk Rock, and he and Spider fought over the radio all the time, with Rasto preferring seventies bands like Earth Wind and Fire on the FUNK IT UP LOVE station.
Rasto was also a hell of a worker. In one day he'd figured out the system to a degree that had taken me at least a week. He would show up each morning and hit the game hard, be sweaty even before the morning rush had started.
Like Spider, I had no idea how Rasto had found out about VendiJob (I wasn't one to pry into another person's life). After Rasto, no one else tried to work there. When I thought about it, it was sort of amazing the three of us were there at all – that anyone was there at all – given the zero advertising, and no word of mouth, and difficulty of access. The more I thought about the whole situation, the more lucky I felt.
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THE DOG HUNTERS (completed)
General FictionA suicidal homeless weirdo has adventures. He runs into a duo of dog lovers, who spend their days traveling around the city observing and honoring dogs. Wisdom cannot be run away from. He escapes paradise and falls in love with a strange lady who m...
