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Post by steve on Jul 29, 2012 18:59:02 GMT -6
[ED NOTE: This is where perpetual writer's block gets you. A complete experiment on my part. I plan on missing a few days at some point. Enjoy.]
PART #0001
You might be wondering what you're staring at. Well, not the smoke. You knew it was smoke. I'm talking about the small fires, debris, ruined buildings, burnt out cars... That sort of thing.
Is it a movie set? I wish. If it was a movie set, that would mean I was an actor and even poor actors get good union wages. Nope.
Is it a theme park? Heck no. A theme park would be awesome. A playground for adults. A bit costly but that would mean I'd have the money and the time to goof off.
Is it some third-world, war torn nation? Like I could ever afford a passport and, even if I could, why would I ever want to travel to a place like this willingly? Check the license plates on some of those cars. Look closer... Closer... Geez! The thing isn't going to hurt you! Have some guts! Walk right up to it, for Pete's sake!
Yeah, do you see what it says? I mean, after you wipe away the grime? That's right - We're in the good ol' U. S. of A.
You're thinking that you're witnessing the aftermath to some sort of natural disaster. An earthquake. A tornado. A hurricane. A massive gas main leak. A tsunami. Wrong, wrong, wrong, wrong and so very, very wrong.
So how did it get to look like this? That's a really long, really incredible story and I'll tell you right now - You're not going to believe it. I don't believe it and I'm the one who has to live in it.
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Post by debralee on Jul 30, 2012 14:21:07 GMT -6
OK, so what am I looking at...I think I need more of this story to find out. Even if I don't believe it, I still want to know. Thanks for writing and please give us more.
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Post by steve on Jul 30, 2012 14:33:57 GMT -6
PART #0002
OK, so you're curious. How did civilization become a burnt out husk of it's former self? What happened?
Well, to explain it all, I have to start at the beginning.
I have to start... At the Rock & Rolling Rollerskate Park. That's right. Bask in all of it's 1983 glory. Dig the groovy rock tunes. Check out those tri-colored walls next to the arcade machines. Browse through the nearly 2,000 records, 800 cassette tapes, 8-tracks galore our DJ had at his disposal... Look at the big overhead screen pumping out the music videos. Need to eat? Check out the open diner area serving only the highest quality fries, hot dogs, hamburgers and carbonated beverages.
I worked at this place for six years. I did everything from opening up to closing down. I was behind the roller skate rental counter. I repaired roller skates. I organized the music library. I vacuumed. I dusted. I cleaned. I scrubbed. I sprayed. I waxed. I swept. I cooked. I even DJ'ed a few times (and those were memorable times, indeed).
I did... Everything... short of running the place. Rick ran the place and if ever there was someone who couldn't rub three quiet minutes together, it was Rick. Look at that guy... He's 37 going on 59. The man was practically glued to the desk in his office. Always on the phone. Always at a meeting. Always busy but not in physical way but in that sit down, grown-up, balancing the books and talking to other business guys way.
So, this is where it all started and on a Friday night anywhere from November 12, 1971 to June 2, 1983, all the kids hung out at our place. Boy Scouts, Girl Scouts, high schoolers, Sunday schoolers, college kids, birthday parties... We even had a few wedding parties there. Every night was a party and every Friday was a celebration.
And then June 3rd, 1983, happened. That was the day the music stopped playing for good.
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Post by mnn2300 on Jul 30, 2012 15:59:51 GMT -6
Interesting start, I'm hooked. June 3rd 1983 -- American Pie had already been out for years, so that's not "the day the music died" you mean....
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Post by steve on Jul 31, 2012 15:01:58 GMT -6
PART #0003
Look, I'm not naive. It wasn't all honey & cream where I worked.
Take, for instead, Ted over there. The one with the thick mustache and wearing the T-shirt that's just a wee bit too tight despite the fact he doesn't have the physique for it. If you ever see that guy work for more then five consecutive minutes, pinch yourself because that's a sure sign that you're dreaming.
And what about Paul over there? Rail thin kid, six foot two and might be 110 pounds soaking wet? See him? Yeah, he's only stoned out of his mind on days that end with the letter "y." Why he still drew a paycheck here after more then a week is beyond me.
See the blonde over there? The one who constantly has that "deer-in-headlights" look? Yup, that's Denise. A broken watch is right more times per day than she was. The only two reasons why she still works here is below her chin and above her belly button.
Those were just the employees. Then you had the annoying parents, the annoying kids, the pot smokers, the clandestine alcohol drinkers (what? you think we couldn't spot the flask underneath your shirt?), the drunks (because why else would you try to punch your fist through an arcade screen?), the people who constantly wanted to exchange roller skates ("these are too tight," "these are too loose," "the wheels feel wobbly," "too large," "too small")...
Then there were the kids out in the parking lot always picking fights with each other. Some high school football team loses ten miles down the road and a fist fight breaks out that night at our place. Some chick is dating Guy X instead of Guy Y and the two guys start beating each other up over that in the parking lot. Sports, women and money - The three reasons why every single fight ever occurred in our parking lot and not necessarily in that order.
Make no mistake - You worked hard every day. Every day. But it was worth it. It was always worth it. When the sun went down, the volume went up and there was nothing like seeing one hundred people out on the rink skating away while the latest tunes were blaring out. Every arcade machine was filled with kids pumping their weekly allowances away. Every table was filled with kids eating, drinking, laughing... It was a sight to behold. You were being paid to party. Sure, you had to set up before hand and clean up afterwards but a party you got to see every night. You crowned kids for the highest arcade score. You crowned kids who could roller skate the lowest without touching the ground. You showcased kids who could roller skate really well (and let me tell you, there were some really good kids who could roller skate). You placed kid's faces on the projection screen. How many times did we embarrass kids when the whole place stopped to sing "Happy Birthday" to a seven year old or a fifteen year old? How many times "puppy love" crushes did we help out when we went out of our way to play romantic requests ("And now, by special request to Lisa from a special admirer, here's...").
In hindsight, though, I should have seen it coming. All the signs were there. I was just blind to reality. We all were to some degree... Except for Rick, the b**tard.
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Post by steve on Aug 1, 2012 14:27:22 GMT -6
PART #0004
Looking back on it now, of course I should have known that it wouldn't last. Hindsight, as they say, is 20/20.
I was fresh out of high school. The ink on my high school diploma was still wet when I applied for a job at the place. I applied to a lot of places after I graduated from high school - The local grocery store, the package store, the post office, the pharmacy (OK, I kind of knew I wasn't going to get that one but, you never know), the video store (truth be told, I was sort of hoping for that one at the time)... Anyplace where a high school diploma could get you, I applied.
How much did I know about finances? That the more money you made, the better. Pay your bills on time. Don't abuse your credit card. That was about it. I have to be completely honest - The first night I was at my apartment, I was scared s**tless. I don't think I slept an hour the entire time. Being on your own is scary. Paying your own bills is scary. Owning a credit card and knowing a bill was forthcoming at the end of the month was scary.
I just did what I was told. Move the arcade machines? OK. Sweep the parking lot? Sure. Scrub the diner grill down? You betcha. Fill the vending machines? Right on it.
I never looked at the books. That wasn't my job. Every weekday we were busy and every weekend we were slamming. On some weekends, we had to empty out the coins from the arcade machines every HOUR. We had to refill the freezer with hot dogs and hamburgers every weekend. We were changing soda canisters practically every day. We had over 300 pairs of roller skates to rent and it was a slow day when only 100 of them were being used.
So how were we to know what was going to happen? Heck, as far as we were concerned, we were the jewel of the local community.
But, in a way, June 3rd, 1983, and the fact that I didn't have a college degree saved my life.
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Post by nancy1340 on Aug 1, 2012 20:25:22 GMT -6
Interesting.
Thanks
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Post by steve on Aug 2, 2012 12:37:03 GMT -6
PART #0005
No one wanted the "morning shift" but it was the Summer - You'd be surprised at how many parents used us as "teenage daycare." Here's $10 dollars, go play at the roller rink until I get home from work. We had a rule that no kids under 13 were allowed without someone 18 years old or older looking after them but you'd be surprised at how many young-looking 13 year old kids there were in the community. Money was money.
There were a few advantages to working the morning shift - Quiet, peaceful... Beyond the initial rush of customers, you could get stuff done without pushing through a crowd. The kids were mostly well-behaved, playing the arcade machines or stumbling their way around the rollerskating rink. We didn't have a DJ in the morning - Just put a cassette tape of assorted rock songs into the player and let it play. Flip it over in an hour. Repeat. We had dozens of them lying around.
Over the last few months, there were a few events that raised my eyebrows for all of a minute or two: We got rid of a few arcade machines and didn't replace them; We opened up an hour later in the mornings than we used to; Raised prices on the food items twice; Started selling used movie VCR tapes too worn from the movie rental store. Nothing drastic. Just the gradual ebb and flow of the business side of running a rollerskating rink.
The cop cars pulled up early, just as I started working on repairing some roller skates. Three black and whites and two unmarked. A moving van shortly arrived afterwards.
Mark was the shift manager at the time. I saw his face go from flush to pale to paler to "tell Dracula next time to leave a little for the mosquitoes" when the cops were talking to him. Mark stumbled to the DJ station and got onto the microphone. I remember his stammering words clear as day:
"Ladies and Gentlemen, we are closing this establishment at this time. We're going to ask everyone at this time to please leave the rollerskating rink. Everyone must leave the rollerskating rink immediately. All customers must return their rented roller skates to the desk in 10 minutes. All arcade machines are being shut down in 5 minutes. No more food items, effective immediately will be served. We are refunding all admissions. Thank you for your cooperation."
The customers had questions that we couldn't answer. I received the roller skates. Megan refunded all of the admissions. In a few cases, we made some phone calls for our extremely young-looking "13 year old" patrons so that they could get rides home or, at the very least, rides to elsewhere. Thankfully, no one needed a taxi.
We did what the cops told us: Unlock Rick's office. They took everything out of Rick's office including the paperclips. For a moment, we thought they were going to start ripping the tiles up off of from the office floor. They took all of the cash as well (Megan had the foresight to steal $200 dollars from the admissions cash register once she realized what was going on before they got to it).
The cops told us that, effective immediately, the business was closed. Rick had been arrested for tax evasion, tax fraud and a bunch of other tax-related charges. We were going to be individually questioned about our possible involvement in his numerous tax schemes. As long as nobody made a fuss, handcuffs would be unnecessary.
As we left the rollerskating rink in a police van, more cop cars and moving vans pulled into the parking lot. I saw that the cops had placed an official-looking sign on our door, reading: "This establishment is hereby closed effective immediately with no guarantee of re-opening by order of the Court as of June 3rd, 1983." Below that text was legal goobledy-gook about phone numbers and tips and all that stuff.
That was my last day as an employee of the Rock and Rolling Rollerskate Park.
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Post by steve on Aug 3, 2012 12:07:13 GMT -6
PART #0006
Ever hear of the Simpson-Henderson Investment Trust? Of course not. No one had. It was Rick's scam company that he had set up years ago for reasons best left for Rick to describe.
There was nothing sophisticated about the scam: Rick owned businesses. Owning businesses gained you influence. Influence got you invited to parties, parties with very wealthy people very eager to become even wealthier. Rick convinced said wealthy people to invest in his scam company through a mix of half-truths, white lies, regular lies, falsehoods, fabrications, fibs and, in a few rare instances, the actual truth. New investment money paid off the earlier investors.
It was what the financial world called a "Ponzi" scheme - Rick wasn't making actual investments but simply getting money from rich suckers and fooling other rich suckers into thinking that their profits were from hard work.
And Rick had been doing this for YEARS to the tune of $7.4 million dollars. At least every day since I had worked at the rollerskating rink. No wonder the guy was practically married to his phone or perpetually out of his office on "meetings."
The cops figured out pretty quick that none of us employees were involved with Rick's scam. The mountain of evidence both exonerated us and condemned him. Later on, we would learn that Rick would cop to a plea deal for fifteen years of jail with no chance of parole. There was also no chance of Rick ever paying all of that money back.
The scandal didn't hit the national news but was featured in the state newspapers and on all the local news channels. I was interviewed by a local newspaper but ninety minutes of interview was eventually condensed down to only a few choice sentences in print.
Lost in the hysteria of the headlines was the reality that I, and all the other employees, were out of a job. It was a rude awakening, being unemployed for the first time since I walked across a stage to be handed a cheap paper diploma from a public high school by a teacher slated to make more in an annual pension than I ever would in any three years of my life.
So, once again, I forged ahead with finding a new job in a very different economic landscape than last I had seen. Hindsight would teach me that the pursuit of new employment would be the very reason I am still alive today.
[ED NOTE: I might not write an installment tomorrow or, if I do, it will be very late.]
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Post by crf78112 on Aug 3, 2012 15:38:53 GMT -6
Enjoying the story, thank you.
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Post by steve on Aug 4, 2012 16:00:19 GMT -6
PART #0007
When I had graduated from high school, the question wasn't "Would I find a job?" but "When would I find a job and where?" Even the crappy local newspaper had three full pages of classified ads for jobs ranging from paper delivery to pizza delivery to secretary to entry-level construction (no skills required) to radio DJs to... To everything. The state newspaper had an entire section devoted to classifieds on Sunday.
If you could fog a mirror, you were guaranteed a job. It was just that simple. Whether or not you were competent enough to keep that job was another story.
When the Rock and Rolling Rollerskate Park closed, I was thrown into an entirely different world.
Do you know what a recession is? A recession is when people don't spend money. Yeah, I know that there's a technical-sounding financial definition but the common definition is when you and I and everyone else decide to stop spending money. When money stops moving, the economy gets into trouble really fast. It's like the financial equivalent of a highway accident: One person slows down to lock at the accident, which causes the next three people behind them to slow down more, which causes the next nine people behind them to have to stop completely. Pretty soon, you've got traffic backed up two miles because of stupid little fender-bender that's physically stopping no one except for other people's morbid curiosity.
That's what was happening back when I was working at the Rock and Rolling Rollerskate Park. Every day, I wasn't paying attention to the signs that the world had gotten into trouble. I was employed; I was earning a paycheck but the rest of the world was rotting away underneath me without ever giving it an afterthought.
It wasn't entirely my fault; I was busy. I wasn't obsessing over stereos or cars or anything like that. Get a paycheck; Pay off the bills; Put a little into my pockets and throw the rest of it into a savings account. I wasn't looking to be a millionaire, I just wanted to have fun. I was rock and rolling all night and partying every day.
It was a rude awakening to pry open the newspapers and find that all the jobs had vanished. The classifieds had become a barren wasteland, barely taking up half a page of space. No one was hiring. No one was calling back.
What skills did I have? I had a high school diploma. I had six years experience being a grunt at a rollerskating rink. I had enough experience behind a cash register to be the guy that asked you "Would you like fries with that?" I had enough grill experience to be the guy who made you those fries. I had enough DJ experience to be the radio DJ between midnight and 4 AM in the morning on a radio station no one listened to in the first place.
And that was it.
Don't call us, we'll call you. We'll keep you mind. Keep checking back with us - You never know. These were the phrases I heard over and over again. Whether it was right down the block or ten miles away, the answers were always the same and the doors always slammed shut in your face the same. No one was interested. No one was hiring.
I never intended my savings account to be a financial safety net. Truth was that I never had a retirement plan or had given it any thought. I just saved money when the opportunity arose, figuring that I would just have enough and social security would fill in the rest.
As the weeks went by, though, that safety net became smaller and my bills became larger.
I needed a new job. And fast.
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Post by steve on Aug 5, 2012 8:16:39 GMT -6
PART #0008
Desperate times called for desperate measures.
Fast food runs disappeared. Movie rentals? Finished. Buying records and cassettes was out of the question; If I wanted to listen to something specific, I called up the radio station and asked nicely. I got used to drinking water instead of soda. I bought an used bicycle for $20 dollars and started using that for any trip shorter than 10 miles. I started checking the "day old" sections of supermarkets.
And still, the money shrank. And still, prospective employers kept saying "No" in artful, tactful, legal ways... If they even bothered giving me a rejection notice at all.
It wasn't all misery; One of my former co-workers gave me $3 bucks a week to mow his lawn. I got a couple of bucks helping an old lady clean out her basement. I got hired for an one-time book sale sponsored by a town library. For one week, I got paid $20 bucks to help clean up a part of a state park that had been used by squatters. I found a $5 dollar bill on the ground by the side of a road.
Finding a full-time job had become my full-time job. I filled out more applications than I could remember. Any job, any price, any shift, any (and often with no) benefits.
And still, the money shrank. Seriously, I began thinking about asking my friends if I could move in with them and the prospects of eating at soup kitchens.
At some point along the way, in the mountain of applications that I had filled out, I must have filled out an application for a company called Scientific Research Analysis Incorporated. I remember listening to that voice mail message like it had occurred yesterday:
"Hi. My name is Victor Harrelson, I work at the Human Resources department at SRA, Scientific Research Analysis Incorporated. If you could please give me a call back at 1-800-555-6947. That's 1-800-555-6947 and my name is Victor Harrelson from SRA. Thank you."
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Post by patience on Aug 5, 2012 20:00:38 GMT -6
Uh-oh. He's going to be a lab rat, maybe?
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Post by debralee on Aug 6, 2012 3:29:24 GMT -6
Yeah, a lab rat or a sperm donor so they can try to create babies in the lab. Maybe?? Is there a Dr. Frankenstein working there? Need more story. My brain is going in all directions with this, can ya tell..lol Thanks for writing.
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Post by nancy1340 on Aug 6, 2012 11:46:02 GMT -6
Thank you.
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Post by steve on Aug 6, 2012 14:40:30 GMT -6
PART #0009
My clothes were nice. The building was nicer. The air conditioning certainly helped.
Victor Harrelson was an ordinary man trapped inside of a business suit. He looked like a plumber or a construction worker, not someone who started and ended their day in a button shirt, a tie & shoes so polished you could brush your teeth in its reflection. He had a strong handshake and spoke in a loud, fast voice.
His office was tiny. I had been in bigger shoe closets.
He told me about the job that wasn't really a job.
"No one gets rich doing this," he stated, "It's just some money on the side, you understand? It's like jury duty - We call you up when we feel you match the demographics that we're looking for. Of course, you can always refuse to take a job. You know, because of a vacation or family obligations or something like that."
Victor walked me through the company blueprint - Universities and research companies had experiments to run. Experiments were expensive to conduct. They were legally risky. They took a long time. Took a lot of employees and resources. So these universities and research companies simply outsourced their experiment testing to Scientific Research Analysis Incorporated.
"Look," Victor assured, "You ain't going to grow a third arm or anything. All these tests have to peer reviewed and ethically sanctioned before they even get to us. Each of these tests are monitored by medical professionals. They see something abnormal happen and they'll pull the plug on the whole thing inside of a minute. I've seen them do it. Someone gets a nose bleed - Test cancelled. Someone gets a migraine - Gone. Best part is that you get paid regardless."
The interview wasn't really an interview. Everyone, I was told, was hired until they found a reason to fire you. Apparently, few activities disqualified you from employment, like being arrested or serving a jail sentence. Every year, you would be mailed a form to fill out verifying that you still wanted to be a part of the program. You could, theoretically, quit at any time.
What choice did I have?
I'd need to have a medical exam and the usual tests performed on me before I could be formally inducted into the program.
"A guy like you," Victor commented, "I wouldn't be surprised if they called you five times a week for tests. Too bad you can only do one at a time."
I got a business card from him, the same strong handshake as before and was walked to the door. The whole ordeal took less than half an hour.
It was more than nothing but not by much. As it turned out, it would be far more than I bargained for.
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Post by nancy1340 on Aug 6, 2012 17:34:00 GMT -6
Sounds like something is going to go awry.
Thanks for the new chapter.
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Post by steve on Aug 7, 2012 15:25:53 GMT -6
PART #0010
When it rains, it pours.
Two days after I signed up to be a human guinea pig for Scientific Research Analysis Incorporated, I got a call back from another place. This is what happens when you fill out application non-stop for weeks on end. Occasionally, someone decides to throw caution to the wind and actually cut you a break.
Have you ever shopped at Webbler's? Of course not. Not many people have outside of the state. A lot of people inside the state haven't shopped there, either.
It's just a regional grocery store. Have you ever been in a grocery store before? Same thing, different color scheme, different layout. They make themselves out to be a country bumpkin setting, like you just accidentally strolled into a barn or something.
The position was "Night Stock Clerk." What's that, you ask? Well, when a grocery store closes for the night, we come on in and restock the shelves. Wax the floors. Vacuum. Dust. Do all the things we can't do when dozens of Moms are strolling the aisles with their obnoxious little brats and complaining that their coupons are valid to cashiers who don't give a s**t in the first place. Sure, if there's a clean-up in aisle 7, they clean it up right there and then but, otherwise, they leave it for us to do.
After my non-interview at SRA where I was practically handed the job before I even sat down, anything other than a "When can you start?" was considered an interrogation. Who are you? Do you know who we are? Why are you applying? Tell me about your last job? How do you feel about working at a grocery store? Why did you leave your other job?
Thanks for coming in. Don't call us, we'll call you.
A day later, they called back. I was good enough for them.
My fortunes were turning around and not a moment too soon.
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Post by steve on Aug 8, 2012 14:34:56 GMT -6
PART #0011
I never knew how good I had it. For six years, I lived a good life.
Who else gets to go to work at a place where hot chicks frequent almost daily? Where hot chicks want to go and have a good time? Where you listened to the latest tunes all the time? Played arcade games for free in the quiet times before the doors open or after the doors closed? Where the burgers and fries and soda were free as long as you cooked them yourself and didn't abuse the privilege?
For six years, it was like I was being paid to play and have fun. OK, there was some work involved but it never felt like work. It never felt like a chore or a grind.
Being a night store clerk sucked. There was no other way around it.
You start your day at 8 PM when the store closes. You end your day at 4 AM just before the sun rises. There's no getting out of work early; There's always something to do.
To list all of the tasks you have to perform on that job is an exercise in sadomasochism. It's not just stocking shelves - You're a glorified house maid and groundskeeper. Is the task dirty? Is the task grimy? Are you likely to get a paper cut? Those are the tasks you perform.
And it's quiet. Always quiet. The place is like a morgue. Just four guys all going about their tasks. Stocking shelves. Breaking down boxes. Mopping floors. Washing windows. Taking inventory. Crushing empty soda cans. Accounting for shopping carts. Throwing out expired merchandise.
At the end of the day, you don't feel like you need to take a shower, you need a hot tub instead. You need a lukewarm bath to just soak.
Even the time adjustment sucks. You wake up around 11 AM, which is weird all by itself. Lunch becomes breakfast. Dinner becomes lunch. Breakfast becomes dinner.
Money is money, though, and money is always tight nowadays.
Meanwhile, I'm turning my head and coughing while pissing into a cup so I can become a human guinea pig. All so I can keep my head above financial water.
For six years, life was fun. Now, though, life was nothing more than a daily grind. A grind that sucked. A grind that was going to get a lot worse.
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Post by patience on Aug 8, 2012 15:21:20 GMT -6
Well done Steve! This guy is believeable. Very realistic, and an all too common lot for so many people. Hope he comes out okay. That's a good tale when you have me rooting for the guy!
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Post by steve on Aug 8, 2012 19:31:02 GMT -6
I'd just like to thank everyone for their comments so far. I appreciate all of your comments and I am glad that you are all enjoying the story. There is still plenty of story left and I look forward to writing it. Thank you.
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Post by steve on Aug 9, 2012 18:19:36 GMT -6
PART #0012
Two weeks after had I pissed into a cup while turning my head and coughing, I got word back from SRA that I was in the clear to be a human guinea pig.
The offers began to trickle in and I took them.
Like Harrelson had said, no one was going to get rich off of being a guinea pig, even if they were full time at it. It was a dollar here and two dollars there and, occasionally three or more dollars per test.
Granted, none of the tests were very difficult: Try to solve a series of crossword puzzles while listening to different genres of music. Arrange a group of brightly colored circles of various sizes any way you want. Out of a group of pictures, pick the one you like the most - Repeat that fifty times. Take this pill and then perform as many push-ups as you can in two minutes - Repeat that once per day for a week.
After about two or three weeks of these tests, I almost considered dropping out - The money wasn't all that great and even though the time commitment for a lot of these tests was less than an hour or two each, even that amount of time felt excessive for what I was earning. About the only saving grace was the fact that all of these tests were conducted during the day before I went to work in the evening. What else was I going do with all my spare time? Try to find another full-time job?
In fact, even though I was now working as a night store clerk, the search for more fulfilling employment hadn't ceased. I missed out by one day on landing a job at a movie theater. I interviewed for a janitorial job at the local mall (I didn't get it). Cashier at a nearby pizzeria. Evening cashier at a package store. Data entry for a law firm. Research clerk at the local college library (Trust me - It sounded fancier than it was).
Life went on. I got better at being a night stock clerk. I got better at cutting down cardboard boxes, at stocking shelves, at fronting merchandise, at crushing soda cans, at mopping and waxing the floor. I got better at washing the outside windows.
The guys that I worked with were OK. There were no potheads or drunks. No one was grossly incompetent. No one was lazy. No one took the job "oh-so-seriously." Everyone simply went about the job the best that they could. Some days were better than others.
After two months on the job, I got a call from a former co-worker that I couldn't believe. Out of sheer curiosity, I decided to check it out for myself.
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Post by steve on Aug 10, 2012 13:47:46 GMT -6
PART #0013
I had to see it for myself, as morbid as the sight would probably be.
Rollerskate Parks of America ran over 500 rollerskate rinks in the country. They were also the punchline of countless jokes told by those who worked in the rollerskating industry. Under the word "cheap" in any modern dictionary, you'd find the RPA logo. The two concepts were synonymous and indistinguishable from one another. The only way anyone ever made any significant amount of money working for the RPA was if you actually owned it.
While I was pissing into cups, working on crossword puzzles while listening to different genres of music for some psychological test, stocking shelves, filling out applications that would rarely get me an interview (never mind an offer) and living a minimum-wage lifestyle, the outraged creditors burnt by Rick's financial scheme had taken possession of the Rock and Rolling Rollerskate Park. Like a piece of real estate, they then sold the property to the RPA.
What was once "Rock and Rolling Rollerskate Park" had now become "Rollerskate Party Center." Like driving past a car accident, I was almost a little too eager to step inside and see what the RPA had done to my former employer's building.
Have you ever been to a haunted house that used strobe lights and black lights and colored lights? A haunted house with carefully-placed speakers so that a shriek or moan would be put to greatest effect?
Now imagine going through that same haunted house except all of the cast members are gone, there are no sound effects and just plain, ordinary lighting is used. You still might be disgusted by a scene or two but, odds are, you're no more scared of the haunted house as you would be grocery shopping.
That's exactly what happened with "Rollerskate Party Center."
The disco ball was gone.
Practically all of the colored lights were gone.
The big screen was gone.
The DJ equipment was gone.
A lot of the speakers were gone.
The arcade machines had been replaced by ones far older and scratched up.
The diner was gone, replaced by a row of vending machines.
It was like I was in a completely different place.
Hardly any customers were there; I counted eight kids in roller skates.
All of the workers there were work-release former convicts of one stripe or another, making even less than minimum wage. Once they knew I was a former employee, they were cool with talking to me.
Like I had seen, they told me the place had been gutted from top to bottom. There was no DJ - They just played variety tapes made especially for the RPA in a non-stop loop. No special requests or anything like that. The floor manager had all of five months experience managing a rollerskating rink and had taken a course on management at the RPA business center. The place didn't repair rollerskates but outsourced that job to some business in another state. People weren't allowed to bring in their own rollerskates anymore.
The place was depressing. There was no life. Like a few ants in a large desert, I watched a few kids fumble their way around the large rollerskating rink. Two mothers talked to each other at one of the benches. Thirty minutes after I had walked in, I walked back out. The person behind the counter was kind enough to refund my admission, knowing that I was just there sightseeing.
Someone once said, "you can never go home again." When I walked out of Rollerskate Party Center, I believed them.
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Post by steve on Aug 11, 2012 7:41:05 GMT -6
PART #0014
When you grow up, you think everything is forever. Mom is going to be there forever. Dad is going to be there forever. You are going to live in your bedroom for your entire life.
Obviously, life changes. Dad gets older. Mom gets older. Maybe you move with your family to another house. Maybe an extended family member or a grandparent drops dead.
Eventually, you learn that nothing lasts forever. The moment that you buy that television set, you know that you will be selling that television set to a friend or at a garage sale or throwing it away at the town dump. The moment that you make that friend, you know that there will be a time when the friend moves away or maybe ideological differences forces the two of you to drift apart or even death finally splits you apart.
Yet, despite all the mounting evidence throughout our lives that nothing lasts forever and everything can be taken from us at a moment's notice, we still cling to a silly hope that something - anything - will last for as long as we want it to.
Walking out of Rollerskate Party Center changed me. It changed me forever. There was no going home anymore. No waking up from this new reality of stocking shelves for minimum wage and taking silly psychological tests on the side for chump change. Every job from here on out would be just an ordinary, boring "adult" job.
I don't know if my outward demeanor changed. It probably did. I was probably a little more quiet. Focused a little more intently on my tasks.
I kept my head financially above water but not by much. Learned to eat more meals from the kitchen than from a take-out window. Drove my car on those few occasions when a bicycle simply wouldn't do. Went out of my way only to make local calls and not long-distance.
I still tried to have a social life but found my enthusiasm waning. All of my friends were becoming more successful than myself. Bars were expensive. Clubs were expensive. In a land where everything costs money, everything is expensive for the minimum-wage worker.
Thanksgiving came and went. Christmas came and went. So did New Year's Eve. I can still remember the quietness of New Year's Eve. Last New Year's Eve, I was working at Rock and Rolling Rollerskate Park. We counted down to midnight. There was noise and excitement. There was festivities. It was... It has happiness.
This New Year's Eve, I was stocking jars of Mayberry's Original Lemon Jam in Aisle 4. Quiet. Serene. No rest for the weary - Our doors opened sharply at 6 AM, weather permitting.
1984 was here.
The last normal year, as it would turn out. At least, for me.
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Post by steve on Aug 12, 2012 7:49:58 GMT -6
PART #0015
The post office loved Scientific Research Analysis Incorporated but the feeling wasn't mutual.
Once you were accepted as a guinea pig, SRA would start sending out weekly letters to your home. The forms were simple: These are the tests that will be starting up, these are the qualifications for those tests, this is the compensation for these tests. Circle the ones you want, send the form back and, if they want you, then you'd receive a phone call back telling you that you've been accepted and they'll send you additional information.
For years, SRA had wanted to scrap that system because it was expensive. They even temporarily rolled out a new system that was entirely telephone-based. However, there's a reason why people sign up to be guinea pigs: On one level, we're stupid. Seriously, a lot of people who signed up for this job shouldn't be allowed to hold a warm cup of water in a styrofoam cup in the middle of a tiled room.
People got confused. People dialed up wrong. People naturally dropped out because they had to call up instead of receiving a mail letter, making them forget that they had even signed up for the first place. Most people didn't have access to a push-button phone and had to use the analog equivalent which tied up call center personnel.
After five months of turbulent roll-out, SRA learned it's lesson and went back to the post office and pieces of paper. This was all before my time but I had learned about it piecemeal from the people who worked there.
So I was fairly surprised when I heard Harrelson's voice on my answering machine after I got home from work one day.
"Hi, this is Victor Harrelson from Scientific Research Analysis, 1-800-555-6947. I would like to discuss with you an experiment opportunity that I think that you'll be interested in. Again, this is Victor Harrelson from Scientific Research Analysis, 1-800-555-6947. Thank you."
In the morning, I called him up. It turned out he was right.
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