I find myself in my car once again waiting for the sluggish line on the international bridge to slowly inch forward, trying to block the unforgiving sun set on cooking my face. This is my life in a nutshell these days. I don’t know how many hours I have wasted, waiting, in never ending lines of vehicles that cough up clouds of smoke. Fighting off vendors trying to sell me garbage and ignoring the pudgy copper women with extended hands, filthy and trembling, begging for spare change. Rolling up my window as if it’s some kind of force field that cuts me off from the world outside. Yes, this is what my life has become, a sad routine that I’m doomed to repeat day in and day out. And for what? To go put in hours at a job that I despise. A job that I have only accepted because it’s the only place that will hire me with my pending charges. Charges I have been going to court for for over a year now. And yet every time I show up all the legal system can do is reschedule me again, and again, and again. Well, fuck you too.
The line is at a standstill as the agent tears through the vehicle up ahead, determined to find drugs or somebody stashed away in the trunk. I find it amusing how they pretend to do their job so well while the car that actually has the drugs in the next lane is waved on through with a simple, “Welcome to the United States.” I reach for my cigarettes which I have stashed away in my backpack to prevent the assholes from taking them away from me when I finally cross. I light up and take a deep drag. The smoke makes its way into my body pushing out any agitation I had in there before like a cloud of morphine. It’s amazing how cigarettes can do that. I imagine this is what junkies must feel when getting their fix. That brief moment when the world doesn’t seem such a terrible place and you feel like you can actually forge on and fight back. Too bad that moment will soon pass.
The line jerks forward as one more vehicle is let into the promise land up ahead. How much longer is this going to take? I swear I’ve finished a pack of cigarettes already… might as well start on a new one. I switch my weight around trying to relief the pain in my lower back shooting from one nerve to another. Did I forget to mention I also got hurt at my job awhile back? Well, I did. As if I didn’t hate my job enough already. It was about a month ago, when I was the lucky asshole chosen to dispose of the used cooking oil from the deep fryers. Now let me explain this shit in more detail. You see, first of all, I need to clarify just how shitty the equipment at my job is. I imagine that the deep fryers we use are the original deep fryers to hit the market. Three words, ANCIENT AS FUCK! I have dead relatives that are probably younger than these pieces of shit. And it isn’t just the deep fryers, everything there is falling apart, however I will concentrate on the fryers given that they are to blame for my current predicament. So unlike most restaurants that now have the newer deep fryers that filter themselves, we have the pleasure of having to remove the cooking oil manually. What does this mean? It means we set up pots at a tube located at the base of the fryer and open a valve that then lets the dirty gunk in the fryer out. Needless to say, most of the oil ends up on you or on the floor around you and not in the pots. But after you’re done cleaning that shit up you then have the honor of disposing of whatever oil you did manage to catch two floors down.
So picture me walking through the crowd covered in filth, pushing a cart with a number of grease filled pots. Pretty sad huh? I manage to reach my destination, a station set up outside in the back by the garbage disposal system. So basically now am I not just covered in cooking oil and god knows what else, but also I am now being assaulted by the thousands of flies that have decided to take up residence in this all you can eat trash buffet. I’m not kidding when I tell you this is a scene right out of The Amityville Horror films. Anyways, I begin the process of emptying out the pots into some rust infested tank that emits an odor so foul your eyes literally begin to water. I really need to invest in some goggles I suppose. Black gung with burned fries falls out of the pot in my hands and into the tank. I start with the smaller pots first figuring they will be easier and faster to get out of the way. I finish those leaving the last and biggest pot. Now I’m not sure how familiar you all are with Mexican cuisine. But this pot is similar to ones used to steam tamales. If you’re not sure what I mean just take my word for it that the motherfucker is HUGE! Plus it’s filled to the rim with used oil meaning not only is it a behemoth of a pot but also weighs a ton. Now of course, my employer being backwards in so many ways never considered it a necessity to provide me with a back belt or sending me assistance. So not wanting to look like the fag that I am, I decided what the hell you can do this by yourself. So I lift the damn thing from the cart and instantly feel the muscles in my back tense up followed by an intense pain shooting down my back. My body shriveled up from the pain very much like a closing Venus flytrap as I dropped the pot onto the floor emitting a tsunami of oil.
Whoever’s job it is to monitor the security cameras must have been too busy jacking off in the restroom because no one came to my aid. I sat there on the floor for a good twenty minutes in too much pain to get up. But when I came to the realization that no one was coming I managed to get up and make my way back upstairs, hunched over like an actor trying out for a part as Igor. To make things short, all my employer did was send me to the EMT’s we have at work who in turn said it was probably just a pulled muscle and gave me four ibuprofen tablets to take. “You’ll feel better in about two weeks, now get back to work.” Well, guess what motherfuckers, it’s been more than twice that much and still nothing.
So, as you can clearly tell I am not a happy camper in this particular moment. I have too much on my plate and not enough of an appetite for it. I would love to go on and whine about how sad my life is but I’m pretty sure you have problems of your own to deal with. The only difference is I don’t have to read about yours. Either way, while I was going on about work the line has moved significantly and I’m the next vehicle in line to cross. So I will have to leave you for the time being as my routine of a life has gone back into motion.