s t r a n g e cousin susan

When I haven’t been rearranging my upcoming trip to see my Star and Bar, drinking coffee or Amaretto or Coke, cleaning off my hard drive and external drive, putting together packages for friends, tweaking SCS ad nauseum, downloading hitherto unknown KaTe music, reacquainting myself with the wonderfulness of the Bangles (thanks, Mike!), deciding this week’s favorite Doctor is William Hartnell, coming to grips with Barbara Wright not being as annoying a companion as I’d previously thought, thinking maybe Ian Chesteron was pretty hot in his own strange way (ditto Barbara on that), reconnecting with old friends and exes, creating accounts for what seems to be every instant messenger program under the sun…plus Twitter and Plaxo, and when those no longer entertained me, lying around doing not much of anything, there’s been a lot of activity going on betwixt my many-times-pierced ears about Friday’s turn of events and what may well have led up to my unceremonious dismissal.

My emm and I talked about the recent change to my fortunes a little on Saturday and I’ve come to the conclusion the events leading up to my rather sudden dismissal had little, if anything to do with fiscal concerns. Quite the contrary, actually…instead, I am more convinced than ever of Pussy Boy’s involvement in the entire thing. Case in point: he has systematically played a shadowy but healthy role in the drastic and heretofore unknown rate of turnover at the factory since he arrived. I know I’ve mentioned that before and I still hold to its veracity. When he felt challenged by someone, it wouldn’t be long before that someone was disappeared. It happened to the old punk, it happened to me, and I know it’s going to happen to someone else before too long.

The old punk told him to his face he didn’t know what the fuck he was talking about and questioned his knowledge in an after-hours meeting one afternoon.

Within two weeks, the old punk was gone, with the parting wisdom that I would be next. For the most part, he was right; I was definitely the next of the “inner sanctum” to be kicked to the curb.

There was no explanation given when the old punk was disappeared. There was no explanation given when The Usual Suspect preceded both of us in disappearing. I wonder if there’s been any explanation about my disappearing? Something tells me there hasn’t been, not to the boys and not to the customers, if my recent conversation with one of them can be counted as across-the-board. And boy, is he pissed about it.

In my case, I think it had more to do with the relationship I had with the customers that threatened him. There were some who would absolutely not speak to anyone but me when placing an order, even if they had to hold on the phone or wait for me to call them back or wait at the counter until I was available. That fact probably irked Pussy Boy to no end, especially when you consider he’s the one who had the practical knowledge of the business and I only had the knowledge of the customers and their trust. Well, when you count how many times I fucked things up and how many times he and the other fucked things up…well…the only way he saw clear to rid himself of the threat I posed was to convince the (wo) I was no longer needed, for financial reasons. Perhaps short-term, yes, that’s true, but in the long run, it’s going to cost more money with me gone than it would have to keep me.

Please. I wasn’t thrown off that goddamn turnip truck yesterday, folks. It dawned early on me the real reason my days were being split between front and back: it was a not-so-obvious way to acclimate the customers to my absence and to lessen the shock for them when I was really and truly gone. So, if my supposition is correct (and I do think it is, despite the paranoiac tone of it all), this had been in the pipe for at least the last month or so.

However, the bigger reason is this: I wasn’t going to kiss anyone’s ass for any reason and Pussy Boy knew it. I was never going to fit in to the new and improved run-by-Pussy Boy factory; oh, sure, I’d play along with the absurdity of it all, while at the same time reveling in a delightfully subversive attitude. I would continue to openly mock management (but not so openly as to be threateningly obvious, really; done in the right way, it’s not something anyone could have called me on). I would continue wearing my combat boots and S! J! S!-inspired sox and fun t-shirts. I would continue to innocently flirt with the shop boys. I would continue leaving for the day at four p.m. on the dot.

What it comes down to is this: I would continue being myself in an environment where, at one time, that was applauded and accepted, but where such audacity is no longer looked upon so favorably. So, it’s good to be freed of a place where it wouldn’t be long before I was forced to conform to the group and its groupthink.

That’s not something I’ve ever done well, anyhow.