Me inside - My own factotum

Chapter 1

        Me Inside

        My own factotum

        A novel by Sean C Stucki

 

                1.

 

A demo-anarchist mooching off my parents.

“I just think that you should be a little bit more optimistic.”

6 months out of high school, 18 years old, black sweater with straight hair parted down the middle. Black jello bracelets, pentagram pendant necklace choker. Sitting impatiently in the passenger seat. Mom has been pushing the job hunt on me.

“I think this rehab center will be what you need. Your grounding to your art wings. You NEED to tell them your mentally handicapped! Bring that up in the convo �" No, I’ll just do it.”

“Ok.”

She was never accepting of my life choices.

“Have you signed up for Chabot yet?”

“no”

“why not?”

“Wasen’t meant for college.”

“Glenn… sometimes you say the stupidest s**t! Don’t you ever feel bad for shaming this family?”

“Sometimes.”

The car stopped in front of the rehab building in Hayward. A place that helps people get regular small labor jobs. People like recent convicts, the unemployable, and the mentally unstable.

I stepped out of the car holding my CD player. The player that skipped on every track of every damn album.

“Why do you have your long wallet chain on you?”

Mother, shut the f**k up is what I said inside my head but instead blurred half words that came out of my mouth:

“I don’t know mom.”

“Glenn……..”

The electric front door opened for the both of us. Some of the people that come in here are in chains. Minorities and prostitutes alike.

Death white K-mart looking walls that looks like those terrible convenient stores mother brought me to when I was a kid. That same vibe of stale sameness. How in the f**k was this place going to help me?

“Hello sir, could you please place your wallet and belongings on this conveyor belt?” 2 police officers guarding while they stared at me, standing on each side of a large metal detector.

I took off all my chains and placed it on the belt. Walked through with no alarm going off.

“Have a good time sir and good luck with the search.” What the police officer said with a smile.

“Ya thanks”

Me and mother walked upstairs past a bunch of cublicals.

“Hello! Are you Glenn? And you must be Mrs. Jacobs.”

He shook both our hands.

“Mr. Twinger. Nice to meet you both.” He said.

All 3 of us sat down. Same as downstairs a lot of nothing and sadness and awkward vibes. At the corner of my eye I saw 2 girls scantily clad filling out paper work.

Mr. Twinger pulled out paper with a back board.

“Alright young man. You graduated from Hayward High School. Is this correct?”

“Yes.”

“And what did you specialize in?”

“nothing”

“Ok……” *Writing down notes* “Ok, Glenn here is the million dollar question ok? What do you want to do with your life?”

I gave this man the same answer I give my parents and anyone else who asks.

“Paint.”

“What else do you wanna do with your life?”

“Paint”

“You know son, all the famous painters only make around 30,000 yearly and that’s famous ones.”

“Painting.” I said with the same stare. This answer isn't going to change.

Mother chimed in.

“My Son is very creative and artistic. His art teacher believes him to be a genius. He made a board game all by himself. His version of monopoly with bugs. Mr. Twinger….. I personally know the bus driver that works at Pixar and I know for a fact my son will be making movies there.”

“…..Uhuh…” *jots down more notes*

When looking at me I’m sure all he saw was a car washer or a frequenter of drug dens. My career option was I’m sure a f**k-boy answer.

After the meeting I got lost in the building. Mother stayed behind to talk more of Pixar. I stumbled into a room where these group of black guys we’re having a job fair.

“Are you guys hiring?” I asked.

“Better believe it brother.”

This large man with neck acne, a bald head with a polite demeanor gave me a pamphlet. It read:

*Wanted! Truck drivers! Applicants apply within for Northern California route to Arizona*

“Uhh… I don’t have a drivers license. I don’t even know what street we’re on.”

The big man took his pamphlet back.

“unfortunately you’ll have to have that kid. A license for this job. Class C.”

Author's Note

None