I’m not sure why he annoyed me the way he did—his smile was so constant that the front row of his teeth had become a permanent substitute for his lips. No one could be that happy all the time. There had to be something dark lurking behind that grin. The only time I caught him without it was when he was eating. Then he would only smile in intervals between swallowing and reeling in his next bite. Something was off about him. He was a little too into his gig.
You know when you work a job in your teens and really give it your all? You really go above and beyond, take pride in what you’re doing . . . until about four weeks in. Then you realize your job is completely demeaning. That your sole purpose is to blindly serve people who don’t give two shits about your own happiness or future. Then your work ethic starts to slide. You walk into the break room asking yourself who the fuck aspires to be the best grocery bagger or cashier? Who the hell cares how fast you can change the oil at the local Jiffy Lube? Who’s impressed that you can memorize the entire menu at the Crab Emporium seafood restaurant? I don’t want to be a professional busboy, you think to yourself. Fuck this job.
Then there’s Ted.
Ted is the guy who has been working fifteen years not only at the same chain, but at the same goddamn location, and he’s still only assistant manager. I mean, for fuck’s sake, he’s not even the manager! Let alone the regional manager.
Just think about that for a second.
You spend fifteen years at a company and you don’t own the fucking place? Man, I’ve met some guys in my day who started working at McDonald’s wiping the floors, then went on to fries, then burgers, then cashier, then shift manager, then store management, and before you knew it, they were sitting down with the bank being accepted for a loan to become a franchiser. Not long after that they got a seat at the board table. Real CEO shit, you know?
But not Ted.
Ted was the guy who wanted you to go nowhere and hate every second of it, because that’s what he had done. Like most drones in our society, Ted never did what he really loved. He always made an excuse about how he would do it, but he had other obligations, but money was tight, but this, or but that, or but you know how it is. People always say things like Well I would, but . . . and that’s where they fuck up. As soon as they give a reason for why they can’t do something, they’re already defeated.
I mean, think about it. If you ask a bunch of people what they would do if money was no object, if they were sitting on five hundred million dollars in an account, the conversation typically goes like this:
“Well, I would definitely invest the money into a tech company or some kind of—”
This is where I would interrupt.
“No,” I’d say. “You’re missing the point. The point is what would you do if you had five hundred million, not what you would do with the five hundred million.” I would stare at them, waiting for the proper answer—the proper answer being whatever their fucking heart desired!
“Oh, uh, I, uh, well, I guess . . . ,” they would stammer.
Here it comes, I would think to myself. Almost there I guess, uummm ‘almost’ . . .
“Well, I guess I would probably travel, you know? See the world.”
“Then go do that!” I would reply.
That’s when they hit me with the money issues or their dying family member or needing to finish college or a million and one goddamn excuses we as a society give ourselves to rationalize our fears without having to face the unbearable inevitable outcome of life.
And that outcome is?
“What is death is imminent, Alex?” Ding ding ding!
Now this is where I’d explain that if they want to see the world: travel to India, wave to the queen’s palace in London, cross the Swiss Alps, ride elephants in Thailand, surf in Nicaragua . . . they could do it. Without question. And without asking how, they always seemed to retort with some variation of “Yeah, okay, buddy.”
It kills me every time.
“Are you serious?” I would say.
“How the hell am I supposed to do all that?” they’d reply.
“By using your head!” I’d tell them. “I mean, why not become a critic?” They’d stare at me, puzzled, then say something ignorant. “What the hell do movies have to do with traveling?” they’d say, just like a drone with no mind of its own would.
I mean, this is some real break-free-from-the-Matrix shit we’re talking about here.
“I didn’t say a film critic; I said a critic. Why not review hotels across the globe?”
Once again, they’d stare, confused.
“Haven’t you ever heard of a five-star hotel?” I’d ask.
“Well, of course,” they’d reply.
“How do you think they got those stars in the first place?”
Their eyes would widen enough for me to get through, and if their minds would open long enough, I could reach them.
“Think about it. You can do anything you want in life. It just takes persistence, determination, realism, and wanting success more than your next breath. Whatever you want in life you can attain. As long as you believe it. As long as you say you’re going to do it!”
Now some of them, while still open-minded, would give some smart-ass response like “Well . . . what if I want to be an astronaut?”
I’ve had this conversation with kids under ten as well as adults in their sixties. The only ones who have ever asked me dismissive questions like this are the adults. It was the children who were perceptive. It was the children who took my words as affirmation of the limitless realities they already believed to be possible. They believed in spite of the grown-ups around them, tainting their innocence and imagination while ripping them from their dreams. Dreams of walking on Mars or building jet packs and teleportation machines.
So to that smart-ass with the question, I would say yes.
“Yes, you can completely become an astronaut!” I’d say. By then I know they really mean a space traveler. “I said persistence, determination, and realism earlier in my speech,” I’d explain. “If you look at your dream realistically, then becoming an astronaut is merely a million-dollar Space X ticket—if you live long enough to see it. So all you really need to do is come up with the money to purchase such a golden ticket.”
This is where they would roll their eyes and lose interest.
“My point is that you asked how and I am giving you the examples, the possibilities, because when I want something, truly want something that my life depends on—which is purpose and happiness—I will stop at nothing to attain it. It’s like breathing. So you must ask yourself: What is your air? What is the thing you literally will fight for to survive?”
I would hear “Wait a second . . . I was asking you what aisle the cereal was on, so, uh, how did we get here?”
Then they would walk away and I’d be reminded that all the shit I just philosophized goes down the drain when I’m surrounded by the reality of working in this goddamn supermarket. Wait, why was I talking about all that in the first place?
Oh, yes! That’s right. I was outside the supermarket, looking at Ted, thinking about my hatred for his smile. Then, the next thing I knew . . .
I was back. Standing here, stocking a shelf with boxes of pasta. Penne, ziti, spaghetti. Pasta for days.