Intermission: "Paper Girl"

Terry A. Garey is a poet and prose writer living in Minneapolis with a librarian, three cats, and some squirrels in the attic. She was the first poetry editor for TOTU and has won a Rhysling Award in the long poem category in 1996. She is also the editor of Time Frames, a speculative poetry anthology published in 1991 by Rune Press and still available for purchase. Her book, The Joy of Home Winemaking, is available at fine bookstores everywhere. She is proud to be part of the performance group Lady Poetesses From Hell. Other than that she’s perfectly normal.

*~~**~~*

Paper Girl by Terry A. Garey

It’s 2 AM
Berkeley is quiet
car rolls into the warehouse courtyard
I park
wait with the men for the newspaper truck

I worry
because I’m tired
it’s raining
my route list is not up to date
starts, stops, changes have gotten muddled
because I trust my memory too much
haven’t written anything down these last two weeks
on my 700 deliveries

brakes are getting soft on the Cortina
hills eat them, scraping
metal through the linings
will I have to ask my boss for a loan again?

a few more vehicles come in
and finally the truck, blue and gold and huge
the union guy dismounts, opens the back of the truck
starts throwing out the key bundles

key bundles have the number of bundles for that route
have an envelope with the starts, stops, complaints
we all scan the info,
watching, waiting, trying to find out how many inserts
we have today
one, two, three for each paper
can make it a race against time in which
time
always wins

I used to own a route with my ex—
he’s gone, and now I’m a hired gun for George,
and the Donut guy
every morning I feel grateful Willy is gone
grateful I don’t have to do the accounts
grateful for a job even if it’s seven days a week
as long as I never have to sleep with him again

guys with the bigger routes start loading
it’s first come, first served, and they
were here first
I start up George’s tying machine
begin inserting and rolling and tying
to give my self a head start
the Cortina won’t hold the papers if they are all tied

my turn
I load as quick as I can, ten bundles this trip
with more to come later
try to scribble down the starts and stops
back the car out the narrow entrance
wish I had eaten something before I left the house

an hour later I’ve finished the University,
skirting the bushes where the RoTC guys got me
one night
I’ve hidden the paper for the gym so no one will steal it
done the law dorms,
hoping no one tries to hijack the car again
while I’m in the building

I remember the cop who thought I might have
a dead body in the trunk and made me open it
"I don’t want to see no dead bodies," he says in relief
I never asked him why he thought I might have something
besides papers

I head for the other dorms, drop the bundles
for the guys George pays to take them around
saves keys and time
once I petted a skunk thinking it was a cat here
no harm done
but nowadays I check what I’m petting

time is ticking against me
I have the whole upper route
and then the donut guy’s route
better hurry—
stop on Durant for Andy’s coffee
flee before the campus cops can give me a bad time
they hate me
for trying to earn a living they think belongs to a man
always feed me tales of rape and assaults
of women on campus
I never tell them about anything bad, keep it to myself,
and away from their satisfaction

Andy knows some of it: the druggie with the bottle
who had me pinned but didn’t kill me
various street people hoping I’d give them whatever
and the pimps who helped me change a tire—
I never told him about the ROTCs guys who ruined my
shoulder playing jump the paper boy
or the cop on the upper
route who held a gun to my head to amuse himself
or the cops who genuinely thought I was an armed fugitive
and nearly blew my head off—
"Never get out of your car when a cop pulls you over,"
the plainsclothesman had shouted at me, over and over again
"never, unless he tells you," and he was right
but I was late that night, and wasn’t thinking about
fugitives

I head up into the hills
narrow streets that wind like yarn into the steep slopes
cedar siding, eucalyptus, azaleas and rhododendrons—
it smells good tonight,
not too cold, no rain,
some moon to give me light
up here I’m above it all, don’t have to enter
dangerous buildings with lurking drunks, duck lights
that destroy my night sight
here I hoot at the owls, toss biscuits to the dogs,
watch for opossums, deer, skunks and quail
pet lonely cats,
here I’m rich in solitude and flowers, japanese landscaping
wisteria and lemon trees—
it’s mine, all mine in this soft hour—
my only injury came from a tread missing in a stair
five stitches and the doctor
let me work it off baby sitting

now I go back down to the warehouse, 20 minutes
lost to threading the streets
I load up for my final run
for Andy’s rival on College Avenue
Dream Fluff has nothing on Andy’s donuts
but he pays me
makes dirty talk when his wife isn’t around
trying to see what he can get—
nothing—
I ignore everything but the check
and the safe bathroom in the back
most of this part I can do with the car
rubberbanding, driving with one hand, throwing out the
window with my left
streets are a little wider
but traffic is beginning to move—it’s past 6 am
and commuters are heading out
one block, two blocks, three
I go on and on, taking it as fast as I can
throwing over the car, avoiding
obstacles and windows

then it’s one last run for the rest of George’s—
up one side and down the other, his original route
the one where he lives
a nice old guy with a heart condition and a sick wife
they raised three kids,
sent them all to college on the money from this route

nowadays George has trouble finding good help
does all he can to keep me—
gives me sci fi magazines
from his basement
emergency loans when my car goes out
advice on how to avoid assault at night:
wear old clothes, he says, look neuter
don’t let them know you’re a girl

last stop is the International house on campus
the cook gives me breakfast, sandwiches and hard boiled eggs
in exchange for the leftover papers
I eat the eggs
and on the way home, drop the sandwiches off
with my favorite winos
spreading the wealth
leftover from
spreading the news

© Terry A. Garey. Used with permission.

Links:
Webpage
http://www.joyofwine.net/
Bio & works
http://www.isfdb.org/cgi-bin/ae.cgi?Terry_A._Garey
Joy of Home Winemaking on amazon.com
http://www.amazon.com/exec/obidos/tg/detail/-/0380782278/qid=1129952391/sr=2-1/ref=pd_bbs_b_2_1/002-9601125-3922412?v=glance&s=books

COMING SOON: Invasion of the RNC Part the Last: Like Monkeys at a Flea Market

Invasion of the RNC: Part 2: How to Spot a Republican

I hate sterotyping. Stereotyping is ignorance's shorthand.

But lordy, sometimes in life one discovers how certain stereotypes came about.

Let me say up front that Democrats, especially the upper middle class, grad school grad Liberals, can be insufferable snots. Their prejudices are typically not of race, but of class. They consider those working behind registers to have something wrong with them. Many's the time I've wanted to smack some Starbucks-sucking, Martha's Vineyard sweatshirt-wearing, credit-card-tossing customer who wouldn't bring him or herself down to the level of actually acknowledging me as a human being. Some Democrats can be unapologectically arrogant and condescending. But they're rarely hostile.

That said...

Once the RNC official merchandise was put on display, our store began to hear more southern accents than usual. The people who came in and purchased said merchandise had certain... commonalities.

Male Hair. There were men whose bright pink scalps shone through crew cuts that couldn't have been a fourth of an inch high. I've seen soldiers in fatigues with more hair. Every individual hair stood at attention, as if planted into the scalp by a nail gun. Maybe these guys use electro-shock therapy every morning to zap the hairs straight up. I hadn't seen that many haircuts that close to the skin since I wore a plaid jumper and saddle shoes.

Female Hair. AquaNet lives. Somewhere out there, in Texas, Indiana, Ohio, the Carolinas, Alabama, and Montana, in tiny salons with names like Curl Up N' Dye and Snippety Crickets, the art of Helmet Hair is being passed on. From the Mists of Time, the BeeHive stands fast. I saw hair that was as gravity defying as any anime character's. There was hair that swooped out from the ladies' heads and stayed out in mid air, defiant. A hurricane would have been rebuffed. This was hair with a clear plastic cover to keep it clean and fresh for comp'ny. All it needed was lace doilies. I fought the urge to say, Is it really hair? Can I touch it? because I knew any contact with it would mean my Doom. My fingertips would have adhered like it was a tar pit, and nothing short of kerosene would have freed my flesh from the lacquer's grip. I didn't imagine these females' males ever had the urge to stroke their wives' heads. I didn't imagine that the females ever wanted to be stroked. Their hair was ceremonial. Every sensuous atom in it had been vaporized.

Crosses. They were big. No; they were honking goddamn big. You could have crucified a hamster on these. These crosses did not say in a soft and modest voice, Hi. I'm Christian. How are you? These crosses bellowed CHRISTIAN COMING THROUGH, I'M A CHRISTAIN, YUP, THAT'S ME, A TRUE BLUE BIBLE-TOTING HALLELUJAH CHRISTIAN RIGHT HERE. These could have been used as weapons. If some terrorist had suddenly pulled out an AK-47 in the middle of the Northstar Concourse, in a second there would have been the whizzing sound of gold chains, and the terrorist would have thunked dead on the tile, impaled by two hundred three-inch-long crosses.

Flag designs. I'm not sure how this crowd would define flag desecration. It evidently doesn't include wearing the Stars and Bars as a cap, a polo shirt, dog-carrier, handbags, ties, or socks. If the Flag Code states that keeping the flag out on a flag pole all night is disrespectful, then I'd think making the flag into a pair of men's shorts would be downright sacrilegious. I began to wonder whether this group wore flag underwear and used flag condoms. "Lookit Marge! Old Glory's risin'! Salute!" Somewhere in the Twin Cities, there must have been at least one stripper in a flag thong.

Caucasian. I kept track. 99.9% of the people who purchased RNC merchandise were white. 99.9% of the people I saw wearing or carrying anything RNC-related were white. This didn't shock me. What did shock me was the African-American woman from Tennesse, my age, who came to my counter to buy two McCain-Palin pins and an RNC water bottle.

When a non-Republican purchased RNC merchandise, they always explained. "I have a friend who's Republican." "I collect political memoribilia. From all sides!" "I work for MSNBC, I'm just getting this because...well, because. History and all that!"

But this woman didn't explain. So I assumed she was indeed a Republican.

Sister, I wanted to say, what is going through your head? You're old enough to remember segregation. You're old enough to remember when you rarely ever saw a black face on a TV show. You have to remember when it was illegal for a white person and a black person to marry. What on earth do you think McCain is going to do for you that Obama --the first ever African-American presidential nominee-- can't?

I told my co-worker, an African-American woman from Mississippi near my age, about this Republican. She shook her head. I said, "Sure McCain and his ilk want her vote. But after they get it, the only way they'd let her in the White House is if she's carrying a vaccuum cleaner." "Umm hmm, you got that right," said my co-worker.

The Silent Treatment. There have been several times in my retail career when I've greeted a customer and the customer hasn't replied. Typically if I try again the customer will give me a curt nod, or scowl, or snap, "I'm just looking, okay?!" (To which I want to reply, "And I'm just selling, okay?!" Or "I'm terribly sorry. I hadn't meant to annoy the crap out of you by actually offering to be of assistance. I shall ignore you completely from now on.") But this doesn't happen on a daily basis. Sometimes an entire week will go by without a silent snub.

But the folks who went on to actually buy RNC merchandise (and who didn't explain that they weren't Republican), evidently considered direct acknowledgement of a salesperson to be against some code. "Hello. How are you?" I'd ask. The customer with the three-inch gold cross and flag tote bag would continue to look at some spot in the shop other than where I was.

As my public radio listeners know, I have a voice. Some of my friends call it The Voice. It is difficult to not hear The Voice. Even people who don't speak English respond to The Voice by smiling and nodding in a way that says, Hi, yup. I hear you. Can't understand a word you're saying, but dang, you certainly can project all the way to the back of the balcony, can't you? Even deaf people seem to feel a resonance, because they'll turn, see me smiling, and wave to indicate, I see you. Thanks, I'll throw something at you if I need help.

But the RNC purchasers (the non-apologetic ones) wouldn't even blink. I'd wait a while, help other customers, and then return to the flag-draped patriot and say, "Are you finding everything all right, sir/madam?"

The sir/madam would continue to stare at anything that couldn't produce a voice. They'd finger an RNC windbreaker, eye an RNC shotglass. I knew they'd heard me. Now, a simple nod would have shut me up. But to ignore me completely eggs me on. Because that's just plain rude. And to be rude to someone who's offering to help you, and being paid crap wages with no benefits while doing so, is really rude.

So a few times I got within five feet of the sir/madam who had decided I didn't exist, cranked up The Voice to Maximum Diaphragm, and asked, "Are you looking for something in particular?" and I'd look straight at them.

In all cases, the sir/madam grunted, "Jus' lookin'." To which I wanted to reply, "Oh, I see. Your mama taught you not to talk to strangers." Instead, I just smiled in a way that said, I knew you heard me all along, asshole, and said, "Let me know if you have any questions."

This was just the beginning.

NEXT TIME: Like Monkeys at a Flea Market

Quick Comment:Women, we need this again

Forty years ago today, the Women's Liberation Movement was launched into the forefront with a protest of the Miss America pagent. http://www.npr.org/templates/story/story.php?storyId=94240375&ft=1&f=3

Considering that young women these days are obsessed with their appearance; obsessed with owning the latest material "status symbol," be it fetal pocket dog, HOLLISTER apparel, or Coach handbag; that they worry more about what males think of them than what they think of themselves; and that many "play dumb" in order to be "feminine," and the bigotry lesbian and bi women have to endure, it's time to launch a fresh Liberation Movement.

Invasion of the RNC: Part 1

Part 1: There Sure Are a Lot of Republicans Who Want Marital Relations With Obama

[NOTE: For some unknown reason, Blogger is refusing to give me paragraph breaks. Apologies for the cramped composition. / will indicate intended breaks.] On August 29, I was eating my way across the Minnesota State Fair. For those who have never been pressed into the fleshy fun bosom of the "Great Minnesota Get-Together," it's the time when Minnesotans pack on fat in order to survive the long, bone-cracking winter ahead. I was adding an extra layer to my preexisting ampleness by munching on a pork-chop-on-a-stick, shaved ice (cherry flavored), lefse (think potato crepes coated with butter, brown sugar, then rolled), roast corn, and cheese curds (deep fried chunks of artery-clogging cholesterol, often drowned in ketchup), as I made my way through the crush of sweaty humanity towards the Al Franken for Senate booth.

There, a white woman volunteer who appeared only slightly older than I am (I'm soon to be 48), shared a delighted squee with me about a man with a white mother and black father having just become the Democratic nominee for President of the United States. We had finally gone from a nation with presidents who owned black men

to a nation where a black man may very well become President.

I never believed this would happen in my lifetime.

/When I was growing up in Lansing, Michigan, it was the height of the Civil Rights Movement. My mom was of English-Irish heritage. My dad was of Filipino-Irish heritage. So in the America of the 60s, I was a "mixed" child. My white schoolmates and their parents, and even some of my teachers, never let me forget it. Kids told me to "go back where you came from."

(Where? My mother's womb?) I was told that I didn't "look American." (Some of my mom's ancestors came over on the Mayflower. I qualify to be a member of The Daughters of the American Revolution.) I remember when Dr. King was assassinated, and when Detroit was literally ablaze with racial tension.

/Even with the progress America has made in civil rights since then, nobody would have convinced me that, only thirty years later, a man of color would be embraced so enthusiastically as a Presidential candidate. That August 29th, I was so bloody proud of my country and my countrypersons.

/Didn't last.

/At the State Fair's Minnesota DFL booth, I bought a very cool Obama t-shirt,
and I changed into it in a restroom. On my way home, I stood on a highway meridian, waiting for the light to change so I could finish my way across.

Suddenly, a male voice intoned from a passing car: "F*** Obama."

/The car was gone before I could look. The sentiment didn't startle me. But the public flinging of it from a stranger to a stranger did. If I saw a person wearing a McCain t-shirt, it'd never cross my mind to yell the F word at him. I wouldn't even think "F*** McCain." For all I know, McCain's a decent guy. He makes me think of somebody's grandfather who went through the Vietnam war, and is still cranky about the draft dodgers and Flower Children. So he now wants the votes of the grandchildren of the draft dodgers and Flower children. He means well, but he hasn't transistioned into the 21st century, because he doesn't want to transition into the 21st century. He wants America to be The Lawrence Welk Show, but what he sees is America as Laugh-In. (If you don't get these ancient pop-culture references, just visit your local DVD TV show store. These archaic programs are all available for your viewing pleasure. You'll discover why change is good, and why those retro 70s styles you can get at Target are sick and wrong.)

/I don't agree with McCain's point of view. But I'll defend to the death his right to have it.

/Weell.. maybe not to the death, but at least to the having my life threatened by, for example, some drunken nutjob at a train station.

/That, I thought as I scurried across the highway like a fat raccoon, is the difference between Liberals and Conservatives. A Liberal will try to reason with a person with an opposing point of view. The worst you get from a Liberal is being blathered at, plummeled with statistics, historic facts, and emotional anecdotes, until the person with the opposing viewpoint falls into a stupor, which the Liberal will misinterpret as concession, thus failing to check the person with the opposing viewpoint's pulse and call 911.

/But Conservatives hyperventilate in the presence of opposing viewpoints. There is not to be a discussion. There is to be THEIR and ONLY THEIR point of view. All differences are to be squashed and silenced. Their reasoning seems to be:

1. I don't question why I believe what I'm told

2. others shouldn't question what I believe

3. because then I might think about what I've been told

4. and I might question

5. and I might change my mind

6. therefore, SHUT UP OPPOSING VIEWPOINTS IMMEDIATELY

/I was raised to question, and even to change my mind. My parents considered this to be a good thing.

/I've even known a very nice Conservative. A friend named Tamara, from Indianapolis, jokingly called herself "The Evil Arch Conservative." She was anything but evil. She was a generous, kind person, and helped me a great deal when my mother died suddenly. She drove the huge van that brought my belongings and me to Minneapolis; I couldn't have moved without her help. In politics, we agreed to disagree, and even found areas where we did agree (i.e. Bill Clinton was lying, cheating scum). I knew very well that people from vastly difference backgrounds and views could find common humanity and get along.

/But the world is chock full of dunderheads who didn't get enough attention as children, so I wrote off the obscenity tossed from the car window as an aberration.

/Wrong. Oh my, boys and girls, it was just the beginning.

/As listeners to my Marketplace commentaries already know, I currently work at the Minneapolis-St. Paul International airport. It's a fascinating place to be. By pure coincedence, the company I work for has the licence to sell official RNC merchandise. I thought my being a Feminist DFLer selling RNC stuff was hilarious, so I had no problem stocking the store with RNC t-shirts, jackets, mugs, pens, hats, shot glasses, and red plush elephants. OK, I'd rather be selling Democratic merchandise, but the upside was Republican money would be fueling my paycheck.

/The week before the convention, the airport was given a makeover, like a tired middle-aged person who's going on a date for the first time in years. The walls were given a lick of fresh paint. New, shiny trash bins replaced old ones. Tiles were replaced; carpets were cleaned within an inch of their lives. The golf pro shop displayed Life is Good t-shirts printed with American flags. The FOX News shop, of all places, put out "I'm Allergic to Republicans/Democrats" tees, as well as Obama's books. Huge red banners with white lettering were hung from the concourse ceiling, welcoming the delegates and the media, and were plastered to the floor. TSA workers went from white shirts to new blue shirts that made them all look like the police.

/I enjoyed observing all this, until Saturday, August 30. I came into the airport wearing my new Obama shirt. Airport workers I knew who were from Ethiopia and Somalia greeted me with, "Obama!" and big grins, and I grinned back. Then I heard a deep male voice, textured with Southern hostility. "F*** Obama."

/I stopped and turned. A white man with a crew cut -- a hair style I haven't seen in years-- glared over his shoulder at me as he passed. His expression wasn't one of I do not agree with your choice of presidential candidate, thank you very much. His expression said, If Ah had a length ah rope.......

/I've lived anything but a sheltered life. But lord howdy, I haven't seen an expression like that since the Vietnam war ended.

/A tad shaken, I headed back for work. I hadn't gone a hundred yards when, from another direction, but with a similar accent, lobbed like a grenade, came, "F*** that Obama."

/The Irish in me swiveled around to face a beefy white man in a striped polo shirt and a badge on an RNC lanyard, squinting his piggy blue eyes at me and grinning like he was hankering to find a length of rope his own self. He was a good foot taller than I am (but then, everyone's a good foot taller than I am), and the way he was standing in place indicated that he wanted me to know that it was he who had spoken.

/Now, a lot of people, black and white, came up from the South to work in Lansing's auto factories. So I can drawl a Southern accent if I've the motivation. And I was motivated.

/"Honey," I said, "he's a hundred times the man you'll ever be. And just for the record, even if he did go for men, you'd never get to f*** him. 'Cause he's a class act."

/I stalked away before I said anything more. I was in my civilian clothes, so I was well within my rights to get into someone's face if he got into mine. But that was the thing: Why were they getting in my face? Why this need to not only voice their disagreement, but to do so obscenely? It's one thing to cowardly shout the F word from your car and drive away. But to say such a thing to a person you don't know, in a public place as this busy airport main concourse, and to want the person you abused to see hatred in your face --oh yes, it was hatred-- , that is an act of intimidation. It's an attempt to cause fear in another person. In this case, to make a complete stranger fear you.

/There is nothing I loathe more than somone who wants to silence using fear.

/This made me consider: Was this an example of the kind of people who'd be buying RNC merchandise? Surely not. Surely this was just some stray trailer trash, coming into the cities to take advanatge of the bars which would be open till 4 AM during the run of the convention. The actual RNC delegates had to be civilized.

/The atmosphere of the airport was being tainted in a way I didn't like. It was just starting.

/COMING SOON: Invasion of the RNC, Part Two: How to Spot a Republican