Driven to Waste By Brian Looney
Juliana Lopez grasps the soapy sponge in her coarse, calloused hand and scrubs the plastered food off the dish. The rejected chunks dribble over her gloved hands which are bony and knotted with age, not to mention pestered by arthritis. Her back aches from standing all day, and she longs to doze off in the creaking rocking chair left behind in Mexico. Here, in America, she has a different chair. It is cushioned and stuffed with cotton. Although it is much more comfortable than her old rickety wooden chair, she longs for the unyielding caress of that familiar friend. It was built for her by her son, before he died, and presented to her on her fifty-sixth birthday. The chair was sturdy and built to last, like the Mexican peoples. Placed in the shady corner, it would beckon her with subliminal power, luring her into its grudging embrace. Occasionally, the armrest would launch a splinter in Julianas forearm as she napped. When this happened, her dreams would become nightmarish; pierced by the portentous past. Now, almost four years later, she washes dishes in restaurants making more money than she has ever made in her epic life.
"You can go head on home now, Joo-lee-ahh-nah. It's 5:00 and Manuel's here to take over for you," says Mr. Arnold White, owner of the Texas steakhouse.
"Gracias, Mr. White. I come now in tomorrow?" Juliana reverently replies. She has always looked up to Mr. White. The man radiates energy and always knows exactly what needs doing. Plus, he hired Juliana. By his grace she is able to make her living.
"Yep, same time tomorrow. Only," Mr. White muses over Julianas food-caked uniform," only, make sure to have that uniform cleaned up nicely."
"Yes, Mr. White. I see you later."
From working in restaurants, Juliana has learned terms such as on-the-fly, all-day, operational excellence, double-shift, eighty-six, big-top, opening duties, closing duties, back-of-the-house, front-of-the-house, and the like. The knowledge of such exclusive jargon infuses a certain pride in her. She understands their meaning when many native born American citizens do not. As she walks with aching joints to her second job, this time at an Italian restaurant, she recites these newly-acquired terms to herself over and over in smilingly botched pronunciations.
As she enters the restaurant with her uniform tucked under her arm, she is accosted by the general manager, Scott Greenham. He is the mean sort, bloated by his own importance and blinded by his obligation to the company. His fair, youthful face twists in a horrid grimace; his pastel-blue eyes fire with indignation. Juliana has met his kind before. Mr. Greenham marches over to her military style: rigid of body, hands clenched into white-knuckled fists. The steady clinking of his keys grows louder as he approaches her. No doubt, this rhythmic chime is calculated to inspire fear in the prisoner. One only hears the clink of Mr. Greenhams keys when he is on patrol. A rhythmic jingle, like now, means that he is about to reprimand somebody. Towering over Juliana, he growls: "How many times have I told you that its against company policy to change clothes on the premises?!"
It is a well known fact around the place that Juliana comes directly from her other job and changes uniforms in the back restroom. All the other managers tolerate this. Mr. Greenham, however, is not so lenient. "I speak to other managers before, Mr. Greenham. They say it is no problem-o, she speaks timidly in broken English."
Reddening, Mr. Greenham hisses, "I am the general manager here, and I will talk to my management staff about this incident. If you do it one more time, I will not hesitate to strip you of your employee status!" That said, he marches off questing for other transgressions. Juliana immediately decides to change at Mr. Arnold White's steakhouse from now on. An ex-employee once told Scott Greenham to pin jingling medals at his breast and hang a baton at his side before she flashed him the finger. Mr. Greenham took it as a complement. Ever since then, he has been known as the Sergeant.
Juliana takes her usual dishwashing position after greeting her fellow kitchen employees in Spanish. "Its Grandma!" they comically shout, as always. Grandmother is her label here, on account of her age. Juliana always chuckles at this and shoots back in Spanish, "Yes, and Grandma's gonna give you bad children a beating!" Their whooping laughs echo throughout the kitchen. This is the ritual; this is the routine. None of them ever tire of it, Juliana least of all. All find refuge from the Sergeants attacks within the welcoming fortress of friendship. The workers connect extremely well with one another because, deep down, they all want the same thing: life, liberty, happiness, economic well-being, fraternity. Within the workforce, such solidarity thrives in spite of job competition and managerial oppression. Mutual aid, mutual compassion is a fundamental truth of human nature and is not easily squashed by any authority. A tyrannical figure like the Sergeant seeks to eliminate it at every turn whereas a perceptive man such as Mr. Arnold White will find it is conducive to profit. In this new age, human affection is wielded by authority to increase revenue. It is used to bring workers into a cohesive entity; into a team whose sole function is to satisfy the greed of employers. The friendship between Juliana and her coworkers is encouraged in the name of profit. When that same camaraderie provides a base for any labor movement, it is denounced as Communism and is actively suppressed.
Let us leave Juliana to the flurried monotony of her other dishwashing job and concentrate for a moment on that amiable personage, Mr. Arnold White, owner of the steakhouse. We find him driving home to his wife and children in his newly waxed sports car. A Jesus fish is on the back along with a "God Bless America" bumper sticker. Johnny Paycheck's "Take This Job and Shove It" blares out of the expensive stereo system. "It's wonderful that I can provide impoverished people such as Joo-lee-ahh-nah with employment. Without restaurants like mine, she would surely starve, and starvation motivates people to do dreadful things," says Mr. White. "Where else but America can those people find the arms of liberty outstretched in a motherly embrace? Here, they are free. Free from slavery and oppression and ignorance." Once, a 'Commie Bastard' accused Mr. White of exploitation. He'd scoffed at the accuser and retorted, "They voluntarily choose the job. I am not forcing those people to work for me. In fact, I am providing them with the means to financial security. I have worked for everything without anyone's help and deserve the fruits of my own labor." He then finished the argument with his favorite phrase, "Love it or leave it," turned his back, and left the 'Commie Bastard' glaring after him. Arnold White just could not understand that sort of thing. "Why can't people just be happy with what they have?
I am content with what the Lord has given me" he'd thought at the time.
Mr. White enters the gated community he lives in and pulls up to the mansion his wife loves so much. He is greeted at the door by his animated wife. She flashes an adorable smile to her husband and plants a loving kiss on his lips. Their houses majesty is uncontestable, as any observer would assert. Three-stories tall with marble floors, an Olympic size swimming pool in the back with an ornate Jacuzzi, statues, artwork, and fountains all professionally orchestrated to provide the most luxurious mansion money can buy. Mr. White wants the best for his wife and family. They deserve it. " Come to the bedroom, I have some new outfits for you to see!" his wife exclaims with childish excitement. Tomorrow is Sunday and the two must decide what they will wear to the church service.
A few hours pass; it is now 12:30 AM and Juliana prepares to go home. Sergeant Scott Greenham was especially harsh tonight, checking all areas of the restaurant for dirt, ordering her to clean under the dishwashing machine, etc. Juliana must work another double-shift tomorrow. She regrets this as tomorrow is Sunday, the Sabbath Day, and she has not gone to Church in months. The Lord must be furious at her for working on the day of rest simply to pay the bills. But her work is by no means voluntary. You see, awhile back Juliana's son and her daughter in law were killed in a car accident. This leaves three grandchildren to support. The prospect of starvation leaves little room for religion or self-enlightenment. Juliana must work to feed herself and her infant grandchildren, Anita, Julio, and Jose, who remain in Mexico with their grandfather. Thus she is stuck in this vicious cycle, motivated by "the invisible hand of capitalism," as the economists dryly put it.
Make no mistake; Juliana does not look on her jobs as bondage. She has seen famished friends and families before. To her, any work which staves off that fate is an
opportunity. She is the ideal worker for men like Mr. Arnold White and Sergeant Scott Greenham: desperate, loyal, obsequious, quiet, and, above-all, hard-working. Their businesses run on cheap labor. The blood of the underprivileged classes fuels Mr. Arnold White's shiny sports car and sates Sergeant Greenham's vampiric lust.
Juliana arrives in her dingy apartment at 1:30 AM and sinks exhaustedly into the cotton stuffed chair wishing, of course, for her familiar rocking chair. Her apartment is barely furnished, consisting of a bed, the chair, a small kitchen, and an old black and white television set. At night, the drip of leaking pipes is loud enough to waken one from sleep's stingy embrace. There is an indescribable smell about the place: a volatile mixture of spilt beer, spent cigarettes, cheap coffee, and crack-whore perfume. Every once in awhile the scent of vomit infiltrates the nostrils. The walls are thin, and the drunken couple next to her is embroiled in a fight rivaling that of World War 3. Amidst the slurring, raging adult voices one perceives the crash of plates, the clash of glasses, and the cries of children. The couple is always at odds, and Juliana has adapted to such inconveniences. Juliana knows that the best prescription for this particular situation is a few shots of Tequila. The medication begins, and after a few moments she falls into a deaf sleep.
Early the next morning, while Mr. Arnold White slumbers in the loving embrace of his adoring wife, Juliana wakes for work. The morning is always the worst part of the day for her. Her rigid joints creak like rusty hinges, her back feels like it is pierced by a metal rod, and her head pounds with the pressing weight of life, not to mention with the after-effects of cheap Tequila. She slowly dons her uniform, manages to eat a nauseating breakfast, and begins her day anew. The couple next door had stopped their quarrel sometime in the early hours of the morning in favor of coarse, drunken hate sex. They now lay sated in each others arms resolved, for the moment, to take temporary refuge in physical gratification. The silence is welcome. But Juliana must abandon its comforting presence and replace it with the restaurant's buzz. The sneering Sunday sun bakes her lined face as she drags her body to Mr. White's steakhouse. As she arrives at work, her toil begins. Juliana realizes her arthritis is getting much worse; her hands can hardly grasp anything. This particular morning, her rebellious body protests its treatment. The companies of the world need bodies like Juliana to create capital. They need bodies to lift, bodies to heave, bodies to scrub, bodies to plant, bodies to push buttons, bodies to paint, and bodies to dig. They need bodies to watch over other bodies, bodies to destroy other bodies, bodies to carry food to seated bodies, bodies to heave discarded shit into sputtering trucks, and bodies to prepare other bodies for bodily work. If a given body wears itself out from bodily labor, that body is discarded and replaced with a healthy body. The dysfunctional body is "let go," for it has outlived its usefulness. That body is then expected to die and other bodies must deal with the lifeless body. Usually the dead body is buried in the same area as other dead bodies and marked with a stone slab. Juliana's body fast approaches its last stage of use. That fact has been meticulously documented in her employee profile.
As Juliana wills her rebelling body to work, Mr. Arnold White gradually wakens from his fitful slumber. The day is still in its birth throes as the infant sun rises above the sand-paper mountains, enters through Mr. White's bedroom window, and visits the sleeping couple. Mr. White's eyelids yield to the sun's gentle caress and stir open to admit the aesthetic pleasures of his admirable house. His wife's delicate features are lax in deep sleep. Mr. Arnold White gently blows on her face, caressing her glowing skin with his exhalation. His wife's pores absorb the carbon dioxide; the microscopic skin particles dislodge themselves from the face and form an invisible cloud around his wife's head. His wife's eyes flutter in response and finally open to reveal the female's lovely irises.
"Time to get dressed for church," Mr. White whispers.
"Oh, already? Lets have a little breakfast first," his wife lilts in her petite voice.
"What would you like, dear? You can have anything your heart desires. I'll take care of it," Mr. White lovingly replies.
"I really want some French toast and eggs!" His wife exclaims with unfettered eagerness.
"Anything for you, sweetheart." Mr. White hops out of bed, and leaves room. "ELENA!! FRENCH TOAST AND EGGS!!!" the authoritarian voice booms down into the kitchen.
"Si, Senor White!" is the immediate reply.
Mr. White waits until he hears the clash of pots and pans before returning to his room. There he finds his wife administering layers of make-up to her pure face. Mr. White approves of a woman who takes pride in her appearance. He smiles at his wife as she paints her blemishes. Mr. White adores her. She is his wife, and he is the husband. What more could one want out of a relationship? "Flesh of my flesh, blood of my blood," he thinks warmly to himself. "Thank you God for
my wife," he whispers contentedly.
"Thank God for a loving husband," his wife replies just as happily.
The two quickly dress for the Church service. Mr. White's wife wears a silk maroon blouse with a matching skirt. The outfit fits her hourglass curve quite nicely, and the lace trim emphasizes her sensual calves. Her flawless, radiant face is the pinnacle of vivacity. Mr. White dons a handsome black suit. It brings out the features of his firm face and pronounces his powerful figure. The couple leaves the house arm in arm: the very picture of success. The two enter Mr. White's sports car and drive to the church located just a few blocks outside the gated community.
The church owns five acres of land. It hosts its own Jesus Christ tennis court, Jesus Christ daycare center, Jesus Christ Bible study center, Jesus Christ gift shop, and Jesus Christ boarding school. A Jesus Christ drug store was recently constructed to serve the sick and needy. Everything is always on sale twenty-five percent off, as indicated by a multitude of signs. Ask any acolyte, "Twenty-five percent off what price?" and they will scramble their brains in bewilderment. The two biggest sellers are Holy Virgin Viagrah and Priestly Prozack. On Sunday nights, the Jesus Christ ice cream truck drives through adjacent neighborhoods blaring "Joy to the World" out of four specially positioned megaphones. The children flock with their parent's money to buy Abraham Fudgesickles, Jehovah Jolly Pops, and Cranberry Cain Creamers. The church itself is a fantastic piece of architecture. Its Modern Gothic style combines with its sheer size to create an eternal monument whose very existence defies nature's untamed wrath. Mr. White and his wife enter the church along with their fellow worshippers and take their usual place in the sea of cushioned benches. Pastor Master's sermon begins almost immediately. His clerical voice is amplified by an intricate speaker system so that all may hear the Lord's will.
"Good morning everybody. I welcome you to our humble fellowship. Let us begin with a prayer of thanks." The amorphous mass uniformly bows its multiple heads. Pastor Master's voice resumes its holy monotone: "Dear Lord, we thank you for all that you have given us. Forgive us all our trespasses for we know not what we do. Please teach us to avoid temptation so that we may bask in your excellence. We ask you to help the officials in our government, to be with our troops on foreign soil, to assist the needy and the hungry, to punish the evil-doers, and comfort the sick and dying. Help us to invite you into our lives now and forevermore. Amen."
The sermon continues on in this manner throughout the sunny morning. A few songs are peppered about the service during which Mr. White's booming voice emerges victorious over the lesser ones. Initially, his volume level was the same as everyone else's, but, with lots of hard work, he climbed the voice hierarchy and now sits at the height of power. His vocal cords are now strained with the effort of maintaining their thunderous intensity. People at all ends of the church submit to the strength of Mr. White's dominating voice. Eventually, the service comes to an end, and Pastor Master's last line is: "Go in peace and serve the Lord." With that, Mr. White takes his wife in hand and the spiritually enlightened couple exits the church. They will enjoy the rest of the beautiful day in peaceful comfort.
By now Juliana attempts to work at Sergeant Scott Greenham's restaurant. Earlier today, she earned the smirking approval of the Sergeant when she entered in full uniform. That approval quickly turned sour, however, when Juliana proved incapable of the tasks assigned to her. The Sergeant had frowned when she grimaced in pain and dropped an expensive plate on account of her excruciating arthritis. Alarmingly, he said nothing and went to confer with his managers. Now, Juliana is enveloped with apprehension. Her work is of a slow, painful progress that can hardly be labeled productive. Sergeant Greenham keeps checking up on her, silently shaking his head, then marching off. The stacks of dishes increase in proportion to her sluggishness until they loom over her like wrathful statues: impregnable, cold, and judgmental. The pain increases until her hands feel like immovable mortar blocks rather than the delicate and flexible instruments they were fashioned to be. Determined to work until her hands snap off like dry twigs, Juliana perseveres. Some time later, which pain renders an eternity, she detects a rhythmic jingle. It can only be the Sergeant's keys. Louder, louder it grows until the sound seems deafening. The cacophony of metal on metal sends shivers down her spine, and she bristles like a frightened cat; afraid to turn around. So panicked is she that frantic tears build in her eyes and blur her vision. Suddenly the noise stops and the Sergeants whiskey-hardened voice declares, "Juliana, I need to have a word with you in my office right now."
She follows his marching figure single file into the office. She has the air of a prisoner being led to the electric chair by a vengeful prison guard. Her fellow employees are grim and pale-faced. They leer fearfully from the corner of their eyes as the jailer and his death-bound prisoner pass. In the office, the Sergeant states in a dry, matter of fact tone, "Juliana, your performance of late has been worse than acceptable." He seems to await a reply.
Juliana says in a tremulous voice, "I try harder, Mr. Greenham!" She has never been so frightened.
The Sergeant continues, "I dont think harder will cut it this time. You're incompetent. This company does not tolerate incompetent workers. As a result---"
Breathing deeply, Juliana interrupts him, "My hands tonight pain. I am old, Mr. Greenham."
"No, you are incompetent. You are now relieved of your employment status. Good night." The sergeant turns his back to her.
Juliana feels the first stages of shock overcome her. With one sentence, the Sergeant has zapped her out of the restaurant. As she backs out of the office door she feels used, rejected, and spent. Her mind is in a daze, her sight whirls. She stumbles out of the restaurant frantically grasping for some hold on reality. In a sudden epiphany, Juliana says, "Mr. White will fire me next. Only he wont fire me. He'll make it so that I'll have to quit." Zombie-like, she makes her way to the apartment. The next door couple is fighting again; a full bottle of Tequila beckons her like an old friend. She hobbles to it and drowns her useless body.
" Subject G appears to have passed away due to severe alcohol poisoning. Body found two weeks after death by the landlord coming to collect the rent and identified by him as Juliana Lopez. All friends and relations are still in Mexico. Body will be disposed of in the most efficient manner." The coroner's fingers click the tape recorder off, and he continues his work. He is a busy man.
