I wrote this in April for my English class junior year
As I begin to write this I realize that I must call into question every belief that makes me who I am!. Writing a memoir can only be done if you know yourself!. At my age one can not hope to understand oneself let alone the world in which one exists!. I fear this endeavor will prove to be an exercise in futility!. This isn't a memoir like Teacher Man or Where Rivers Change Direction!. Those memoirs are written from a different perspective than I can write mine in!. Frank McCourt and Mark Spragg are both wise old men atop a hill looking down at a turbulent river!. They were previously confused and wide-eyed fish in the river just as I am now!. They sit comfortably on the hill being warmed by the sun while reminiscing about the time they spent in the river!. They wrote down their memories about the river, but from the perspective of the hill!. I am writing about the river while still in it!. I cannot see what's around the next bend and anything I think I know is clouded by the blinding froth of the movement of many other spawning salmon!. Sometimes I will be subject to what alcoholics call a moment of clarity!. I must use these moments to try and piece together what happened in between them in order to commit to paper my deluded tale!. And so on I, the drunken, spawning, salmon, trudge, oblivious to those around me, in my attempt to do the impossible, whilst the greats like Frank and Mark look upon me with disdain for my foolishness!.
TARGET
Imagine a place where you are forced to act like something you're not to survive!. A place where around every turn a new danger awaits you!. Friends are few, foes many!. Some would call this a horrific situation, others might suggest its quite the pickle!. I call it my job!.
RUNNING THE GAUNTLET
Every day starts the same!. The car pulls up to the crosswalk and I get out, express my love for my parent and turn to face the day!. Grey clouds amass around the store, and the roof is shaped so that the edifice appears to be glaring down at you!. I shake the image out of my head and walk toward it!. The "guests" all stare at me as if I was the last person they would expect to see at a target regardless of my red and khaki attire and TARGET nametag!. In my self-conscious state I assume they are all looking at my high-waters and I pull my pants down a bit!. I have been in need of new pants for quite some time, it's just hard to shop for someone my size!. I try not to make eye contact with them as the doors open with a whoosh and the soft light greets me as I enter!. I walk past the cart well and greet the cart attendant(s), usually my age, who I assume are jealous of my starting position in electronics!. By this time I'm parallel to the guest service desk and I nod to my colleagues behind the counter as I walk by!. Alas, I enter what I like to call "oldster alley"!. This no man's land is more commonly known as "Food avenue", but you will soon prefer my choice!. I look down the aisles hoping to see my few comrades in the joint, and, having found none, face forward and greet the smiling guest to my left!. Around the corner turn two of the most hateful oldsters I have ever seen!. On the left is Jonnie, an America-hating, mustachioed, hunchbacked, wart-ridden, wench!. To her left is a woman whose name I have never learned or cared to remember!. She has a permanent sneer glued onto her ancient face and a chip on her shoulder, as if the world has knocked her down too many times and she couldn't forget the smell of defeat!. Senile and sporting a Jew fro I wonder if she has been working here ever since she was my age!. "Target probably only keeps these two around because they've worked here so long", I muse!. "Probably only a few years until they kick the bucket anyway!." As they walk past me the senile one shouts, "I've never seen him here before!" A twisted grimace formed on her face!. I look down at the white, grey-specked, linoleum and rub my neck, trying to hide my expression of surprise, pity, and amusement!. A few meters later, "That's the kid who (I couldn't make out the hoarse mumblings, but I'm sure it was derogative)!.", explains Jonnie!. "Oh! He cut his hair! FINALLY!", screams Jew fro!. By this time we are roughly 30 paces apart and I turn around to see the guests staring at their hate-ridden procession, mouths agape at the behavior of these would-be wizened oldsters!. I let out a chuckle and turn around only to have my good buddy from the backroom slap me a high-five!. "Things are looking up", I think as I push past the doors into the break room!. I head straight for the clock and punch in my number!. I'm rewarded with a cheerful response that sounds strikingly similar to R2-D2 for clocking in on time!. As I walk to the white-washed locker room I wonder if when someone clocks in late an alarm similar to one you hear in prisons and military bases blares and says the offending employees name in a computer voice that sounds full of iWww@QuestionHome@Com