I suppose it's time to post Part II of Would You Like Fries With That? . I had left you hanging with the notion that Vince had added new tasks to my lineup of duties at the fast food restaurant. Nothing extravagant, or out of the ordinary... just cleaning the bathrooms. The only odd thing about it was that I had never been asked to do it before. There was an older, male employee who usually handled this task, but I suppose Vince wasn't interested in forcing himself on that straggly haired, bi-focal wearing, hunched over hippy-dude, who smelled of meat patties, and bacon grease.
The first time I lugged the bucket of soapy suds into the 'mancave', Vince appeared soon after. He offered me some helpful advice, "You should lock the door, to keep customers out while you're cleaning." And then he demonstrated by turning the deadbolt. He wasted no time in backing me up against a stall door, and yanking down the elastic pants of my uniform. And that's all I have to say about that.
The second time, I wasted not a minute in doing exactly what I was instructed to do. I locked the door! Halfway through my task, the handle jiggled, and then came a knock. I called out that the bathroom was out of service, but would be available again in a few minutes. The knocker replied, "Open up", in Vince's stern managerial voice. It seemed like forever that I stood frozen in the center of the room, until the knock came again.
I didn't know what to do. I had long since given up the notion that he was in love with me, and had realized that he was merely using me as a tool to help release his surging hormones. But I still hadn't realized that there was anything I could do about it. As far as I was concerned, I had to open the door.
He stepped in, and locked it again. He backed me up against the cold tile wall, and tugged at my uniform pants. And that's all I have to say about that.
He didn't get a third opportunity. A separate incident involving another employee occurred not long after, that rocked my entire world, and finally made me beat feet outta there... fast and furiously.
Dec 28, 2012
Dec 27, 2012
Compassionate Hate
A time that I have long awaited is coming upon me, and it doesn't feel exactly the way I had greatly anticipated. The man that I have called stepfather for the greater part of my life, has lived with one foot in the grave for nearly two years. He is now dipping his second foot into the soil, like a bathing beauty testing the water before a dive, and I am not elated. I am not feeling the urge to break into a joyful dance around a crackling fire, like the wild native of an undiscovered Amazonian tribe, as I once said that I would.
But I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at myself. After all, I have spent the last fifteen years developing the most beautiful relationship with my higher spirit, and all that I am today contradicts the hate that I've always carried for him. I cannot say that I love him, for the man that he has shown himself to be for all these years. But, I do feel a great compassion, as one child of God to another, for my fellow human being, who now stands at the edge of his life. Even for one like me, who looks very forward to my own crossing, and has no fear of the transition into the next existence... the process of the physical death (from the perspective of human, not spirit) can be a very frightening experience. And I feel for him. And I pray for him.
It tears at my heart that my mother isn't able to participate in, what could be, the most healing moments of all of our lives. Having to care for him, as his health rapidly declines, is difficult at best, and she struggles with it. But she could be using the process as a means of taking back the power that he had wrestled away from her all years ago, with a closed fist and hurtful words.
Unfortunately, she is now incapable of anything positive. Her life has been filled with bitter regret, depression, and an inconsolable anger for at least a decade, maybe more. To my sister and I, she has become him. She will hunt you down, when the mood strikes, and ambush your unsuspecting spirit with her vengeful rage. Belittle, demeaning, insulting. For my sister, it is debilitating. She takes the words to heart, and suffers deeply. For me, it is a test of my compassion. I don't hear her words for what they appear to be on the surface, I hear where they came from, and the pain that they represent, and I forgive her. Even in the moment that she tears me down, I ask for Angels to build her up.
We all want to leave our mark on the world, something that proves that we walked here, we ran here, we fell here. When my wicked stepfather leaves, he leaves behind a replica of himself, in female form, to carry on his mission of filling the world with hate. And my revenge on him will be love.
But I suppose I shouldn't be surprised at myself. After all, I have spent the last fifteen years developing the most beautiful relationship with my higher spirit, and all that I am today contradicts the hate that I've always carried for him. I cannot say that I love him, for the man that he has shown himself to be for all these years. But, I do feel a great compassion, as one child of God to another, for my fellow human being, who now stands at the edge of his life. Even for one like me, who looks very forward to my own crossing, and has no fear of the transition into the next existence... the process of the physical death (from the perspective of human, not spirit) can be a very frightening experience. And I feel for him. And I pray for him.
It tears at my heart that my mother isn't able to participate in, what could be, the most healing moments of all of our lives. Having to care for him, as his health rapidly declines, is difficult at best, and she struggles with it. But she could be using the process as a means of taking back the power that he had wrestled away from her all years ago, with a closed fist and hurtful words.
Unfortunately, she is now incapable of anything positive. Her life has been filled with bitter regret, depression, and an inconsolable anger for at least a decade, maybe more. To my sister and I, she has become him. She will hunt you down, when the mood strikes, and ambush your unsuspecting spirit with her vengeful rage. Belittle, demeaning, insulting. For my sister, it is debilitating. She takes the words to heart, and suffers deeply. For me, it is a test of my compassion. I don't hear her words for what they appear to be on the surface, I hear where they came from, and the pain that they represent, and I forgive her. Even in the moment that she tears me down, I ask for Angels to build her up.
We all want to leave our mark on the world, something that proves that we walked here, we ran here, we fell here. When my wicked stepfather leaves, he leaves behind a replica of himself, in female form, to carry on his mission of filling the world with hate. And my revenge on him will be love.
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