The Chicago Chronicles: Entry 4
I have come to realize how people gradually, over time, become white trash. Much akin to going bald, becoming white trash is often a gradual process that works its way first through oblivion and then through denial, until one day you take a good look at yourself and say, "Well that's not very becoming, is it?" For some this is not the case. Some are born and raised as white trash, not because of their socioeconomic status per se, but because of the patterns of behavior they are encouraged to (or perhaps not prohibited from) display...ing. Forgive me, I parenthesized myself into a corner just then and I'm not sure which verb tense I should have used. For others, they are born somewhere, some way else. They are born into classiness if not wealth and later in life find themselves in a slow, downward spiral. One day, they've either unwillingly or unwittingly (or both) amassed too many checks on the list of white trash experiences and must admit that maybe it's time to start calling Wal-Mart "the store." For me, that day was Saturday, February 7th, 2009.
It started out as a better than an average day. I slept late and woke up to find that the cold snap had snapped and given way to weather that was springlike and beautiful. There were children playing in the park and there was sunshine streaming in the windows. I cleaned up around the apartment and got some laundry done. Anything seemed possible. Next, I started checking boxes on the white trash list without even knowing it. Now I warn you, there's a fine line between "white trash" and "hippie" so you'll need to pay close attention. The warning signs are basically the same, but for hippies add "because you spent all your money on weed" to the end of each indicator. The next thing I did with my day involved driving, which brought me to white trash check box number one:
You own a vehicle that requires nothing less than prayer to start.
I have a car that was once very nice. It's still...kinda nice...on the inside...if I clean it out. As of late, it has become less a car and more a collection of minor malfunctions. Its peculiaries include the following:
A rear passenger lock that is stuck down for reasons unknown.
A new right front tire that replaced the flat mini-spare in the trunk that replaced the flat tire originally on the wheel.
A cracked water pump that only pumps coolant through the engine when I rev it up beyond 1.75 on the tach.
A steering wheel that is in the process of what I can only describe as "humidity-induced molting."
A tail light that collects rainwater and then dumps it out in a slow, tepid stream when the trunk is opened.
A headlight that does not light the ahead.
A hood ornament that rides in the trunk rather than on the hood.
A crack in the windshield that started as a rock chip and continues to spread like a glass infection.
A battery that never has enough juice to operate the power locks, but somehow always just enough juice to start the car.
I'd probably get my car fixed so that it was less quirky, but here's box number two:
You rely exclusively or almost exclusively on your feet and public transportation for your travel needs.
If I didn't live in Chicago this would be a more glaring sign. The fact of the matter is there's noplace to park in this city and the CTA really does go pretty much everywhere, often in better time that I could make if I drove. Plus, if you think constantly having to rev your engine so that it doesn't overheat while you're in stop and go traffic isn't really annoying, you're wrong. Still, though, those who have enough money own cars that run as smoothly as when they were brand new, and they park downtown anyhow because they can afford to shell out thousands a year just for parking. If I had the money I'd probably drive too, because while traffic is annoying, at least you're not sharing your vehicle with 50+ other people, 5 of whom are standing well within your personal "bubble" and a couple of whom are tangibly unaware of social norms related to personal hygiene. Things also probably not located in your vehicle: batshit insane schizophrenic homeless guys shouting conspiracy theories, 3 dudes with their headphones cranked WAY up, or vomit.
Anyhow, getting back to the events of my day...I got in my car, coaxed it into turning over, and headed on down the road. Where, you might ask, was I going? Why, I was going to check off the following box:
You shop at Aldi.
If you live in a region of the country that doesn't have Aldi...you're missing out. The first thing you must know about Aldi is that more essential to what you take away from the store is what you bring to the store. If you do not come to Aldi with backpacks a-plenty and a quarter, woe unto you. You'll need the quarter to unlock your shopping cart, which is chained to all the other shopping carts. This is an anti-theft measure, and it works. The cost of keeping a shopping cart safe from the drunk and/or homeless? One quarter, evidently. You'll need the backpacks because Aldi does not supply you with bags in which to carry your groceries. They have bags, but you have to buy them, and nobody who shops at Aldi is willing to pay for something as frivolous as a shopping bag.
Once inside, you will find a wonderland of cheap shit you never dreamed possible. If I could sum up Aldi in one sentence, it is this: Cross breed the dollar store with Wal-Mart and a thrift store and then make it exclusively for groceries, and you get Aldi. If you've come in search of name brands, you're probably going to leave disappointed. However, you will be THRILLED if you've come to react to food items by mumbling aloud, "Oh wow, look how cheap that is! That's like, 3 meals for $2.30! I wonder if it's as good as (insert name brand here). I wonder why it isn't refridgerated like (insert name brand here). "Also, come to Aldi if you get a kick out of crazy people. Just try not to make eye contact with anyone and for the love of God don't cut in the check out line, or you'll be drawn and quartered by an angry mob of single mothers, immigrants, and cat hoarders.
Do not, and I cannot stress this enough, DO NOT come to Aldi on or immediately after the first of the month. If you need me to explain this to you, you'll never understand, and also you're probably Republican.
I made a jolly little haul at Aldi, took it home in my backpacks-a-plenty, and managed to avoid doing anything particularly white trash until around 11:15 PM. At that point, I charged beyond any warning signs that I might be edging toward white trash status and went straight over the edge. Around 11:15 PM on Saturday, Febrary 7th 2009, I busted out with this little gem:
You've gotten into a heated argument with your neighbors about the trash cans.
Earlier in the day, I walked outside to find that our trash cans were all up close to the back of the house. That in and of itself was not cause for alarm, but that just wasn't where we've ever kept them and there was no reason that my landlady or the upstairs neighbors would have moved them. I thought it a bit mysterious, but ultimately I moved them back to the space in which they've always lived, which is in the alley, up against the park fence.
I came back in and asked my roommate if she knew anything about the trash cans. She indicated that she was aware of their relocation and found it just as odd as I did, but had no further details.
Well, come 11:15 PM, she and her boyfriend were in the living room when I heard her yell, "Somebody is moving our trashcans again!"
Normally I am not a confrontational person. To be honest, I don't even like most reality TV shows because I can't stand all the bickering that goes on. For some reason, though, something within me snapped.
"Oh, fuck that!" I yelled as I leapt up out of my chair and headed down the hall to the back of the house.
Lock one unlocked, door one open. Through the laundry room.
Lock two unlocked, lock three unlocked, door two open.
Lock four unlocked, lock five unlocked, door three open. I stormed outside.
At this point you need to know of a particular vocal talent of mine. I have a yell that is so loud, sharp, and fierce that it stops everyone in their tracks when I turn it loose, regardless of who they are or what they're doing. I have used it successfully as a lifeguard at public pools, as a camp counselor and while wrangling drunk friends downtown. My children will someday come to know and fear this yell.
"HEY!!!"
A middle-aged man of medium height nearly jumps out of his skin and freezes in place, along with the trashcan he was wheeling. His eyes are wide and I can practically see the adrenaline shoot into his system from how badly I've just startled him. So far, so good. I harness the element of surprise and continue my attack.
"What the fuck are you doing?!?"
"I'm putting these trash cans where they belong!"
There is another man with him. The second man is younger, but of smiliar build. He seems immediately concerned that I will kick the first man's ass at any moment and rushes to his side. Normally, it would worry me to be outnumbered in a tense situation. I am not at all threatened by these two, though. I'm not sure why, there's just something that suggests to me that they've never been in a fight in their lives and they're not gonna start now.
It then comes out that these two had taken it upon themselves to move our trash cans from their previous location to a much less convenient location, despite the fact that said cans had been there for as long as anyone can remember. Their reason? There were too many trash cans lined up behind their garage and it caused them difficulty in getting their respective, matching Audis into their garage when the alley got icy after a recent snowstorm. Mind you, our trashcans were not even the ones in front of their garage. Those belonged to somebody else. I'm baffled at the nature of the problem and how they arrived at their preferred solution. They chose not to get a shovel and clear the snow/ice away, not to put some salt down, the best course of action was to eject our trash cans, which sit at the end of the row, from the trash can club so that they could slide all the others down and give themselves another few feet of maneuvering space for Audi one and Audi two.
It was at this point that I decided I didn't care that much about the whole issue, but I'd be damned if I wasn't gonna piss these two off enough that it wouldn't be worth it to them to mess with the trash can arrangement ever again. First I offered them lessons on how to park their Audis, which neither of them seemed to appreciate, especially the first guy. He took a couple steps closer, which prompted guy two to come over and grab him by the jacket and try to move him away from me...but not because there was any indication whatsoever that violence was nigh. Something was a little peculiar, and then he uttered the words, "Tom, let's just go inside. Come on, this isn't worth it, let's just go in."
I detected a bit of a lisp, and then the pieces started coming together. Two middle-aged men live together in Lakeview. They drive matching audis. They don't seem willing or able to use a shovel or a bag of salt. One gets upset and the other tries to soothe him. One wants to argue with the neighbor kid and the other just wants to go inside and go to bed. Yep, we've got gays. No wonder I wasn't afraid of this turning into a fight. Gay guys don't fight, they just throw fits. If they were lesbians, I'd definitely be worried about getting punched in the face, and hard too. Then again, if they were lesbians we wouldn't be having this argument because they'd be able to park their pickups in any weather and they'd have shoveled the whole alley.
Meanwhile, Tom didn't want to come inside. He wanted to call me, among other things, "...an arrogant little shit," presumably because I had moved in some months ago and left our trashcans where I'd found them. In Tom's eyes, I was a real asshole, and I intended to keep it that way. When he upped his attempts to gain my sympathy, I stole a page from my sister's playbook. She has a penchant for busting people's balls when they vent about trivial crap they know doesn't really matter, and the way she does it will make you want to goddamn kill her when she does it to you.
"It was really bad the other night and I couldn't get my car in the garage, I had to park in the street!"
"Awwwwwww, the street? Did you have to park in the street? You poor thing! That must have been so awful for you. I park in the street all the time because I don't have a garage, so I know how hard that can be on a person, to have to park in the street. I bet you worried about your Audi all night!"
Mission accomplished. Both Tom and his partner were furious that I'd mocked their pampered dilemma, partly out of embarassment, but mostly out of how condescending I'd been about it.
"Oh, fuck you! You little...fuck you! You...fuck you!"
From there, the argument continued at least another five minutes and involved a lot of declarations that I was little and arrogant, as well as a shit, and demands that I wake my landlady up even though she's old and it was practically midnight. Tom also threatened to call the police a few times, which seemed to worry his partner a little more every time, despite the fact that it didn't worry me in the slightest. I'm not a lawyer, but I've never seen somebody arrested for telling his neighbors not to come onto his property and move their trashcans around.
Finally, Tom did "just go inside" and I moved the trashcans back to their original home, where they have since remained.
Some minutes later, I came to realize how white trash it was that I'd just been in a shouting match with my neighbors over garbage cans, at which point I launched this investigation into which other areas of my life may also be white trash. So far, I've only come up with one more:
You wear the same one or two pairs of pants to work not because it's a uniform, but because you can't afford more pants.
It started out as a better than an average day. I slept late and woke up to find that the cold snap had snapped and given way to weather that was springlike and beautiful. There were children playing in the park and there was sunshine streaming in the windows. I cleaned up around the apartment and got some laundry done. Anything seemed possible. Next, I started checking boxes on the white trash list without even knowing it. Now I warn you, there's a fine line between "white trash" and "hippie" so you'll need to pay close attention. The warning signs are basically the same, but for hippies add "because you spent all your money on weed" to the end of each indicator. The next thing I did with my day involved driving, which brought me to white trash check box number one:
You own a vehicle that requires nothing less than prayer to start.
I have a car that was once very nice. It's still...kinda nice...on the inside...if I clean it out. As of late, it has become less a car and more a collection of minor malfunctions. Its peculiaries include the following:
A rear passenger lock that is stuck down for reasons unknown.
A new right front tire that replaced the flat mini-spare in the trunk that replaced the flat tire originally on the wheel.
A cracked water pump that only pumps coolant through the engine when I rev it up beyond 1.75 on the tach.
A steering wheel that is in the process of what I can only describe as "humidity-induced molting."
A tail light that collects rainwater and then dumps it out in a slow, tepid stream when the trunk is opened.
A headlight that does not light the ahead.
A hood ornament that rides in the trunk rather than on the hood.
A crack in the windshield that started as a rock chip and continues to spread like a glass infection.
A battery that never has enough juice to operate the power locks, but somehow always just enough juice to start the car.
I'd probably get my car fixed so that it was less quirky, but here's box number two:
You rely exclusively or almost exclusively on your feet and public transportation for your travel needs.
If I didn't live in Chicago this would be a more glaring sign. The fact of the matter is there's noplace to park in this city and the CTA really does go pretty much everywhere, often in better time that I could make if I drove. Plus, if you think constantly having to rev your engine so that it doesn't overheat while you're in stop and go traffic isn't really annoying, you're wrong. Still, though, those who have enough money own cars that run as smoothly as when they were brand new, and they park downtown anyhow because they can afford to shell out thousands a year just for parking. If I had the money I'd probably drive too, because while traffic is annoying, at least you're not sharing your vehicle with 50+ other people, 5 of whom are standing well within your personal "bubble" and a couple of whom are tangibly unaware of social norms related to personal hygiene. Things also probably not located in your vehicle: batshit insane schizophrenic homeless guys shouting conspiracy theories, 3 dudes with their headphones cranked WAY up, or vomit.
Anyhow, getting back to the events of my day...I got in my car, coaxed it into turning over, and headed on down the road. Where, you might ask, was I going? Why, I was going to check off the following box:
You shop at Aldi.
If you live in a region of the country that doesn't have Aldi...you're missing out. The first thing you must know about Aldi is that more essential to what you take away from the store is what you bring to the store. If you do not come to Aldi with backpacks a-plenty and a quarter, woe unto you. You'll need the quarter to unlock your shopping cart, which is chained to all the other shopping carts. This is an anti-theft measure, and it works. The cost of keeping a shopping cart safe from the drunk and/or homeless? One quarter, evidently. You'll need the backpacks because Aldi does not supply you with bags in which to carry your groceries. They have bags, but you have to buy them, and nobody who shops at Aldi is willing to pay for something as frivolous as a shopping bag.
Once inside, you will find a wonderland of cheap shit you never dreamed possible. If I could sum up Aldi in one sentence, it is this: Cross breed the dollar store with Wal-Mart and a thrift store and then make it exclusively for groceries, and you get Aldi. If you've come in search of name brands, you're probably going to leave disappointed. However, you will be THRILLED if you've come to react to food items by mumbling aloud, "Oh wow, look how cheap that is! That's like, 3 meals for $2.30! I wonder if it's as good as (insert name brand here). I wonder why it isn't refridgerated like (insert name brand here). "Also, come to Aldi if you get a kick out of crazy people. Just try not to make eye contact with anyone and for the love of God don't cut in the check out line, or you'll be drawn and quartered by an angry mob of single mothers, immigrants, and cat hoarders.
Do not, and I cannot stress this enough, DO NOT come to Aldi on or immediately after the first of the month. If you need me to explain this to you, you'll never understand, and also you're probably Republican.
I made a jolly little haul at Aldi, took it home in my backpacks-a-plenty, and managed to avoid doing anything particularly white trash until around 11:15 PM. At that point, I charged beyond any warning signs that I might be edging toward white trash status and went straight over the edge. Around 11:15 PM on Saturday, Febrary 7th 2009, I busted out with this little gem:
You've gotten into a heated argument with your neighbors about the trash cans.
Earlier in the day, I walked outside to find that our trash cans were all up close to the back of the house. That in and of itself was not cause for alarm, but that just wasn't where we've ever kept them and there was no reason that my landlady or the upstairs neighbors would have moved them. I thought it a bit mysterious, but ultimately I moved them back to the space in which they've always lived, which is in the alley, up against the park fence.
I came back in and asked my roommate if she knew anything about the trash cans. She indicated that she was aware of their relocation and found it just as odd as I did, but had no further details.
Well, come 11:15 PM, she and her boyfriend were in the living room when I heard her yell, "Somebody is moving our trashcans again!"
Normally I am not a confrontational person. To be honest, I don't even like most reality TV shows because I can't stand all the bickering that goes on. For some reason, though, something within me snapped.
"Oh, fuck that!" I yelled as I leapt up out of my chair and headed down the hall to the back of the house.
Lock one unlocked, door one open. Through the laundry room.
Lock two unlocked, lock three unlocked, door two open.
Lock four unlocked, lock five unlocked, door three open. I stormed outside.
At this point you need to know of a particular vocal talent of mine. I have a yell that is so loud, sharp, and fierce that it stops everyone in their tracks when I turn it loose, regardless of who they are or what they're doing. I have used it successfully as a lifeguard at public pools, as a camp counselor and while wrangling drunk friends downtown. My children will someday come to know and fear this yell.
"HEY!!!"
A middle-aged man of medium height nearly jumps out of his skin and freezes in place, along with the trashcan he was wheeling. His eyes are wide and I can practically see the adrenaline shoot into his system from how badly I've just startled him. So far, so good. I harness the element of surprise and continue my attack.
"What the fuck are you doing?!?"
"I'm putting these trash cans where they belong!"
There is another man with him. The second man is younger, but of smiliar build. He seems immediately concerned that I will kick the first man's ass at any moment and rushes to his side. Normally, it would worry me to be outnumbered in a tense situation. I am not at all threatened by these two, though. I'm not sure why, there's just something that suggests to me that they've never been in a fight in their lives and they're not gonna start now.
It then comes out that these two had taken it upon themselves to move our trash cans from their previous location to a much less convenient location, despite the fact that said cans had been there for as long as anyone can remember. Their reason? There were too many trash cans lined up behind their garage and it caused them difficulty in getting their respective, matching Audis into their garage when the alley got icy after a recent snowstorm. Mind you, our trashcans were not even the ones in front of their garage. Those belonged to somebody else. I'm baffled at the nature of the problem and how they arrived at their preferred solution. They chose not to get a shovel and clear the snow/ice away, not to put some salt down, the best course of action was to eject our trash cans, which sit at the end of the row, from the trash can club so that they could slide all the others down and give themselves another few feet of maneuvering space for Audi one and Audi two.
It was at this point that I decided I didn't care that much about the whole issue, but I'd be damned if I wasn't gonna piss these two off enough that it wouldn't be worth it to them to mess with the trash can arrangement ever again. First I offered them lessons on how to park their Audis, which neither of them seemed to appreciate, especially the first guy. He took a couple steps closer, which prompted guy two to come over and grab him by the jacket and try to move him away from me...but not because there was any indication whatsoever that violence was nigh. Something was a little peculiar, and then he uttered the words, "Tom, let's just go inside. Come on, this isn't worth it, let's just go in."
I detected a bit of a lisp, and then the pieces started coming together. Two middle-aged men live together in Lakeview. They drive matching audis. They don't seem willing or able to use a shovel or a bag of salt. One gets upset and the other tries to soothe him. One wants to argue with the neighbor kid and the other just wants to go inside and go to bed. Yep, we've got gays. No wonder I wasn't afraid of this turning into a fight. Gay guys don't fight, they just throw fits. If they were lesbians, I'd definitely be worried about getting punched in the face, and hard too. Then again, if they were lesbians we wouldn't be having this argument because they'd be able to park their pickups in any weather and they'd have shoveled the whole alley.
Meanwhile, Tom didn't want to come inside. He wanted to call me, among other things, "...an arrogant little shit," presumably because I had moved in some months ago and left our trashcans where I'd found them. In Tom's eyes, I was a real asshole, and I intended to keep it that way. When he upped his attempts to gain my sympathy, I stole a page from my sister's playbook. She has a penchant for busting people's balls when they vent about trivial crap they know doesn't really matter, and the way she does it will make you want to goddamn kill her when she does it to you.
"It was really bad the other night and I couldn't get my car in the garage, I had to park in the street!"
"Awwwwwww, the street? Did you have to park in the street? You poor thing! That must have been so awful for you. I park in the street all the time because I don't have a garage, so I know how hard that can be on a person, to have to park in the street. I bet you worried about your Audi all night!"
Mission accomplished. Both Tom and his partner were furious that I'd mocked their pampered dilemma, partly out of embarassment, but mostly out of how condescending I'd been about it.
"Oh, fuck you! You little...fuck you! You...fuck you!"
From there, the argument continued at least another five minutes and involved a lot of declarations that I was little and arrogant, as well as a shit, and demands that I wake my landlady up even though she's old and it was practically midnight. Tom also threatened to call the police a few times, which seemed to worry his partner a little more every time, despite the fact that it didn't worry me in the slightest. I'm not a lawyer, but I've never seen somebody arrested for telling his neighbors not to come onto his property and move their trashcans around.
Finally, Tom did "just go inside" and I moved the trashcans back to their original home, where they have since remained.
Some minutes later, I came to realize how white trash it was that I'd just been in a shouting match with my neighbors over garbage cans, at which point I launched this investigation into which other areas of my life may also be white trash. So far, I've only come up with one more:
You wear the same one or two pairs of pants to work not because it's a uniform, but because you can't afford more pants.
posted by Beav at 8:45 PM
1 Comments:
Ha. :)
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