Fear and Loathing on State Street

Author: The Carrot
Email: stevem@shore.net
Date: 1998/09/03
Forums: alt.tasteless 

The summer of my unemployed contentment is over.  No more summer days of 
lazing around the marina drinking a case of cheap but cold beer with Capt Moe 
and his homeless pal Jim, maintaining a slight buzz from sunrise to sunset 
while discussing everything from marine diesel mechanics to which pizza shop 
has the fastest delivery. No more days of  sailing off by myself for parts 
unknown, or walking down sunny, treelined streets with my iguana perched on 
my shoulder, simply enjoying the weather. No more hanging out on the deck of 
Michael’s Harborside staring down at the harbor, getting drunk and trying to 
score...on Wednesday afternoons, right after lunch. No more Friday night 
cookouts with Paul The Teacher, smoking contraband Cuban cigars and making 
fun of his girlfriend behind his back. 

I fulfilled my fantasy of taking the summer off and living life to the hilt. 
Now that the leaves are slowly changing and there’s a little chill in the 
air, I have returned to work. It took me three days to find a job in the 
financial industry in Boston, a job that pays well, has benefits, and let’s 
me work with most of the latest and greatest technology. There’s only one 
little catch:

I have become a "suit". Granted, it’s a role that I’ve played before and it’s 
a role that I play well. I only stopped being a "suit" two years ago when I 
decided to work for a small, so-called progressive company. With an alcoholic 
as the owner, things got progressively worse until I was laid off, at which 
point I took the summer off to relax (thanks to the advice of our own Citizen 
Ted, who threatened to shoot me if I DIDN’T take the time off). 

But now I’m back and  I think you all may know me. You see, wearing a suit 
and tie every day really brings out the worst in me. 

I’m the guy with the Starbucks cup in one hand, briefcase in the other, who 
jaywalks in front of you. I’m the guy at the subway station who forces his 
way into crowded cars before the other passengers have had a chance to get 
out; I’m in a hurry, you see. I’m the guy sitting in Post Office Square 
eating his lowfat grilled chicken salad at lunch and drinking a bottle of 
spring water, smiling at the ladies as they walk past.  Sometimes (more often 
than some feminists would like to admit) they smile back. 

How do you suppose they’d feel if they knew that I was smiling because I was 
imagining the looks on their faces while I fisted them with my unlubricated 
hand?  Do you think that most of them would still be smiling? I’m sure a 
certain percentage of them would not only smile but give me their telephone 
numbers. 

Walking down Washington Street on a dark and rainy day is like being in a 
crowd shot from "Blade Runner". Swarms of Orientals, blacks, and dirty white 
people milling around, noise everywhere, some of it emanating from the 
wheelchair bound ‘tard and his Casio keyboard who seems to be permanently 
stationed outside The Corner. Food smells, people smells, exhaust smells 
and people exhaust smells all fill the air. There’s nothing like being 
surrounded by people to make me realize how much I truly hate my fellow man. 
Oh, there’s some of you who are OK, who I enjoy spending time with, but the 
vast majority of homo sapiens are sheer wastes of basic biological resources. 

Who/what I saw/experienced today:

- My seatmate on the morning train, a well-dressed man in his late 40’s, 
sniffled, coughed, sneezed, and dripped liquid snot onto his newspaper all 
the way into North Station. As I got up to get off the train I turned to him 
and said "You know, fully functioning adults know enough to take cold 
medicine and carry Kleenex." He just glared at me while I followed him to the 
subway station. 

- I saw a person on Spring Street with Down’s syndrome walk by wearing a 
baseball hat with the saying 'I live life as if today were yesterday' printed 
on it. I had to hold my laughter. Either that poor tard has some very nasty 
friends or he has a certain poetic  fashion sense. 

- As I walked between buildings I was accosted by an elderly homeless man 
who, judging from the numerous bloody sores,  appeared to have advanced skin 
cancer. I ignored him since I didn’t have any SPF 15 with me at the time.

- A burned youth, complete with melted face and missing fingertips, hobbling 
down the street using an old fishing pole as a cane. 

- Two women discussing how much money their husbands made and how easy it was 
to cheat on their husbands since they were always at work. And my mother 
wonders why I’m not married yet...

- A bunch of street people were congregating near the Holocaust monument. For 
those of you who haven’t seen Boston’s Holocaust monument, it consists of six 
monumentally ugly glass towers inscribed with the the KZ numbers of the 
Jewish victims. It’s so fucking ugly that I wish the Holocaust hadn’t taken 
place just so I wouldn’t have to look at this piece of crap. Personally, I 
would’ve just sculpted six ashtrays with stars of David on the sides, but 
that’s just me. Anyway, these street people were sitting on the benches near 
the monument. As I walked past, one of the girls starting sucking on the neck 
of one of the boys; both of them were filthy, with BO that could be detected 
at 10 paces. 

"Human pigeons, that’s all they are," I said to the girl walking next to me, 
nodding my head at the street people. She still had her work ID badge on and 
I could see she was from a rival company. 

"Yeah, haha." She laughed but there was a nervous twitter in her chuckle. 

"Maybe Hitler was right about some stuff, you know, about how certain folks 
are drains on society and should be removed," I continued. The two street 
people making out were now almost dry-humping on one of the benches. "Or at 
least sterilized."

I’ve never seen anyone cross the street as fast as she did. 

- At lunch I walked down to the waterfront. There was yet another tard down 
there (I thought abortion was legal in this state!), this one selling Beanie 
Babies from a table with the sign made from a piece of cardboard that had 
'Rick and Nick’s Beanie Babies' scrawled on it in Magic Marker. The Beanie 
Baby selling tard had a normal-sized head but an incredibly small body and 
had to operate its wheelchair by puffing into a straw. There was no one else 
at the table, so I strolled over. The tard had a nametag that said RICK on 
it; apparently Nick was taking a bathroom break and had left a physically 
helpless retard to mind the store. 

"So Rick," I said "What the fuck could you do if I decided to steal one of 
these? Would you chase me in the wheelchair or would you try to take a swing 
at me instead or what?"

"Nnnnggghhh!!!!" the little deformed man said, thrashing in the chair. How 
the hell can you sell Beanie Babies if you can’t even talk? I walked away, 
leaving the mishapped tard to worry about the possiblity of my return. Hell, 
I should’ve just unplugged the battery on his chair. 

The joys of the lunch hour!

I saved the best for last. As I was paying for my lunch I found two large 
washers in my wallet; apparently I’d put them in my pocket when I was working 
on my boat the other day and they’d somehow found their way into my 
wallet. There was a homeless guy begging for change in front of me. 

*Clink* went the washers as they fell into his mostly-empty cup.

"God bless you sir!" he cried after me, "God bless...hey! HEY! Mother fucker! 
You think that’s funny!?!? That ain’t funny! Fuck you! FUCK YOU!!!!!!"

"Good lunch hour?" my network administrator asked when I came back into the 
office. I guess she noticed my grin. 

"The best" I told her, "the absolute best."

And I meant it.

- The Carrot