A Day in the Life (of Jerry...

A Day in the Life (of Jerry MacDougallopoulos)

   
    What a difference it would’ve been if I had called in sick.  I had briefly considered it, even though I felt fine, but thought that it might be nice to have a long weekend.  But then I remembered that I was saving up my sick leave to use while I was going to be at an Indian casino in a couple months, so I pulled myself out from under the covers and decided to face the day.

    It was a moderately warm March morning, the type of weather where you’d sweat if you wore a jacket but would be cold if you didn’t.  Despite this minor annoyance, I should have been in a good mood.  It was a Friday, it was St. Patrick’s Day, and I was about to treat myself and my fellow co-workers to two dozen holiday-themed doughnuts (they’re really just regular glazed doughnuts but they put green dye in the sweet, sweet, sugary glaze).

    Instead, I was in a foul mood.  Some kid in the Dunkin Donuts line started off my day by telling me how strange I looked.  I know I shouldn’t have let this bother me, but I had already begun to turn sour because of the weather.

    “You look like Saddam,” the kid said.

    How a four year-old even knew who Saddam was is beyond me, but I suppose I did resemble the former dictator a little (post spider-hole appearance), especially on Fridays.  You see, I usually don’t shave after Thursday because the weekend is coming up and I really have no obligation to shave.  So I had over a day’s worth of stubble on my face.  I also had scraggly, dark hair that probably hadn’t been trimmed in at least six months.  I’m going to be honest – I’m not huge on constantly grooming myself.  I’m a little lazy, a little overweight and not one to typically do something if I don’t have to.

    “Thanks a lot, kid,” I thought.  What a great way to start another day.  No surprise, though, that my day started out like that.  For over a year, most of my days had started off bad and ended up worse.  This day seemed no different than the rest, but I would soon be proven incorrect.  This March day was the day my son of a bitch boss, Richard Eric, drastically changed my life.

    Richard had been tormenting me ever since we were in high school.  He thought that he was such a tough, cool guy, but he only really messed around with me.  In twelfth grade, as a big joke for everyone in our auto mechanics class to enjoy, he destroyed my car. 

    While I was off to the restroom, Richard slipped the keys out of my backpack and popped the hood of my car.  He then took the hoses to the fuel injector and washer fluid, switched them and loosely fastened them to the incorrect outputs.  After only a minute of work, he slammed down the hood, put the keys back into my bag and went back to what he had been working on before I left the room.  The rest of the period went along as it normally did; then we went our separate ways.

    By the end of the day, he had told our entire class about what he had done.  I, with no reason to suspect anything, although there were  about 35 people loitering around the parking lot, staring in my car’s direction, proceeded as I usually did at the end of any school day.  I got in and turned the ignition. The car started up for a second, then made a wheezing sound and died.  I rattled the clutch around to make sure it was out of gear, then tried again, really slamming down the gas so as to not embarrass myself by drawing attention to my potentially broken-down ’93 Metro.  Still no luck as the loiterers inched closer to my dying car.

    “You cannot be serious,” I muttered, “what could have possibly caused this car to stop working?” 

    I got out of the car to pop the hood and just as I did, both transplanted hoses burst all over the engine.  Pressure had built up and corrosive de-icing washer fluid had been injected into my intake manifold. 

    “What is this?” I shouted, “Shit!”

    The crowd that had gathered got a rise out of this.  I had a feeling about who was responsible for what had happened, but there was no way to truly find out.  There were too many people in the crowd and they were pleased with what they had seen – they weren’t going to give anybody up.  I had to get my car towed, then learned that it was out of commission for three months.

    I didn’t confirm my suspicion that it was Richard until after graduation.  By that point there was nothing that I could do.  He was off to university while I was trying my luck at community college.  We never crossed paths until a year and a half ago when he came in to manage the office that I was working at.  He became my boss and I, after having completed not one semester of community college, leaving me with no viable alternatives, was subject to his rule, no matter how unreasonable it may have seemed.

    The incident was over five years ago, but I still remember it pretty well, especially since I still use the same car to get around.  Sometimes it’ll wheeze and gasp for life a little, but it’s generally a reliable car – plus it gets great gas mileage.  But back to the present day – enough of my unforgettable high school memories with Richard.

    I was able to get out of the doughnut shop without any more juvenile insults to dampen my already worsening mood.  I set the doughnuts on the corner of my desk when I got in, making it clear that they were for the taking.  Two people grabbed a couple within a relatively short amount of time, but then, for several hours, nobody even came near my desk.  Were people trying to avoid me?  Did they really think that I wanted the remaining 22 doughnuts all for myself?

    Lunch came and went and still nobody stopped by, not even for a non-doughnut related issue.  “What is going on,” I thought, “are these people crazy?”

    I went back to my work, thinking that it would get my mind off of what was happening.  It helped, as my mind became somewhat free of the paranoia that maybe someone was trying to sabotage my generosity.  Then, on my way to the copier, I overheard Richard telling someone that I had mentioned something to him about people “stealing” my doughnuts.  What an absolute lie.

    “What is wrong with that man?” I muttered.

    I was livid and finally, after 18 months of him being my boss and his years of tormenting me in high school, I reached my boiling point over a matter of doughnuts.  I was ready to confront the dickhead.

    As I approached him, he started telling me about how great things were going for him – he never even considered that I may have overheard him.

    “Hey, Jer, how are things?” he said in his deep, almost David Puddy-like voice, “Life is treating me pretty well.  My wife just got breast implants, so, you know – or maybe you don’t –they’re huge.  I’m also building this addition on to my house.  Let’s keep that on the down low, I don’t exactly have a permit or license, but I’m pretty good with tools.  You know, Jer.  Remember when I worked on your car in high school?  I see you’ve still got that piece of shit.  I always see it on my way in, rusting away at that dilapidated little house you have...”

    He was trying to impress this new female janitor and just wouldn’t shut up, so I butted in.

    “Listen, you sack of shit,” I said, “You can’t keep treating me like garbage.  I was at this company for three years without any problems and then you came and started acting like it was high school all over again.  I’m sick of this shit and I’m sick of you.”

    “Mac, who do you think you’re talking to – one of your internet buddies?  Don’t you EVER tal-“

    “I’m not done, douchebag,” I sputtered.  I was really nervous but my veins were pumping with excitement.  I knew this was my chance to express to the office how I felt.

    “You’ve been busting my balls ever since you got here,” I continued, “You’ve made an effort to keep me down for the last year and a half.  None of my ideas in staff meetings were ever good enough only because I thought of them. You kept trying to make me feel worthless, even if I was working to improve myself.  When I was trying to lose weight, you joked me; said that because I’m so fat and lazy that the only thing I’d do was dab the grease off of a slice of pizza or order a Double Whopper with no cheese and mayo.  Well, you can go to hell!  I may not usually give as much effort as I should, but at least I do try.  I won’t be treated like this anymore.  Things need to change.  Things need to change NOW, Richard.”

    “Sure, things are going to change and things ARE going to change now.  You’re fired, MacDougallopoulos.”

    Richard now slowly started to back away, clearly afraid of any more face to face confrontation.

    “We can’t have an unstable person like you in the office, Jerry,” he continued, “ We don’t need people that go around making a scene and threatening their superiors.  I hope you understand that you will receive no severance as you can be considered a danger to those who you used to work with.  I expect you will gather whatever personal items that may be at your desk and be gone by closing, which leaves you 15 minutes.  I thought you could leave what happened in high school in the past.  You need to learn to grow up.”

    I was left utterly, utterly speechless.

    “What the fuck am I going to do with my life?” I thought, “I only have a high school education.  There’s really no going up from here.”

    In a daze, I shuffled over to my desk and plopped down in my chair.  I just stared, blankly into the room of people, none of whom seemed fazed by what had just happened.

    “Jer,” Richard shouted, from across the office, “you’ve got 12 minutes.  I’m heading out of town right after work and I need you to be gone.  You have plenty of time to stare at anything you want now.  You just can’t do it here.”

    I heard a few chuckles from around the room after that comment.  Apparently nobody had any respect for me.

    “Why should they respect me?” I figured.  I never really accomplished anything meaningful before and I had no real prospects for the future.  My life had slammed into a wall.  What was the purpose of going on any longer – of trying anymore?  God knows that I was never big on giving a lot of effort towards anything before, and now I’m supposed to start my life over from scratch?

    I had briefly considered ending it before, but never seriously came close to actually doing it.  But maybe this was it – maybe this would be the time to finally go through with something in my life.  I had a difficult decision to contemplate on the ride home; one that required a deep look into the type of lifestyle that I had been leading in order to come to an unwavering conclusion.  I had to decide which method would require the least effort to end it all.  It would only be appropriate to keep the status quo in this respect.

    “Three minutes, Jer,” Richard shouted, “can’t have you here after closing – you’re a threat to the well-being and security of this office.  Oh, and one more thing, you’re official termination notice will be emailed to you by Monday afternoon.”

    I could tell in the tone of his voice that he was thrilled that I finally gave him a concrete reason to fire me.  I gathered up my belongings, which consisted of a desk calendar and a bag of Tootsie pops, and left.  Nobody said anything to me and I made no effort to speak to anyone.  Everyone was a Richard supporter.

    “So that’s how it’s going to be,” I thought to myself, “assholes.”

    And that was it.  After four and a half years, I was to never return to the Radio Shack head office again.

* * *

    There was a big accident on the ride home, which caused a massive delay.  Apparently a new digital billboard had been installed along the side of the highway and people kept slowing down to read it.  The problem was the fact that not everyone slowed down, even if they were reading the sign.  This resulted in an eleven-car accident, so I had a lot of time to think during my crawl home.

    I mulled over my options.  A hanging?  No, I didn’t even know if I had enough rope, much less actually know how to tie a noose.  I wasn’t really in to the idea of cutting or wounding myself.  It just seemed like something could go wrong if I tried to stab or cut myself and it didn’t actually do the job.  Plus I’m a very squeamish.  I just couldn’t go through with it that way.  Then it finally came to me, like a sudden surge of electricity.

    “I’ll just leave the car running in the garage when I get home!” I shouted.

    This was perfect – the revelation that I’d been waiting for.  No effort was required and it made no mess.  All I had to do was pull into my garage, leave the car on, crack the windows and close the door.  How easy is that?  I was psyched.  Nothing was going to stop me now!  Nothing.

    After being literally stopped for 45 minutes in the worst traffic jam in my life, I finally made it home.  I cracked my window as I pulled up the driveway.

    “This is it,” I said to myself, “there’s no going back.”

    I pulled into the garage and clicked the button to close the door.  The sun had almost set outside, but a few of its rays made it under the descending door.

    “That’s the last sunlight that I’ll ever see,” I thought, “how dramatic?”

    I was so nervous that I was almost shaking.

    “Easy, big guy.  Just take deep breaths and it’ll be over in a matter of minutes.”

    I reclined my seat, laid my head back and closed my eyes.

    “This is it...”

* * *

    Not two seconds had passed after I closed my eyes when I heard a clunking sound in my engine.  Then the car just shut off.  I tried to turn it back on again, but nothing happened.  Again and again I tried to turn it on, with no luck.

    “You cannot be serious,” I said to myself, “what could have possibly caused this car to stop working?”

    Then, with the key turned but the car still not starting, I noticed the fuel gage – bone dry.  I couldn’t believe it.

    “That piece of shit traffic jam!  It wasted all my gas,” I shouted.

    Those idiots who felt that they just had to slow down and read the billboard had cost me a perfect opportunity by getting in a crash.  But I wasn’t giving up that easily.  For one time in my life I was going to try to accomplish something, so I grabbed my gas can and set out on foot into the cool, fresh air and headed toward the gas station.  I had a three-mile walk ahead of me, but I set out with more focus and determination to achieve something than I ever had for anything else in my life.

    I had been so focused and determined to accomplish what I had set out to do that, as it turned out, I forgot my wallet in the car.  But I didn’t realize this potential hitch in the plan until I had already begun filling up the gas can.

    “Shit,” I muttered, “where’s my wallet?”

    A traffic jam and empty fuel tank had already stopped me earlier; I wasn’t going to let a missing wallet stop me now.

    “Fuck it, I’m stealing this gas.  I’ll be dead in a few minutes anyway.”

    I was feeling pretty bold.  Never in my life had I been so carefree.  Never had I experienced the kind of rush that I was getting while stealing four dollars of gasoline.  My body was just filled with excitement and adrenaline and whatever other natural chemicals that makes you feel good.  I know that I had just said that I’ll be dead in a few minutes, but maybe I had turned a corner in my life.  Things really felt like they had just changed for me.  I began to feel that maybe I should think of it as a blessing in disguise that I was done dealing with Richard – my life was full of new possibilities that I wasn’t able to imagine back in the office when I had just been fired.  Maybe I should give life another shot, only this time I’ll live with no worries and no holding back.

    I stopped pumping the gas, put the nozzle back into its holder, sealed the can and started to walk away.  I had just experienced an epiphany; my life had changed.  I felt motivated to do something with myself and had a desire to accomplish something with my life – something positive.  It was as if God had reached down and touched me.  It was as if He had given me another chance and a sense of purpose.  I felt that He made it so there were so many disruptions so that I could accomplish something with my life.  I was so excited that I began to sprint off; gas can in hand, when somebody with what turned out to be a Pakistani accent yelled at me.

    “Hey!  What are you doing?”

    “I’m off to serve our maker, friend,” I shouted back, as I stopped and energetically spun around to see him, “I’m going to make an impact!  I’m going to blow people’s minds!  I’m going to change the world, my Indian friend!”

    I was so ecstatic that I was alive and full of a sense of purpose that I was waving my arms around in the air; one of which was holding the gas can.  This, along with the fact that I was shouting and looked completely disheveled (thanks to my laissez-faire attitude toward personal grooming – I’ve since put a stop to that practice and now have more of a command attitude towards it) led to the attendant hitting the silent alarm.

    “Fuck you, terrorist!” he shouted, while slowly raising his 20 gauge shotgun, “you’re not going to change anything!  You move and I’ll blow your fucking head off!  Asshole!”

    For the second time in just this day my life hung on a big decision – only this was a situation where I really wanted to make it out alive.  Do I wait to see where this is going?  Would he really shoot me?  Do I really look that much like a terrorist?

    “Friend,” I began, “I mean you no harm.  Just let me—“

    “Put the can down, you piece of shit terrorist!  I am not negotiating!” he shouted.

    This was clearly the most exciting moment in his life, and he was prepared to become a hero.

    “Look!” I yelled, as I threw the gas can into the air.

    With the attendant’s attention briefly diverted, I sprinted away from the scene.  I ran towards the back of my neighborhood, where some of the more wealthy people lived.  I could hear the attendant cursing me while I got away, but I began to feel more confident as his voice faded that maybe he wouldn’t be able to see where I was going.

    “I should be able to find somewhere to hide in here,” I said to myself.

    I needed to move fast, as I could hear, off in the distance, but with increasing intensity, police sirens headed my way.  That damn silent alarm!  The police had a head start before I had even left the gas station.  I had only been this deep in my neighborhood a couple times because I never wanted Richard, who lives back there, to see me roaming around his neck of the woods.  Knowing him he’d probably call the cops just because I was around his neighborhood.  But then I realized my big break – Richard was out of town for the weekend.  He made sure to announce that to the entire office.  And he had an incomplete addition on his house.  I had somewhere to hide!  All I had to do was run another half-mile and I’d be free!

    The sirens became louder and louder.  Hopefully that asshole attendant didn’t see which way I ran and told the cops.  I picked up the pace, running with more intensity than I ever had in my life.  I began wheezing because I was running so hard.  Then it became more of a squeal.  I was very noticeable in the otherwise quiet neighborhood, running and squealing at night.  It wouldn’t be hard for anyone to find me the way I was fleeing.

    But then the sirens clicked off – maybe they had lost the trail!  I kept up the pace and neared ever closer to Richard’s house.  I was still wheezing and squealing, but I was close to making it.  Only a few hundred feet and I would have a place to hide out.  But just as I got up to the bottom of Richard’s driveway, a car slowly pulled up behind me.

    “That’s him!  That’s the terrorist!  He stole my gas!  Asshole!  Stop him!  Thief!”

    The attendant was riding along with the cops.  He had seen exactly where I had run off to and my wheezing and squealing led them the rest of the way.  In fact, they had turned off the sirens to be able to follow the noise.  At this point, I really had nowhere to go, but I sprinted toward Richard’s house anyway.

    “Freeze!  Do not go near that house!” a very butch-sounding officer shouted from not too far behind.

    As I made my way into Richard’s yard and towards his unfinished addition, I turned my head to glance back at the police presence that had quickly gathered.

    “I’m fucking dead,” I thought to myself.

    Then, all of a sudden, WHACK!  I was down.  Richard had dug a pit with his backhoe and I ran right into it as I was fleeing towards the addition.  On my way down I hit my head on the shovel of the machine, which was parked at the edge of the hole.

    The impact jolted the backhoe out of its resting place and caused it to start rolling down towards where I lay.  Still dazed and confused, I was in no condition to move.  The backhoe picked up a little speed, then tumbled down towards me in the pit.  The machine tipped forward on its way down and the shovel – the same part that I knocked my head on – shot directly for my right knee.

    With nothing to stop it, the shovel and all the weight of the backhoe plowed into my knee and absolutely crushed it.  God that hurt.  My knee was in so much pain and got so numb that I couldn’t completely feel or comprehend what had happened.  I just lay there, groggy and in a haze.

    “I’ve got him subdued,” a cop shouted as he reached down and grabbed my shirt.

    “Nice police work, rookie...  Maybe now... you’ll get the respect... you’ve been longing for... since the first time you buttoned up,” I mumbled with my judgment and sense of reality clearly shaken.

    “Sir,” he barked back, clearly not amused with my somewhat incomprehensible ramblings, “I NEED you to REMAIN SI-LENT!”

    I couldn’t take it anymore.  This had been quite a day.

    “S-,” I started, not able to get out even part of a word.

    “That is it!” the officer shouted, right before he clubbed me on the head with his Mag Light, knocking me unconscious.  What a favor he did me – he kept my day from spiraling any further out of control.

* * *

    “You’re going away for a long time, you son of a bitch.”  These were the words that greeted me as I regained consciousness three days after my run from the law, spoken by my former boss, Richard.  “I am in deep shit because of your little adventure.  I didn’t have a permit or license for any of that stuff, MacDougallopoulos.  I am in deep shit.”

    “Richard,” I groaned, barely awake, “go fuck yourself.”

    “No!  You go fuck yourself, you tub of goo.  I’m taking you down with me!  I am going to suck every dime out of...”

    I pretended to lose consciousness while that asshole rambled on, not listening to anything else that he said for the rest his time in the room.  I had nothing more to gain from this meeting.  I got what I needed.

* * *

    Five months have passed since that eventful March day.  I’ve been through a lot since then – some rehabilitation, 70 days of prison time and a lawsuit, for starters.

    I was able to get out of prison in a shorter amount of time than my original 35-year sentence (thank you, Title VIII of the Patriot Act, for the heart attack you nearly gave me when that was handed down).  I was tried as a terrorist thanks to the jumpy gas station attendant, Aasir Gabol, who was so quick to call the cops.  He reported that I was wielding an explosive and that I was going to “change the world by blowing up” his gas station.  Aasir apparently had very selective hearing combined with frustration from being called an Indian as opposed to Pakistani.  He was also very defensive of his gas station, which led to my decision to flee the scene.  That, as well as my unkempt, terrorist-esque personal appearance, only fueled the district attorney’s intensity to prosecute me to the fullest extent of the law.

    After an appeal and complaint that I was put through a speedy and unfair trial, which is an understatement, as I was tried and sentenced as a terrorist in less than two hours (thanks again, Patriot Act!),  I was set free.  The higher courts decided that 35 years was a little steep for stealing four dollars worth of gasoline, despite Aasir’s accusations and despite that fact that I ran from the cops.  This town was very hell bent on displaying their terrorism-fighting capabilities.

    I did spend over two months in prison, and while I was in lockup, I did a little research with some books that I got in exchange for some pruno I had made.  The inmate I traded with knew someone that he could trade with to get his hands on a really nice fifi, so he was eager to give me whatever he had.  Luckily for me he had legal books that verified that I had a solid case against Richard in the lawsuit I wanted to bring against him.

    The speech that Richard gave me while I was recovering in the hospital was very inspirational.  Between lapses of unconsciousness and consciousness, waves of memories rushed back of Richard having fun or trying to show how tough he was at my expense.  When I woke up and saw him in the hospital room, selfishly waiting on me to open my eyes so he could still try to prove to someone that he was a tough guy, he lit a fire under me.  I was dedicated to living my life to the fullest extent and he motivated me to start by sucking the quality of life out of someone else. 

    As Richard anxiously and uneasily attempted to berate and intimidate me, seconds after I had regained consciousness, he reminded me that he had been illegally operating machinery and building without a permit on his property.  And on his property I got injured – so badly, mind you, that I would never be able to walk without pain again.  In my opinion, my injury was due to Richard’s carelessness and negligence.  If he had been legally operating and building on his property, I might have been able to live a normal life.

    One might say that if I hadn’t been running from the cops then I wouldn’t have run into Richard’s illegal backhoe on his illegal construction site.  I say, I wouldn’t have been running from the cops because no cops would be chasing me if Aasir hadn’t falsely reported that I was a bomb-wielding terrorist that was about to blow up his convenience store.  I wouldn’t have even run from the gas station if that lunatic didn’t come out with a shotgun.  I had developed a new view on life and I wasn’t about to stick around and get my head blown off over four dollars of stolen gasoline.

    So I had become a fugitive, gotten captured by the police and spent some time behind bars.  After prison I was fully motivated by Richard’s speech to pay him back for years of damage he had caused me – my knee, my job, my car, among other things, so I sued the ass.  I sued him for the lost wages that I incurred while in prison and what I would lose due to my debilitating injury for the rest of my life.  I claimed that I still suffered headaches, some of which were so excruciating that I was unable to perform at a job (fortunately I only claimed this and didn’t actually experience this).  I told the jury that I would also never be able to walk without pain again, so I got Richard to pay for my Hoverround, too.  And it’s not a cheap one either – it’s top of the line.  My “Little Red Machine” (I got a red one and it’s so sharp) has two batteries, a swivel chair for easy exit and solid rubber tires to keep me from tipping.  It also has a wicker basket so I can use it at the supermarket or wherever I want to go.

    Now that I don’t have to work I can make a day out of riding my Hoverround to markets or stores at any time that I desire.  Sometimes I go to Dunkin Donuts and get a dozen luscious, mouth-watering glazed doughnuts all for myself; sort of as a little homage to that fateful March day.

    I can’t believe that after putting up with years of tormenting and having to deal with someone who was obsessed with displaying his superiority that I got a big payoff after he had driven me to my lowest point.  I would have never imagined while I was sitting in my running car in the garage that I someday would be living a life of leisure and luxury; all at Richard’s expense.  I’m able to live the American dream by crushing someone else’s because I got injured on his property while running from the police.  God bless the American judicial system.