Memoir

      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 itself, but can’t be. I throw my possessions into the sad brown locker and punch in the digital code, turn to walk to the PDA locker near all the manager’s offices and silently pray that none of them have their door open. I know of a few managers who would like nothing better than to make a comment that wouldn’t seem malignant if reported to their superior, but would still crush your self esteem. These manager types are afraid you see, they don’t like to torture you. Well, most of them don’t. They fear that one day you will usurp them and take the coveted position their sycophant stylings’ earned them. Having reached the locker unscathed I grab what appears to be the best walkie there. Most of the good ones are taken already so if I’m lucky I’ll get one with a working screen. Then I reach for a PDA. I find a working one. “Lets see… 100% battery, working item search app, powerful laser, ah signed out by someone already“. I carefully peel off the label and swap it with one that is nonfunctional. “That’ll learn em!”, I mumble triumphantly, not sure of the lesson or who is learning it. My walkie crackles, “Is TJ here yet?” That’s Kevin’s voice. “No he’s late!”, interjects Jonnie. “I’m just getting a PDA Kevin I’m right on time”, says I. “O.K., get down to the boat”, Kevin orders. The boat is the walls of cameras surrounding my little counter down in electronics. More of a dingy or tramp steamer I say.
         
MY KINGDOM
         I round the corner of the boat, drop off my PDA and printer, take a deep breath, and admire my surroundings. After getting my ‘go-backs’ (items guests didn’t want anymore and now need to “go back”) from guest service and hunting down the ever-elusive electronics key I hurried down to the boat. My eyes focused on strategic elements of my domain, HBA (health, beauty, accessories) looks like a mess tonight, T-wall’s (new release DVD’s)  in good shape, so is C1 (featured CD’s). Now I look down upon electronics not as a battle ready, war-torn commander , but a king who takes pride in what he has. I look into the CD’s and see guests browsing, a smile crosses my face. I peer around the corner and see a soccer mom and her 3 kids checking out the Nintendo DS games “I want Nintendog’s mommy!”, exclaims the smallest, vying for position with her larger siblings. My heart warms at the sight. I see a Hispanic couple and their translator/daughter discussing which MP3 player to buy. I well up with glee. My face feels like its glowing. I’m at the top of my game, nothing can stop me now. -Or so I thought. I look towards the check lanes to see what I’ve got ahead of me. Approaching me is the most intimidating thing you will ever see.

IMPENDING DOOM
         Clad in suspenders, a worn flannel shirt callously tucked into said khaki, and a wild, untamed grey beard flecked with foodstuffs, this rosy-cheeked monstrosity could only be one thing. A photography buff. He sees me regarding him and makes eye contact with me. I offer a weak smile and he glares at me they way you would imagine a serial killer to look at his latest kill before he goes to work, his square frame glasses seem to magnify the glare into a laser beam that cuts right through my friendly façade. As he approaches I ask him if I can help him find anything, making sure my trembling isn’t too noticeable. He grunts, “no not yet”. I breathe a sigh of relieve, yet cringe at the weight of the last word “yet”. He moves on to the high-end cameras while I work on filling the T-wall. Having finished that with no trouble I find some guests to help out.
         
CHILANGOS
         The Hispanic trio is still arguing about the MP3 in tongues I dare not try to comprehend. “Can I help you find something?”, I ask the father. All faces turn to me and then to the little girl. Spanish follows. They turn to me and the girl asks me about the MP3 that’s on sale. I explain to the father that it isn’t a very good one and it would be very hard to put music on it. He makes noises that are meant to acknowledge what I said. Then, in English, “what he say?”, he asks his mija.  I understand the gist of what is being said. My 5 years of Spanish were not for naught. “The I-pod Shuffle that is on sale comes with a ten-dollar gift card so the prices even out”, I ejaculate. “Apple, the company that makes the I-pod, also has a user-friendly and vast music store so it will be easy to find the music you want.” The acknowledgment is repeated. “What he say?”, is asked of her again. We go back and forth like this until they see my wisdom and get the I-pod. The father and daughter are by the T-wall while the mom pays . “Su cambio es setenta y dos”, I explain in Spanish. For the first time she looks me in the eyes and hers grow wide. I half-expect her to point at me, stumble backwards, and scream. Instead, she laughs and smiles at me. I walk with my head high over to the T-wall to make sure they didn’t mess it up. The mother says something in padre’s ear I couldn’t hear. His eyes took on the features of his esposa’s. He approaches me and shakes my hand. “Hablas espanol?”, he giggles. “A little”, I answer in English. As I approach guests later I  start to speak in Spanish, but catch myself before too much of a fool was made of me.
         
FLOOD
         I turn around and as I do everything goes into slow motion. The song “When the Levee Breaks” by Led Zeppelin starts playing in my head. I look down at my feet as I start towards the boat, focusing on the gentle intricacies of the tiles and appreciating the contrast my black vans present. I look up just in time to see a man almost walk into me. I side-step him and smile my apology. ‘If it keeps on raining, levees gonna break’.  I resume my forward motion and round C1. I see the camera guy waiting for me with a grimace of disgust and a furrowed brow of malcontent. His veins pop out on his neck and his beard quivers as if each hair was a snake on the head of Medusa. ‘Crying won’t help ya, praying won’t do you no good. When the levee breaks, mama you gotta move’. He sees me and spit/venom flies out of his pursed lips in am attempt to garner my attention. I nod at him, too afraid to manipulate my lips into a smile. ‘Going down, going down now’. Things speed up as I ask him how I can help him. “What can you tell me about this camera?” I freeze, my heart stops, my palms begin to sweat profusely. Surely he knows more than I do. They don’t even train us for these things, we’re just supposed to read the cards to them. “What?” I try to stall for time. “Tell me about this here cam’ra!”, demands camera buff in a Southern drawl that has been lightly refined by study in a Eastern university. I try to read the card to him. “Well, its got… (random camera facts I can’t remember now follow)”, trembles I. “If I wanted to be read to I would visit my grandchildren!”, interrupts the beast whilst slapping the card out of my hands. It flies through the air, and with it my hopes of leaving this exchange unscathed. It lands with an earth-shattering boom. The levee broke. My mind shuts down and my mouth works on its own. “In the latest issue of “Time Magazine” this camera was praised for its ability to take high-quality pictures under the most dire circumstances. James P. Phelps, a leading professor of photography at Oxford, commented that ‘this camera shall revolutionize the field of photography as we know it forever.’, while more traditional photographers complain that it takes the art out of the game.”, I profess. He was caught off guard. I can see his thought process being played out on his brow, his eyes search back and forth and his forehead is a dark mess of confusion. I add, “Sir, if I were you I wouldn’t waste this opportunity to get the jump on your competition. You could be winning contests left and right and be recognized for your skill, but instead you are here debating what really is an easy decision.” That is the strategy that I have found works best. You surprise them and while they are recoiling from the blow you go on the offensive and hit them when they are most vulnerable. He regards me with newfound respect and a pleading look on his face. Clearly he doesn’t want to be trounced like that again. He stutters, “I-I need to t-think about this”. The once fierce beast scurries with his tail between his legs out of the Target faster then I have ever seen them go. Jose, my occasional brother in electronics, sees him limp past and pops out to give me a thumbs up and an approving smile. Any praise from this Slim is held in high regard.
         
FISH?
         I return the smile and make a beeline for the boat, pausing momentarily to check on the DVDs. I do double-take and approach what appears to be a large rolled up section of carpet leaning against the family movies. As I near it I look around to see if it might belong to anyone, and, having found none proceed to grab it and carry it over to the boat where the go-backs are. When I pick it up I see a half eaten pack of Swedish Fish, a gummy candy. I long to put those tasty creatures in my malnourished mouth and savor their sweet flavor and mouthwatering chewiness. After squelching that desire I heft the fish along with the rug and transport them over to the boat. Following propping the rug against the cart I debate throwing the candy away. It clearly is garbage, but maybe they need this for inventory. I realize now I should have dumped the confections into the trash and preserved the bag, but at the time my mind was still recovering from my close encounter with the photography fanatic so it never occurred to me. I gently tossed the ichthyoidal sweets onto the black plastic counter and once again surveyed my surroundings. To my right, down by the MP3 players, I see one of our regulars-I’ll tell you about him in a moment. To my left, I see a particularly obese couple walking towards the exercise equipment, an old man hobbling slowly and eerily eying other guests as he passes,  and a smiling Kevin coming right at me like a homing missile.
         
KEVIN
         Kevin is a Team Leader, or manager, who humbly wears the required attire sans frivolous trappings. He holds his head high, however, and is pushing the cart carrying his equipment with an experienced gait that radiates joy so that any guest who sees him will get a nice, warm feeling in their stomach. He has deep-set features and his face is moderately weathered, his well-groomed hair coupled with his smile, complete with gap between his front teeth, disarms even the angriest guest. He locks eyes with mine and I realize all is not well. The cold steel of his eyes reflected the harsh lights above him and in this stare I see the guise of a cheerful, carefree fatherly figure for what it truly is. I brace myself for the worst. Kevin rolls up and in a practiced nonchalance asks me how I’m doing. “Real swell Kevin”, I answer, wary of what could be waiting for me. Kevin rounds the boat and comes stand next to me. His eyes connect with the candies and something changes in him. His face contorts and for a moment his veil falls and the primal urges can be seen beneath. Along with these urges I can see what he has in store for me. Based on the way his eyebrows rest low on his brow, his eyes never let me leave their field of vision, and his nostrils flare-his mouth wasn’t indicative because it was salivating heavily due to the confections. I can tell that he intends to make me jump through a few loops and let me off easily. I let out a sigh of relief and let my shoulders sag a bit. He quickly recomposes himself, yet still reaches for the fish. “Kevin nooooo!”, I yell. Kevin, thinking I just want them for myself, pays me no heed. “I found them open in an aisle Kevin. Who knows what could have happened to them.”, I persist. He pauses, puts the handful back in the bag, save one, and pours it into the trash. He explains to me that we just need to keep the bag for inventory, not the food. I acknowledge my ignorance and silently pray he leaves. He opens his mouth to speak, but stops. He twirls the remaining fish around between his fingers and stares at it as if contemplating whether or not to eat it. Then I see he is staring past the fish and is obviously in deep thought. I  extrapolate he must be thinking the fish represents him in the world, and, due to its green coloring, he is a hollow shell just going through the motions of life, not actively participating at all. Whether it be apathy, lethargy, or a combination of the two he just isn’t all there. Then it dons on me that I’m thinking of myself.

EPIPHANY
         Over the duration of the school year I’ve grow more and more lackadaisical about life and have proceeded to shirk my responsibilities to myself, my friends and family, my teachers, and my community. I’ve come to realize this error after many moons of soul-searching, but didn’t care to do anything about it. I was perfectly fine with this Tom Sawyer existence. This weekend, Memorial weekend to be exact, I snapped out of my quandary. I don’t know exactly why it happened, but it may be a combination of things. First, my dad was bugging me about it for the longest time, it just pushed my further into my impassivity, but maybe something finally clicked. Second, the new commercials for a running shoe. I don’t remember what brand exactly, but I remember how accurately they depicted the hardship of getting up early and running and they inspired me. Lastly, a song that I have been listening to recently “Building a Better Me” by Dogwood. Said song is about improving your lot in life and facing up to your challenges. Near the end of the song two people have an aside. “Go ahead and run, run home and cry to mama!”, a man with a gruff voice exclaims. “Me? I’m through running!”
“You can’t be happy all the time! That’s life!”, another with a higher voice protests. “Take it back!” I’m not sure if he was instructing the other voice to take back what he said or telling him to take back what is his. Regardless, the song really touched me. Under the combined force of all these things I’ve decided to take the high/hard road. No more lying around and certainly no more letting others, and myself, down. After having said epiphany my senses returned and I saw still eying the fish. “Don’t do it Kevin“, I silently warn. He looks up from the fish, and, as if surprised I was there, tells me to get the heck out of there and get to work on my zone. I thank the fish Gods and the candy Gods, particularly the gummy ones, for getting me away from Kevin without the usual runaround. As I walk away towards my zone I look over my shoulder, only to see Kevin cock his head back and toss the fish into the gaping maw known as his mouth. Like a malnourished, blubber-less seal he shakes his head and swallows it whole. I do a double take and resign myself to the arduous zone ahead.

IN THE ZONE
         I speed over to the last section, about 13 rows in all, ranging from computer software, through books, DVDs, and ending in music. Then I stop at the boat and check up on everything. After that is the electronics zone, which curls around the boat. It takes you through videogames, past camera accessories, zigzags through various other electronic commodities, and ends with cell phones. I start in the computer software making sure everything looks nice and there are no obvious mistakes and turn around to do the magazines. There is a delicate balance of speed and quality that exists, yet I find myself often favoring quality and struggling for speed. After I finish the software and books I speed through the DVDs,  again just checking for obvious misplacements. Whenever I see a guest I duck into hiding trying not to be called upon for aid, direly hoping to finish my zone unabated. In the past I once had a guest come up to me during my zone and strike up a conversation. Something I wouldn’t mind ordinarily, but this was quite the extraordinary happening. I was two hours behind in my zone and out of nowhere appears a thin, twitchy man holding the latest and greatest computer game. He looks me over and then starts telling me about when he worked in retail. That transitions into telling me about the game in his hand and how it might be against his religion to play videogames. That leads to telling me about his religion and inviting me to his church, which turned to telling me about how he came to religion and how his life was messed up. Thankfully he made it short and sweet-only giving me the last ten years of his life instead of the full 30. He talks about doing heavy drugs, and going to wild parties, then he got clean and found Jesus. He reminds me of the invitation to church and offers a clammy hand. I take it and try to stop my head from spinning as he leaves. During that thirty minute “conversation” I said fewer than twenty words. Hopefully a once-in-a-lifetime deal. Thankfully tonight isn’t very busy so this should be a milk run. I finish the CDs and waltz to the boat. Having looked around and only seen a few guests content with themselves I start the electronics zone. This monotonous course will put even the most attentive to sleep. The only thing that kept me going was the need for sheer speed. You can’t take your time on a zone or you will get lost in thought and forget about what you’re doing. In a sense zoning can be a very dangerous task. It requires your full attention, and it requires speed so that you don’t become complacent, because if you do you might lose your job. Having finished electronics I stand to make my way to the boat-I froze in my tracks.

TYRANNOUSAURUS CHRIS
         I pray that his vision is based on movement. He slowly looks over his surroundings in a drowsy star with his glazed-over eyes. He is like a predator on top of the food chain, he doesn’t need to be alert because no one poses a threat to him. While I am still unseen I take this moment to observe him in detail. Mouth agape with two buckteeth sticking out, tousled black hair atop his dome, and the lazy eyes of one unaccustomed to danger, he appears the fool. I know better.  Clad in a red windbreaker two sizes too big and your average boot cut blue jeans, he is reminiscent of a prehistoric T-Rex. Dumb, odd-looking, nearly blind, but unopposed by others. How can this be? Well just as the T-Rex has powerful jaws, he has jaws of a different sort-he’s mentally challenged.  Before I continue regaling this tale I must tell you that I have nothing against anyone disabled. I am merely trying to convey the power they hold over those in the service industry. He approaches me and sniffs the air around me. His malodorous breath causes black spots to blur my vision. I feel dizzy and am about to pass out when he turns around, having not seen me, and head to the radios. I stumble trying to reorient myself and he whips around with such force that would give a normal man whiplash. He talks the way one would imagine Lenny from Of Mice  and Men to speak. “Hey what’s your name?”, he demands in a slow, carefully worded query. “TJ”, I answer, my patience already running thin. I do have a nametag after all. “Hi TJ, I’m Chris”. “Hello Chris”, I growl. I have dealt with Chris on many an occasion, but he always seems to forget our conversations and always seems to have the canned queries he gives me now. Comparable to a malfunctioning robot, I find it hard to pity him when he wastes my precious time so. “So where do ya live TJ?”, he asks invasively. I decide to play the same game over so I know what he’ll ask me next. I don’t like surprises. I tell him the general area, not sure he would know the street name. “Whereabouts”. I tell him the street name. “Oh, I used to live over der.”, he predictably responds. “Cool”, I humor him. “Do ya play golf TJ?”, he inquires “No”, I proffer flatly. “Oh too bad, I work at a golf course, I’ll get you in anytime just come by.”, he graciously bestows-without telling me the name of the course. “Gee Thanks”, flatness repeated. “Say TJ, is it ok if I go listen to da radio?”, requests Chris. “Please do”, a glimmer of hope rising in my voice. He scurries off and I look at the clock. What seemed like an hour was only 10 minutes. Chris makes appearances for about the next two hours asking me personal questions. I humor him as best I can and try to get him on his way.
                                                 
IN THE ZONE II
         After dealing with Chris I start the daunting zone of HBA. This consists of over fifteen aisles stocked with the tiniest beauty products that all seem to have been misplaced and pushed back. I loathingly start and move quickly, focusing only on putting things in their homes, and pulling them forward. I move quickly because I have a lot ahead of me. Despite the grueling event I manage to put on a good face. I accidentally knock over a Winnie The Pooh thing and it starts playing his theme song. Instead of grating on my soft, delicate eardrums as it normally does, it spurs me into motion. I smile, dance, and sing along with it while zoning. It finishes the song so I kick it and restart the process. The hands on the clock slowly move faster and faster until they are a blur and it is 9:30, fifteen minutes before I get off, but twenty-nine until I’m allowed to. (Minors can’t legally work past 9:59.) My zones are all completed and I push my unreturned go-backs to Guest Services. I am separated from the cart well by  the one dollar items, but I’m taller than the shelves. In the doors walks a man I thought I’d never meet.

MY PRINCE
         As I round the edge of one dollar deals the expanse that is the entrance opens up to me. I push my cart and ram it into the counter, not intentionally, but because I couldn’t tear my eyes from the door. Royalty had graced Target with it’s presence. Adorned in traditional robes, but wearing a hat for more casual affairs, His Majesty, the Prince of Africa has entered the building with only a few minutes until closing. He spreads his arms and the long drapes of sleeves on his robe sway back and forth in a summons directed at me. “Can I help you Your Majesty?”, I beg. He starts walking at a brisk pace toward electronics, and I am nearly forced to jog to keep up. In a thick African accent he graces me with a reply. “I am looking for a recording device that is small enough to fit in my shirt pocket and remain undetected, yet still record over 24 hours of audio before it runs out of tape or needs charging. See to it that I am not disappointed.”, he commands in a nonchalance natural to these high and mighty types. “Please follow me Your Grace.”, I plead. He drops behind me, yet somehow manages to increase our pace, steering me to where we need to go. I take him to the recorders and explain to him the pros and cons of each model. I show him the top of the line one that features a flash drive and is only a few inches in length. He condescends, “I must call my wife.” He pulls a cell phone from under his hat and dials Her Majesties’ number. After a moment he makes contact and a debate rages on in an African tongue. The Prince hangs up, slides the phone under his hat, grabs the device from my unworthy hands and without another word storms off.

GOODNIGHT
         My computer clock reads 3:26 AM as I type this conclusion to Memoir. I wrote this piece over the period of a month, the better part being written tonight and in the past week. Although you may see lapses in my writing, due to this extreme time of on/off scribing, I have proofread the piece to ensure this does not happen. My body shakes violently as I type this due to the caffeine I put in my system to stay conscious this late. Although There is only one main section of self-reflection in this piece I have fought a terrible battle in my heart, and have come out victorious. This paper is proof of this itself. My hyperbolic anecdotes about Target serve as a front for that war I waged and I hope that you might be able to peer through the façade and see what I fought for and maybe you could apply it to yourself if you haven’t already fought that fight. You can’t be happy all the time. That’s life. Take it back.