“Señor Flappypants, clean up on aisle 10.” Another mindless demand in a mindless industry, it became all too common. I trudged off, muttering swears, mop and water bucket in hand. Some say I’m bitter. I say somebody with a name like mine has every reason to hate the world. The lemon scent of cleaning fluid was nauseating, and the Aisle 10 sign glared down at me, as if it were judging me. I could see a rather disgruntled customer, sifting through bean cans, making every possible attempt to dodge the sticky mess that had now spread across the floor. Around his neck, I could see a tattered Full Sail lanyard.
I too used to be a student there. I used to want to be something great, a t-shirt designer perhaps, but with a name like mine, nobody would ever hire me. Every fellow peer, every professor, every possible job opportunity, they all laughed at me. “What a stupid name,” they’d say. It was only a matter of months before I had quit and resorted to stripping. Names aren’t important in that sort of job after all. Unfortunately, certain assets are.
“Excuse me sir,” I grunted. The confused man turned sharply at me, startled. He didn’t have your typical Full Sail student appearance about him. Too dingy. No MacBook in tow, though he did have an Apple sticker, fashioned into an eye patch. He seemed terribly familiar, though I knew I’d have recognized that classy eye patch if I did, in fact, know him.
“Oh, yes, of course, pardon me,” he stammered, stumbling about, dropping the cans into the mess, beany goodness spilling into the unknown substance, creating a disturbing concoction. My frown deepened, and I cursed the world again. Slapping the wet mop against the floor, I got to work. All the while, the man stood there, taking quick glances from the mop, to me, to my name tag, back to me, then to the floor. I expected a comment or two about the contents of the badge, but he stood silently. It was awkward actually, terribly awkward, so I decided to force small talk.
“So…how’s Full Sail treating you?”
“Oh, no sir, I didn’t quite fit in there.”
He was quite the stutterer too. He reminded me of a pet squirrel I used to own, at least until my father cooked it for dinner. I rung out the filthy mop, and looked up at him, only to be met by his beady gaze. “And why not?” I questioned.
“Oh, well, see, they say my name is a little silly, and that nobody would want to buy something marketed under my name.”
At this statement, I remembered that I hadn’t read the name on the student ID he still wore around his neck. It dangled there, haphazardly, contained only by several loose strings at this point. Craptrap McGillicutty. It was a name that sent chills down my spine, a name that made me feel much better about mine. However, I quickly recognized the name from my stripping days. He was there as well, though he tended to work with some of the larger “clients”. I asked him about the fashionable eye patch he wore so handsomely. He told me of a night he was desperate for money, and was forced to work for several men. Unfortunately, it seems there was some sort of “accident”. It was that same night he quit, and took up ‘Extreme Crocheting’. It was apparently a popular sport in Europe.
I laughed at the young man’s misfortune. It wasn’t an antagonizing laugh, but a hearty one, the way fat people drinking beer laugh at Christmas time. To think, somebody else could possibly have gone through what I have, but worse! I told him my story, and we laughed together for a short while. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t hate the world. I knew that him and I were in for plenty of jolly fat people laughs together down the road. I dropped the mop to the floor, taking his hand in mine, and we both walked into the sunset, despite the fact it was well past midnight. The mess never got cleaned.
I too used to be a student there. I used to want to be something great, a t-shirt designer perhaps, but with a name like mine, nobody would ever hire me. Every fellow peer, every professor, every possible job opportunity, they all laughed at me. “What a stupid name,” they’d say. It was only a matter of months before I had quit and resorted to stripping. Names aren’t important in that sort of job after all. Unfortunately, certain assets are.
“Excuse me sir,” I grunted. The confused man turned sharply at me, startled. He didn’t have your typical Full Sail student appearance about him. Too dingy. No MacBook in tow, though he did have an Apple sticker, fashioned into an eye patch. He seemed terribly familiar, though I knew I’d have recognized that classy eye patch if I did, in fact, know him.
“Oh, yes, of course, pardon me,” he stammered, stumbling about, dropping the cans into the mess, beany goodness spilling into the unknown substance, creating a disturbing concoction. My frown deepened, and I cursed the world again. Slapping the wet mop against the floor, I got to work. All the while, the man stood there, taking quick glances from the mop, to me, to my name tag, back to me, then to the floor. I expected a comment or two about the contents of the badge, but he stood silently. It was awkward actually, terribly awkward, so I decided to force small talk.
“So…how’s Full Sail treating you?”
“Oh, no sir, I didn’t quite fit in there.”
He was quite the stutterer too. He reminded me of a pet squirrel I used to own, at least until my father cooked it for dinner. I rung out the filthy mop, and looked up at him, only to be met by his beady gaze. “And why not?” I questioned.
“Oh, well, see, they say my name is a little silly, and that nobody would want to buy something marketed under my name.”
At this statement, I remembered that I hadn’t read the name on the student ID he still wore around his neck. It dangled there, haphazardly, contained only by several loose strings at this point. Craptrap McGillicutty. It was a name that sent chills down my spine, a name that made me feel much better about mine. However, I quickly recognized the name from my stripping days. He was there as well, though he tended to work with some of the larger “clients”. I asked him about the fashionable eye patch he wore so handsomely. He told me of a night he was desperate for money, and was forced to work for several men. Unfortunately, it seems there was some sort of “accident”. It was that same night he quit, and took up ‘Extreme Crocheting’. It was apparently a popular sport in Europe.
I laughed at the young man’s misfortune. It wasn’t an antagonizing laugh, but a hearty one, the way fat people drinking beer laugh at Christmas time. To think, somebody else could possibly have gone through what I have, but worse! I told him my story, and we laughed together for a short while. For the first time in a long time, I didn’t hate the world. I knew that him and I were in for plenty of jolly fat people laughs together down the road. I dropped the mop to the floor, taking his hand in mine, and we both walked into the sunset, despite the fact it was well past midnight. The mess never got cleaned.
Criticism?
