A 50 page excerpt from
Work Ethic?
One Man’s Adventures in the American Work Place(s)
Workin' at KFC (pages 11 - 16)For hours my mom drove me from fast food joint to fast food joint. I filled out an application at each. At one grease pit I actually made it past the application stage. They invited me to come back on Thursday at 2 p.m. when they did interviews. I arrived early and took a seat alongside a half dozen other hopefuls.
A plain woman wearing the button-down dress shirt and tie that differentiated managers from polo-shirt-wearing drones introduced herself and sat down to talk with the first person in line. I listened in, hoping to get a few tips as the heavyset, sloppily dressed applicant explained that she'd just gotten out of a recovery home and was trying to start a new life.
“Well, I guess I got this one beat.” I thought.
Dress-shirt lady asked the hopeful young drug addict if she was going to “meetings.” She sure was. And wouldn't you know it? The queen bee burger flipper was an “anonymous” substance abuser, too.
The rest of us were given a rousing thank you for coming to the interview and told the position was filled!
I wanted to protest. I wanted to ask how she could be so sure that we weren't all in recovery after being big screw-ups too. Hell, maybe we were even bigger jerks than this girl! I could have been a heroin addict or a molester of puppies, if she'd just given me a chance. Line me up some coke, I'll show you what a moron I am. Here, look! I'm touching myself right now. I've got problems really!
I bit my tongue and left. With her usual maternal wisdom, my mom advised me to shake it off and keep applying. She drove me to the next bout of humiliation.
My friend Robbie, a drug casualty who was not in recovery, called me that night to tell me he'd gotten a job at Der Wienerschnitzel. Now this stung. Robbie had a car and was able to get a job in the next city, where his reputation was less well-known, but there's no way he should have been employed before me.
I went out the next day with renewed determination and drive. My mom and I stopped at the local Kentucky Fried Chicken, and there behind the counter was Greg Weston.
I had a few classes with Greg’s little brother, Brooke. Brooke would have made a great frat boy, had he gone to college. Instead he was a really hyper stoner who was forever searching for the perfect way to call me, and the rest of the world, a fag: “What’s up gay lord, cock lover, nancy boy, suck master, ass captain?”
Unlike his brother, Greg was the hippest guy I knew. He had great hair, listened to The Smiths and managed to keep his eyelids half-closed even when he raised his eyebrows. Greg was perfect.
I tried to be as cool as a cup of KFC coleslaw as I approached the counter and asked for an application. I said hello to Greg only after it was in my hands so my intent would be absolutely clear.
"Oh, you're applying for a job. Julie, this is Keith, he's a friend of my brother's." I said hello to Julie, the woman who’d handed me the application. I didn't mention that I actually didn't care for Brooke much, nor that Brooke regarded me as just another probable homosexual in planet crawling with homosexuals.
"Do you actually want to work here or do you just have to fill out applications for school?" Greg asked.
I wanted to work there. I really wanted to work there. I wanted to be able to buy endless piles of cassette tapes and to go out to eat without my parents. Amazingly enough, I wanted to put on the horrid beige-and-brown uniform and paper hat. I wanted to wear the name tag. I wanted to take another step towards independence, towards being a grown up.
"I would like to work here!" I blurted.
"Well, put my name down where it asks how you heard of Kentucky Fried Chicken, only put Chance. My name's Chance now."
Damn Greg was cool. Way too cool to be a Greg. He was definitely a Chance. Minutes later, I handed Chance my completed application and restrained the desire to skip to where mom was waiting in the car. I hopped in the passenger sear with a big grin and told her I had an “in.”
Two anxious days passed and then I was back for my interview with Jim, who owned 51% of this franchise location. The interview, which he conducted from a script in a white three-ring binder, was a series of questions like:
If a co-worker was stealing money would you
a) Tell them to stop
b) Mind your own business
c) Tell a manager
They got progressively trickier. What if the thieving co-worker took care of his ailing mother? Woah! Heavy. What if it wasn't much money, just a few bucks here and there?
I wondered what kind of subnormal would be tripped up by this amazing psychological wizardry. Not me. A week later, I was hired.
I attended orientation at The Kentucky Fried Chicken Training Center, a classroom in the back of a KFC in a nearby city. Along with many other newbies from the surrounding area, I watched a film detailing the life and accomplishments of Colonel Sanders, founder of KFC and the genius behind the top-secret recipe of eleven herbs and spices. I was most disappointed to discover that I would not be trusted with this secret. The spices came pre-mixed.
Orientation complete, I took my place on the prep line. I made pies and filled cups with coleslaw, mashed potatoes, and other gooey stuff. I hate to think how many pounds of chocolate pudding I ate. Never mind minimum wage; having all the chocolate pudding I could eat meant I was a rich man. At first I'd wait until break time to eat, but I soon learned how to sneak a few bites behind the line. I figured out I could fit a whole Chicken Little sandwich in my mouth at once. I just needed the boss to turn his head for a second and I was fed. Those miniature chicken sandwiches were the only non-dessert item at KFC that I didn't get totally sick of within the first month. Bless you Chicken Littles. I also consumed at least a gallon of Coca-Cola a day.
I did well enough on the line, or the boss noticed food costs rising, and I was moved up front to the register. I loved dealing with the customers. Having real live people to talk to, rather than Styrofoam cups, made the time go much more quickly. Sure, sometimes we'd run out of chicken and people would get pissy, but I never took it personally. Insult KFC, insult me, insult my mother—it meant nothing. I just enjoyed the more interesting customers. Call my mom a whore because I don't have your chicken ready. It's not personal; you don’t even know my mom. She’s a nice lady.
The one thing that irked me about customers was when they used my name. If they felt they needed to say “Thanks, Keith” or “I’ll have the two piece breast meal, Keith.” then I felt they should introduce themselves and see if I offered my name. I wouldn’t call a stranger by name just because I could read it on his chest. I started changing the name on my tag daily, but the boss put a stop to this after a sweet old woman told him Chewy-Pooh was a charming young man.
Merriam and Shelly worked with me at the counter. Merriam was mildly developmentally disabled. I tried to be a good guy and treat her as I’d treat anyone else, but when she developed a crush on me, I was embarrassed by it. She would compliment my cologne no matter how many times I told her I didn’t wear any and she was smelling my deodorant. Merriam wouldn’t skip a beat, complimenting me next on my deodorant. My coworkers would tease me about it, complimenting me on my deodorant as well.
Shelly was smart and pretty, with short blonde hair. It was my turn to have a crush. I had it bad, but I was too shy to ever say anything. I looked at her schedule and requested the same days off, thereby increasing the odds of having the same days on. I don’t think she noticed.
Next, I was trained on the drive thru. I don't care what anyone says; turning the microphone on your drive-thru headset on when you flush the toilet is funny, no matter how many times you do it. Your co-workers hear it; the customer at the drive thru hears it. You say "Welcome to KFC, I'll be right with you." and then you flush. They assume you didn't mean them to hear it. Its comedy gold, I tell you.
I had taken up smoking pot around this time, mostly with Robbie and a new friend, Christian. We’d be sure to swing by KFC at closing time on the nights when I didn’t work, and I’d do my best to appear sober when I asked for leftovers. I’d proudly carry buckets filled with chicken, pudding, mashed potatoes and gravy back to Robbie’s car. We’d make short work of it in a display I’m sure would be absolutely revolting to an outside observer. I didn’t feel guilty about taking the food. Jim would never throw it away when he could sell it to the pig farmers to feed to their livestock. So it was stoned teenagers or pigs. I sided with the stoned teenagers, though our table manners weren’t much better.
I quickly discovered that, despite my best intentions, I just didn't have it in me to be a model employee. Screwing up was way more fun. Chance had long since disassociated himself from me. We’d had a falling out when he asked me to book bands for a party he put together. I booked a ska band and showed up with a bunch of punks to show support. Chance was not impressed with my friends and asked me to get them to leave. I was too busy experimenting with an inhalant called Rush to offer him any assistance. Its effects didn’t last quite long enough for me to reach the dance floor after taking in a hit, so I had to bogart a bottle of it to properly get down. Chance was not pleased. Soon enough, I was moved back to the deep fryers, far away from him, and unfortunately, far away from Shelly.
At this point I'd done every job except washing dishes and making biscuits. For the latter, you had to be 21. It seems a youngster mixing up some biscuit dough at some KFC had stuck his hand in the bowl and the mixer tore it clean off. Jim went into great detail describing the way the dough turned pink as the powerful mixer just kept on mixing, but he swore it hadn’t happened at his KFC.
Our biscuit guy, Bradley, was some piece of work. He was lazy, overweight and totally lacking ambition—exactly the direction I was heading. When not actually engaged in the act of making biscuits, Bradley would sit and stare at his mixing bowl.
We'd be slammed. "Bradley, can you bring some slaw from the walk-in?"
"Slaw from the walk in?” he’d ask. “Is that making biscuits? No, it's not. It’s bringing slaw from the walk in. I’m not the ‘bringer of slaw from the walk in.’ I'm the biscuit maker. If you need biscuits made, let me know." Then Bradley would stare at his bowl as everyone else ran around sweating grease. I dreamed of one day having Bradley's power.
I got the hang of the deep fryer. These giant machines had to be vented and some genius designed the vent to blow toward the operator. As if I didn’t have enough trouble with my teenage skin, I now spent hours with hot greasy steam blowing in my face. My clothes and shoes got so soaked in grease that my mother took to laying cardboard over the car seat when she picked me up from work. I'd bring two plastic KFC bags to put over my shoes.
My fellow grease faces were Brian and Tony. Brian was quiet and serious and I think he planned to maybe one day own a KFC franchise of his own. Tony was absolutely insane. He loved to sneak up behind me and break a chicken leg next to my ear. Watching me cringe at the sound of bones cracking gave him no end of joy. I didn't think it was nearly as funny as making one's coworkers listen to the toilet flush.
Tony taught Brian and me a great trick: dip a finger in the chicken batter and then into the flour with the eleven herbs and spices. Add a second and third coat and finally, put your finger in the hot grease. The flower will start cooking as the finger stays safely insulated. Hold it there until you start to feel some heat, then pull out a gruesome-looking but unharmed Kentucky Fried digit. Guess which finger Tony preferred to fry.
Of course, it was just a matter of time before someone used two fingers to make an original recipe peace symbol. Then it was three fingers. Finally, I decided to do my whole hand. This was the most exciting day of our fry-cook lives. We chilled the batter and flour for increased tack and a longer submersion time. I applied the coats carefully, avoiding clumps which could flake off and expose skin. And then, the moment of truth;
I dipped my hand in an inch at a time. I waited longer than ever, until I felt my skin turning pink.
Ladies and gentlemen, a work of art was unveiled. My hand looked like a big, gory, bubbling, burnt…hand. I grabbed myself around the wrist and ran into the dining room with a horrified look on my face.
As several diners jumped up to assist, I took a bite. "Mmmm, mmm, love them eleven herbs and spices,” I said.
Miraculously, no one narked me off. I stayed in the boss’ good graces. Jim even started training me on closing procedure. This was a sign that I might someday be an assistant manager, an aspiration I actually held at that point.
One night, Jim and I were working late scrubbing the tile floor. Junior prom was coming up. Everyone asked for the night off, but I volunteered to work. Jim insisted I go to prom and wouldn’t take no for an answer.
“Jim, I’m not going,” I told him. “I can spend that night at home, while you serve chicken to kids in tuxes and gowns by yourself, or you can let me come help you.”
“Keith,” he replied. “I took care of you. I got you a date.”
“Oh my god, no! Jim what are you talking about?”
”Shelly said she’d go with you,” he said. This was a nightmare and a dream come true. I would have loved to have taken Shelly out, but not like this. I couldn’t do it.
“Jim, I can’t go to prom with someone whose boss told them to go with me. Come on! Will she be clocking in for the time she spends with me?” Jim didn’t get it. I spent prom night at the local cable access TV studio editing footage of my buddies’ punk rock bands.
I spent increasing amounts of time at the station or video-taping the local punk and metal bands. Between that and work, I didn’t have much energy for school. I slept through most of my classes and finally decided I would not be returning to high school for my senior year. My parent’s fought me on this one, until I made enough of a nuisance of myself that they let me not only drop out, but move out.
Jim had a hard enough time when I didn’t go to my junior prom; not going to my senior year was too much. He gave up on me. I’d never be the Boy Scout son he wanted me to be. I figured he already had an actual Boy Scout son, so what the hell did he need with me? I didn’t miss his paternalistic attention.
I became the dishwasher, and I spent a lot of my shift running to the back room to write lines of poetry on to-go bags or rolls of register tape. I quit after being suspended for a week for drinking a free soda while not on duty.
Tony was fired a few months before me after he dove through the drive thru window, and landed in the car of a customer who then received the most shocking ass-kicking off his life. Tony claimed the customer had spoken rudely to Shelly. Bryan quit after the minimum wage was raised to the rate he was being paid after three years and as many raises. Chance took on a rich older girlfriend who kept him well stocked in clothes, jewelry and plenty of booze. A few years later he came out of the closet, and probably found a rich older man to take the lady’s place. His brother Brook just knew somebody was gay. For all I know, Bradley's still the biscuit guy.
Gelato: Briefest term of employment ever (page 63)After a long depressing job search, I landed a position at a place called simply “Gelato.” I would work by myself much of the time, standing behind a register making coffee drinks and serving up cups of gelato. The work was mellow and unambitious. There would be nowhere to move up to, no promotions to seek. I let my friend Joe move into my room with me, reducing my rent. Things seemed to be calming down.
When I showed up for my first day, the woman who ran the place gave me a quick orientation on the cash register. Then she told me she had to go call my references!
“What the hell?” I thought. “Isn't that done prior to hiring?” Thankfully, I had only listed references I was relatively sure of, or so I thought. As she left me alone at the register I began to wonder what kind of reference I'd get from Greta's. I deserved a bad reference, but I figured Greta would be "cool" and give me a good one. Still, the fact that she refused to hire me back made me unsure.
I sold a cup of gelato and noticed about $300.00 sitting in the register. I seriously considered grabbing it and splitting. My morals got the better of me, and the money was still in the register when Ms. Gelato informed me that I couldn't work for her. I’d received a bad reference.
"I can't believe you wasted my time like this!” I shouted. “You don't call someone's references after you train them. What is wrong with you? I want to be paid for the 30 minutes of my life you wasted!"
It was probably closer to 15, and as I said this, I realized I was yelling at the woman for less than four bucks. I took off my apron, threw it on the ground and walked out the door. I only lived two blocks away, so it wasn’t long until I was crying in the safety of my own bathroom. Joe was in my bedroom making a mix tape. Things began to feel very hopeless.
Spike and Mike Part 1; Sacramento, San Francisco (Parts 1 and 2, pages 79 – 96)I discovered the freedom to leave town when I wanted. With the help of my VW bus, I would never need for a place to sleep. But there was only so far I could drive so long as I had to get back to work. I’d done the nearby beach towns. I’d been up to Oregon. I was jonesing for more. Arlo Guthrie didn’t turn his “Volkswagen Micro-bus” around and head back to work at the coffee shop. Why should I?
Dan, Christine, Bryna and I began planning a long road trip and, while we had plenty of enthusiasm, I was well aware that many other such dreams had evaporated.
Then Christine showed up with a hippyish boy named Doug and a 6’2” Vietnamese skater/raver boy named Homes. They were both open and friendly and they had the coolest job ever, working for Spike and Mike’s Festival of Animation and the Sick and Twisted Festival of Animation. They were from San Diego, Spike and Mike’s home base. Spike and Mike sent them traveling around the country armed with flyers to promote the festival’s shows at local independent theatres. They would stay in each town for a month or two with a couple of rental cars per crew. A crew was made up of four or five people.
I knew immediately that I had to work for Spike and Mike. I grew up in Corona, right next to where the festival started in Riverside, and I'd made my mom make my dad take me to see Spike and Mike's original festival on the UC Riverside campus when I was 13. It just felt right, like the circle completing itself. Spike and Mike had come up from the south, from my childhood, to give me the life of adventure I’d been craving.
I asked Doug and Homes if they could help me get a job and they said they probably could. Mike Gribble, the Mike of Spike and Mike, was in town and all of the flyer guys were meeting that evening at his apartment. I called my night job and told them I wouldn’t be in. I had called in sick too many times and they were looking for a doozey of an excuse. I didn't give them one. I explained to Stacy that I had an opportunity I couldn't pass up and, if things went my way, I wouldn’t come back at all.
"And if things don't go my way,” I said, “I will totally understand if you're unable to have me back."
She didn't sound too impressed. "OK, Keith. I hope you know what you're doing."
I did.
I went to the meeting, which was really just Mike getting all the guys together to take advantage of the free food The Traveler’s Lodge put out. Free Cokes, chips, salsa, mini hot dogs and even beer were ours for the taking. We all filled our mouths. An older guy on the crew named Chip dropped as many Budweisers as he could fit into a backpack for later.
The Lodge manager came out to find out why this horde of locusts had descended upon his lobby. Mike was 6’5” (though he’d only admit to 6’3”), lanky, and in possession of a long purple beard. He dressed in loud shirts, mostly purple, and purple Doc Martin boots. He looked like the shameful offspring of Ronald McDonald and his strange purple buddy, Grimace.
Mike responded to the manager’s whispered hostilities with a loud booming voice for all to enjoy. “Oh, I get it,” he said. “Because my clients and partners are a bit younger, we’re not entitled to your hospitality. Because my clients aren’t wearing Dockers, they’re not welcome at your fine establishment. Well, isn’t that interesting—considering this young man with the skateboard just signed a multi-million dollar sponsorship this morning?” The skater in question was Andy Mac and, within a few years, Andy would indeed become a pro skater with many lucrative sponsorship deals.
Mike, who may or may not have realized that he had just prophesied, continued the tirade. “I guess you salespeople and corporate reps know success when you see it.”
The apologies had begun the moment Mike raised his voice, but the longer he kept everyone distracted, the more we could get away with. We continued stuffing our backpacks with beers and devouring every bit of food in sight.
After storming out of the lobby with all of us in tow, Mike took us to see a play that he’d gotten free tickets to, and the night ended with foosball at a local bar. Nobody beat Mike at foosball, ever.
Doug and Homes gave me a ride home and ended up crashing at our pad after a night of drinking and exchanging stories. They loved our little scene, and Doug was particularly fond of a red-headed girl named Darcy. I got up with Doug and Homes in the morning and, after calling Wayne at The China Bakery to quit my job, I hopped in their car. Wayne was very understanding. He wished me luck and told me to swing by and say hello when I was back in town. (The café had closed by the time I got back. I never saw Wayne again and I’ve still never tasted a bao, pineapple or otherwise.)
We met the rest of the crew in front of Mike’s apartment. There were eight guys plus Mike, more than twice the size of your average crew. It was explained to me that two old flyer guys, after “borrowing” films from Spike and Mike, had started their own animation festival locally. Mike wanted them buried.
We rang the doorbell and waited about four feet back. Apparently it was a bad idea to enter Mike’s apartment. The man smelled terrible. He was always clean, but he seemed opposed to deodorant of any kind. We were invited in. After we declined, Mike stepped out and the guys all groaned as he announced that we would be doing a sunrise salutation. This crazy purple-bearded freak had eight hungover skate punks doing yoga on the sidewalk next to a busy street. Horns honked and people shouted encouragement from their cars. Freshly enlightened, we loaded flyers into cars. At this point, Mike noticed me.
”What are you doing here?” he asked.
“I’m working for you now.” I answered, brushing past him to toss a box of flyers into the trunk of a silver rental car.
“I’m not hiring,” he informed me.
“I don’t care,” I replied as I continued working around him.
“Look, we’re not hiring, and even if we were, we don’t hire outside of San Diego.”
"That’s fine. I’ll get a San Diego address. In fact I can uses Homes’. Yeah, I’m Homes’ roommate now.”
I left Mike shaking his head and hopped in the car. He shouted something about me not working for him as we drove off.
I worked my ass off. I am, by nature, a loud and outgoing person, and I put flyers in many hands. I cracked jokes; I sold people on the show. I ran from store to store hitting counter tops with stacks of brightly colored flyers.
Doug and Homes gave the boss an account of my stellar performance and, when I showed up again the next day, Mike told me I didn’t work for him with less conviction. That afternoon, as we ate the free goodies in the lobby of the Traveler’s Lodge, he handed me a stack of papers to fill out. I was now an employee of Spike and Mike’s Festival of Animation.
I worked the first couple of weeks in Sacramento and got to know the job. We flyered at Sacramento State and at the community college campuses. We hit all the live-music shows. We left stacks of flyers at every record store, comic book shop, video store, liquor store and head shop (Sacramento had a shortage of these). At night, we’d flyer the bars, staying longer at the ones with fun people. Later, we’d go back to the apartment the company rented for the crew and get tanked.
Homes introduced us to a game: move from the balcony to his bed without touching the floor. He jumped from the balcony onto the couch, from the couch to the dining table and off the table into the hallway—where, in a show of superhuman strength, Homes threw his arms and legs out against each wall and caught himself. I’d climbed up a hallway spider-man style, but I could hardly believe he could jump such a distance and just catch himself. He shimmied his way down the hallway, his hands and feet against the walls, moving faster than I could run with my feet on the ground. Finally, grabbing the top of the doorframe, he swung into the bedroom and landed on his bed. The rest of us gave up, put on a skate video and settled in for the night.
A few nights later, we were all drinking at Old Ironsides, a bar where my short-lived band had played and where I knew most of the folks despite being barely 21. I was pretty tossed when I notice Charlie Coyne, my boss from The Delta King, sitting at the bar with a big-haired bleach blonde in a tight dress who looked like she was straight out of an episode of Married With Children.
"Hey, you see that guy at the bar? He’s an asshole.” I slurred to Hoang, one of my new coworkers. Hoang headed straight for Charlie.
“Hi,” Hoang greeted him, before ordering himself a beer. “I hear you’re an asshole.” He said it politely as he took his drink and walked away. I was delighted.
I made sure everyone else in the bar knew Charlie was an asshole. It didn’t take long for Charlie to notice where the unwelcome vibe came from. He approached me.
“Hey. I want to talk to you,” he said.
“Well, I don’t care to talk to you. I’ve heard from a reliable witness that you’re an asshole,” I replied.
He grabbed my arm and pushed me through the door. Once outside, he popped me one in the mouth. I was way too drunk to fight, even against an old man like Charlie Coyne. He threw another punch, which I managed to dodge, and I made my way to the bar door just as two bouncer types were heading out. I slid past the big guys and turned around just in time to see them catch Hoang midair as he attempted to attack Charlie. Charlie headed for me and was thrown on his ass by the bouncers. They told him to get the hell out and never come back. I waved bye bye.
“I remember you!” he yelled. “What’s your name again?”
“Dylan,” I answered, thinking of the Beverly Hills 90210 character.
“That’s right,” he said. “You’ll never work in this town again.”
I’d never expected to hear that cheesy line in real life—especially in a town like Sacramento—delivered with no sense of irony or sarcasm.
“Yeah, OK Charlie. Tell your wife I said hello.” I said that last part for the benefit of his date, who was most certainly not his wife. I had no idea if he had a wife, but I figured it was worth a shot.
We had one final farewell to Sacramento. The whole Sacramento gang, plus Doug and Homes, headed to the river. Darcy, who had grown up in Sacramento, brought us to a great spot that I'd never been to before. Here I was, ready to leave and still discovering new surprises.
We hung our feet in the water and had some wine. Then we found a big floating platform stuck on some tree roots. Doug, Darcy and I climbed aboard with a bottle of wine and a pack of smokes and shoved off.
We were floating down the river with no way to steer, which seemed quite adventurous for about five minutes. Then it seemed a bit stupid; we hadn't brought any water. We tried to relax and enjoy the gorgeous scenery, but when a few boats passed we tried to wave them down. A nice lady in a boat threw us a line, towed us close and helped us aboard. Then she circled around and dropped us off.
Big brother had been watching. The local news helicopter caught up with her. Footage of our "rescue" played on the tube that night. The woman explained that we were crying and needed help and she just couldn't pass us up. Ha. We were glad she got such a good story out of it. She did help us out, after all.
As we prepared to leave Sacramento, I had Christine shave my head and just leave my bangs, which hung down to my chin. It was the hairstyle I’d gotten rid of for my job as a video tech. I said my goodbyes, and we headed to San Diego for a few days.
I slept on Doug’s floor and waited to see what town I’d be assigned to next. I hoped I’d go to San Francisco with my new friends Doug and Homes. Unfortunately, the word among the flyer boys was that my name had been seen on the Arizona list, where the crew would be lead by a fellow named Scott who was, they warned, a real horse’s ass.
The day of the big meeting at the Spike and Mike office, I showed up with my bangs in braids, each held by a different colored rubber band. I walked in the office where Spike, a monster of a man, sat with a Scottish terrier. Both of their heads panned back and forth in sync as they watched the various folks walking by the beachfront office. I took in the room, first noticing the wall decorated top to bottom in scribbles from famous animators like Nick Park (Wallace and Gromit) Marv Newland (Bambi Meets Godzilla, Duck Man) and John Lasseter (Luxo Junior and years later, Toy Story). The rest of the office was full of painted cells, reels of film, and boxes of merchandise like T-shirts and videos.
Spike looked at my braids and rubber bands, then bellowed “Who the hell is this guy?”
Doug told him I was Keith Jensen. Without a word, Spike walked to the grease board where K. Jensen was written listed under Arizona. He erased my name and rewrote it under San Francisco. I heard him mutter under his breath, “Arizona. They’d eat him alive in Arizona.”
I’d been driving my bus for months, but I still didn’t have a driver’s license, so Doug and Homes took turns driving as we headed north to San Francisco. We hooted and hollered as we crossed the Bay Bridge, and then through town and across the Golden Gate. Finally we went through a tunnel with a rainbow painted on its entry arch. Doug told us holding our breath all the way through the tunnel would make our wishes come true.
Holding my breath and wishing for adventure, I crossed under the rainbow and arrived in Sausalito. Sausalito is prime real estate and we were staying on a gorgeous house boat. I could not believe that this was my life. Chip was already there when we arrived. He’d ridden up with Mike Sharp, who would be our crew leader. (Not the Mike of Spike and Mike.)
Chip had already claimed the upstairs bedroom. Homes grabbed the ground-floor bedroom, so Doug and I agreed to share the room downstairs. Sharp was staying on his own boat on the next dock. The festival worked on the teenage boy rule of “he who calls it first, gets it.” We went about calling the best rooms. calling shotgun in the car, and calling who got first shot at cute girls we met—though none of us honored that one.
The bay almost reached our windowsill downstairs. I sat there, staring
I put up the atheist rant and the Google ads on my site, which automaticaly match to subject, were all religious. One read "Jesus was a teenager. What's up with that?" I had to know.
