When I tell people that I’m VISTA, they get confused. Honestly, I don’t blame them. I’ve been an AmeriCorps VISTA for about four months now and I still have no idea what the hell what is it and what I’m supposed to be doing. Instead of repeating the VISTA history and its mission and blah blah blah of the organization (you can Google it all), I’ll tell you what I know and how I got to where I am.
One very intelligent reader/follower/fellow blogger states:
“How can the government not do background checks on ‘these’ volunteers? The AmeriCorps? The VISTA‘? The FEMA‘s? Doesn’t seem to make sense if you say, someone is currently volunteering to help the poor and yet haven’t paid taxes for a year!”
Well, it is pretty simple and an even dumb and dumber equation when it comes to the U.S., government.
If you speak out too much about anything that seems to be amiss in regards to a statement and/or act committed by these Bimbo’s and Narcissistic Politicians that manage to buy a vote into a seat filled with grainy and misjudged ideas set about by our forefathers…if a tax paying citizen causes too much of a ruckus;
that person is considered an extremist, too far to the right, too far to the left, a liberal lumberjack with an axe to grind.
“I’m so excited. I just go that job I told you about. The one I found on Craig’s list. It seems legit and I’m getting paid $15.00 an hour under the table. If I can’t make the art…I at least can be close to it by posing nude.”
Quote unquote from our Anti-Hero, Ambien/Annie the not so full of Grace Couvillion.
I still find it strange that not only did the pay get slipped to her odd and illegal ways. But there were other adults involved that work for the New Hampshire Highed Education System and not only did they condone the behavior, they bought her a robe for when the winds of travesty changed.
I have paid taxes for 30 years…And, I am not even sure if social security wants to hang around long enough for me to collect it…say by the time I’m 90? But yeah, I have an axe to grind. And, it is called, white folks with a dime will never pay for the crime.
“…obstacles do not exist to be surrendered to, but only to be broken.” by Adolf Hitler, the artist.
How hard is life really?
On a timidly tainted with humidity summer’s July day in New Hampshire…One can enter into an entirely different realm then had been their life’s destination not seconds before.
Working with canines it is nothing short than learning from the masters of loving life. I had acquired such an emotionally lucrative job on a particularly tossed with dampness July’s day.
I had been spotted and fawned over way before the entrance of my lanky blonde frame and I suppose some would call it, creeped, by a vixen tossed about by varied biased emotions on homosexuality.
Her frame slouched by an unusual attachment to her mother, outward ego covered in confusion and then painted over with gray on gray apparel. Typically, not what I am in the mood for.
Preferably I would like someone to dress up the rest of the ‘possible’ relationship not drag it down into a cellulite jungle of ‘ice cream puddles and chocolate chip wet dreams.’
The hair upon this saddened by life creature not quite dyed and not quite ready for success.
The line sprouting from my soon to be supervisor and sexually frustrated admirer?
“My love life is like this… beautiful ladies typically walk on by me and I never know what to say.”
WTF? Where on earth did this sexually confused and obviously misread dysfunctional come from?
I sat and not listened and learned quickly I would receive no training. My other training in the wants of a twenty-something, however, were akin to Harold and Maude.
She did her best patting the trunk of her dead Grandpa Ed’s Malibu to entice me into taking a seat with stories on homophobia, sexual harassments, physical harassments, the Adopt-A-Mother from Highway to Hell and the birth mother with a list of boyfriends longer than a NYC phonebook.
The poor me I’m rich. The wah, wah, wah, Daddy takes care of the bounced checks. And, the I haven’t had a good lay since I’ve been out of the closet…guess what, I’m not even out of the closet. Were the indexes pages to a bad romance paperback book.
The drinking, the drugging, the unprotected sex with any swinging dick and Harry.
Had me choked up on resentment and lighted my way to writing a novel on deprivation and dumbing down.
Plot Line: This chic was ready, willing and able to take out anything politically correct and pull it all the way down into sex on the job with subordinates.
I wanted to be there to watch the carnage.
So, when the ‘not’ training subsided and the story began to unfold for the summer…the only thought that came to mind when she asked me to have sex with her because everyone else turned her down?
“you know me and Jesus we’re of the same heart The only thing that keeps us distant is that I keep fuckin up!”
So, I say, let the hunger games begin!
Riding ‘round the mean streets of Franklin: A city paved with good intentions and reared on a history of poverty.
I had no cause to get up early. Generally, I smoke, a drink too much coffee and I decide what problem I can afford to fix for the day. My spouse sequestered by demons of the mental health genre, is my anchor and therefore, never out of mind and typically on the back of Aunt Gladys moped with an attitude.
If you see me and she isn’t there…most likely the back of the t-shirt hanging from my boney frame will say, ‘If you can read this…the bitch fell off!’
This morning I toured solo!
Today, sunny, dry and seventy would have made me smile from the inside out. However, that is if an S.O.S. hadn’t been sent out from the even more impoverished side of town.
Quickly and to the point I will state my facts for I am angry and should not linger.
My mechanic, father of seven, two children disabled, and wife disabled and he himself, with chronic migraines, had called to see if I needed any work done on Gladys.
Oddly enough, Auntie seemed in good repair and I felt like messin’ her up a little today with my backwoods and backwards knowledge of mechanics.
“Nope…Why, what’s up?”
“Come on Ben spit it out. Do you need money?”
Hit the nail on the head. Proud people of hardy stock from my hometown would much rather work for the wage than ask for it in advance.
Long story short, we took a drive. I handed him a hundred dollars and bought us both a coffee. I made him vow to change the oil in my truck the next time I had gone 100,000 miles.
What gets me is this:
Wife, with mental impairments struggling to make her demons meet with the real world not asking for more than her share.
Next door neighbor, ten year armed services Veteran, owns his own business, pays it forward, can barely make ends meet.
Ben, mechanic/friend, giving it all to find some small percentage of the American Dream; born into poverty, paying taxes, promoting small business enterprise, living below poverty level.
Me, poor slob who just wants to understand our government a little better and not find fault with its apparently faulty system.
The Ambien/Annie Couvillion/Gracie Williams of the world:
Known to take nude photographs of employees while on the clock and on the property of said, employer.
Known to work and proud to brag about under the table nude modeling gigs for NHTI professor and pedophile instructors on Craigslist. NH; both jobs performed within the last six months.
Admittedly addicted to Oxycontin and other substances and worried about sporadic drug tests that AmeriCorps/VISTA/FEMA requires.
Parents are of upper middle class thinking. Both teachers for state universities: Plymouth State University and the University of New Hampshire.
One parent teaches economics.
When I found myself working under the table I had been employed by Irene Bridges. She drank Diet Pepsi with Seven n Seven. Drunk or sober she never thought my work worthy of payment. Course, I had been 10 years old at the time.
Working under the table, never mind the not ‘above reproach’ profession is illegal and a form of tax evasion.
Yet, here we are watching the Ambien’s of the world volunteer on our tax dollar with taxes we paid and she did not.
So, pardon me and I may need to ask her father, the economics’ professor, but the equation is much too complex for my blonde mind.
Not only was she pardoned to avoid paying taxes less six months ago. She now is considered a government employee and is still making money off the poor. All the while professing to be ‘selfishly working on the behalf of the poor.’
Well, Ben, I guess life sucks for you. As it sucks for the people I see with backpacks as their only means of housing and bicycles as their only means of transportation.
It isn’t the country that frightens me…it’s the government and/or its lack of intelligent governing bodies.
Home is not where the heart is. It never has been. Auburn Street Concord New Hampshire, not At Home!
It is by far the most pretentious and stereotypical white bread neighborhood north of the Mississippi and south of the Canadian border.
So, stay and be miserable? . I’m not trying to be mean but the homophobia and finger pointing is beyond compare. I don’t think I’ve ever been happy there. Not with the forced gratuities on the Cape with Marcie the Super Cousin. Not with the faculty from State of New Nowhere University. Not with Mother Theresa offering up my lack of accomplishments like hor- d’oeuvres at a UNH X-mas party for passed on professors.
Something I don’t share….I cry every night before bed…I am indeed what most men would want to take home to meet their mothers. Quiet and stupid without authority.
In May, the progress I’ve made will revert back to, yes, Mum. No, Daddy! Did I clean my room? Yes, now can I go out and play…no, I promise I’ll only hang out with myself and not come in contact with anyone who has different beliefs than I. Or, should I say, you?
I will hoard dirty dishes, I will eat like no tomorrow, I will mistake my pills for PRN’s and I will avoid anything referring to adulthood.
This will be the course of action that Ambien Grace will take from the moment she unhooks herself from a free volunteering ride and sets sail upon the distant shore of fantasy movies and bad hair music. The thoughts will come back as they always do…
Wouldn’t it be better for everyone if I found a new home? How would I go about making a new home? I have no skills other than basic ideas on how to take pictures of trees. I don’t do well in crowds or speaking to others for extended periods of time. I slur my speech and on frequent occasions, I stutter. Anxiety is what my mother builds her hold over me with.
To top it off, I’ve become the Blob in the movie, Weird Science! Larger than fiction and most certainly, truthfully fat am I. Giving up smoking is one thing but this I didn’t bargain for. The dimples have left my cheeks and moved south to the other cheeks. My breasts are in need of a motorized Scooter and for the most part, I’ve seem to have lost the willingness to care about any of it.
I went to a spot today to try and find me but…
I went to the only spot I could think of you possibly being at.
Of course. You weren’t there. But I actually tried for once in my life. Because you mean the world to me
Sorry my sentence is horrible…I’m sorta crying…
Needless to say, I didn’t find me.
Quick question for the fans of Ambien Grace:
If your heart knows you better than you know yourself…how can that be if you are heartless?