Happy 4th of July to dear you,
I am in the midst of selling the precious property here at Inlet Beach and moving on to another . . . place. Hard to call it home since it cannot match the space, the wild beauty of this last gorgeous acre in a now exploited, paved zone. But I know not to look back. Lots of quotations on this topic . . .
On the one hand, there is the future-focused "let it go" mantra:
And on the other hand, there is the learn from the past kind of mantra:
I am thinking about these messages because I am not only letting go of my lovely land here, I am also cranking out a comedic memoir about various adventures working, surviving and gypsying around the USA. These reflections are very American. We can invent and reinvent; we (economy allowing) can spin our pasts into pleasing tales. We can (with consequences, of course) live our truths.
So, as summer sizzles and I see the moving date approaching, I write little stories about how I got here. And by making the reflection fun, I am freeing myself from grief. Moving on. Independence. Happy 4th. And amen to Johnny Depp's words. However, I would definitely have replaced "shit" with the F bomb.
Love,
Joyce
Oh, and if you care to read the first sections of this little book, here you go:
Joyce
Fleming
PLAY MONEY
A
record of endless gigs and tiny rebellions
I escaped from the "heart of Dixie" decades
ago. Yet here I am . . . back home in
the Florida Panhandle. Cliche wisdom
might claim we can't go home again. We
often do. Pop movies frequently focus on
this theme. But my story is not a
romantic tale like Sweet Home Alabama
or Hope Floats. What brought me home is/was work, not a
career, but survival. This is my story,
moving back from now to then, a happy, confessional of a multifarious soul
journeying through zip codes and gigs as dancer, actress, waitress, secretary,
fitness instructor, paralegal, professor, and retail renegade.
June, 2018
I just got written up by Ted, my
manager at the local JZPeppy, for dropping the F bomb at work. Sixty-three years old, and I am now a retail
criminal. A part-time, underpaid,
over-qualified retail criminal with a wicked mouth, sitting in a windowless
mall office being cross-examined.
"This is a very serious
matter, Joyce. Tell me your version of what happened."
"Ted, the customer should
mind his own business. I was ranting about the president and racist policies
while cleaning up the shoe department. Oh, by the way, why does that zone
always look like a crime scene? Anyway,
I was ranting to a co-worker and not to a f****** customer. I had no idea he could hear me."
"You just did it again."
"What did I just do
again?"
"You cursed."
"I don't put curses on
people. I'm not a witch."
"No. I mean your language."
At this point, Ted is staring at something over my
head. He would prefer not to look at the
source of this cursing.
"Oh. You mean I
said f*** again."
"Yes. And stop
saying that. Please. Joyce.
Stop."
Meanwhile, passive and slightly puffy Kalli is taking notes,
recording the conversation for human resources.
I wonder if she is spelling out the F bomb or using asterisks. But I digress . . .
"OK, Ted. So
what do you want me to do? What will
calm our unhappy custy?"
"I have to write you up and send a report to
Corporate."
"So, what does that mean? Am I fired?"
"Not this time.
But we are watching you."
Yes, they are watching me at JZPeppy. Frankly my dear, I don't give a f***.
I started working here during the Christmas holiday season
in 2015. At that time, I was finishing
up a rather grim semester teaching composition and literature at a local state
college. Let’s call it Gulf Shores State Advanced High School (GSSAHS). As expected, my time there as an adjunct had
been less than exciting. Spoiled by
teaching at more vibrant colleges in Chicago and St. Petersburg, Florida (more
on that later), this experience was like walking through mud one day and a mine
field another day. Department
full-timers were simple, sweet folks, but followed a rather dull pedagogical
model. And some of these folks (the not
so sweet ones) had a problem with my “passion” and tendencies to ignore rubrics
and standardized writing assignments.
So, in the fall of 2015, I opted out and signed on as a sales associate
with JZPeppy.
Ted hired me to work in the shoe department. Why shoes seemed right for me has never been
clear. What was clear at the time was
the fact that nobody wanted to deal with that part of the store. The job involved lots of boxes, boxes, boxes,
and feet, feet, feet. The department
literally stank. Of course, I
encountered many fun customers and serving them was easy. This was not brain surgery. However, there were also the others, those
who brought their bad attitudes and unhinged children with them to shop. Flashback to memorable run-in of this type:
I am mumbling to myself amid piles of mismatched shoes on a
busy Sunday shift. “Why would anyone put
a stiletto heel in a Nike box? This is
purgatory. Oh, no, here we go, an angry
mother and restless child are entering the department.”
Mom: “Don’t touch
anything.”
Child: “Why?”
Mom: “Because these
shoes are dirty.”
Child: “Then why are
you trying them on?”
Mom: “Don’t sass me.”
Child: “I want ice
cream.”
Mom: “They don’t sell
that here.”
Child: “I feel
sick. I think I’m going to puke.”
Mom: “Well, use that
box over there.”
Really? Did she just
advise the kid to vomit in my merchandise?
I have to intervene.
Me: “Hello. Should I show you where the restroom is?”
Mom: “Are you asking me
to leave the shoe department?”
Me: “No. I just overheard your child say he felt
nauseous.”
Mom: “You need to
help me find shoes and leave him alone.”
I have nothing to say in response. I simply stare at her. This non-response always infuriates customers
who are looking for a fight.
Mom: “Where is your
boss? I want to speak to a manager!”
The random manager on duty (not Ted) is consulted. Customer is mollified by gifts of $10 off
coupons and promises of a reprimand to the cold bitch in the shoe department
who, obviously, hates children.
This reprimand did not take the form of a “write up” (I
still don’t know what that is), but it took the form of Zen advice. “Joyce, please be more mindful.”
Well, at least I had been mindful enough not to drop an F
bomb.
*****************
I am still serving time at JZPeppy on weekends. The dollars pay some bills and allow me to play
here in the family home in Inlet Beach, the grand old property I have been
caring for since my move here in 2013.
That move was prompted by my Dad’s death and another gig-related comedy. Stay tuned for that revelation.
November,
2012
Late autumn in St. Petersburg, Florida, is stunning. The heavy summer heat is gone; the air is
clear; the water sparkles; loud American tourists are replaced by chilled
Canadians and Europeans. My last fall
there was neither chilled nor sparkling.
I went all in to stand strong against assholes in academia! Admittedly, this battle was one of my tiny
rebellions that changed my work status and location.
I worked for the local state college in St. Pete since my
arrival there in 2003. Hired as a
composition adjunct, I had plenty of work and taught courses at the main campus
(in the center of the Pinellas County peninsula, a short bus ride away from my
downtown dwelling) and the new extension campus in town. All instructors faced a mutual challenge in
this zone: a (sometimes large) segment
of the student population lacked curiosity and thought reading was unnecessary.
Imagine you are teaching a Composition I class and the day’s
project is to write a response to an essay in the textbook. You assume the students have prepared by
reading that essay before class. You
learn quickly not to assume this. When
the response writing assignment is announced, you will hear “But I didn’t read
the essay” like a choral ode filling the room.
You will attempt to adjust. Adapt
or die. You will then say “In the
future, always prepare for class by reading assigned material. Today, we will read the material
together. Bob, start us off with the
opening on page 67.”
Bob doesn’t respond.
You repeat the request.
“Bob, start us off with the opening on page 67.”
Bob mumbles: “I
didn’t bring my book.”
It gets worse after this.
You will hear about allergies preventing reading, bad
girlfriends/boyfriends who steal textbooks and sell them for drug money, and,
yes, you will also hear about the dog that eats anything related to
academia. You will continue to adapt and
accommodate. Or you will do what I did
one November day in response to similar nonsense. You will speak the unfiltered truth.
“Seriously, I am so over listening to this lazy bull****. To those who read the material, stay and
we’ll get something done. To the rest of
you, class dismissed. Course
dismissed. Semester dismissed. Don’t come back. I’ll give you a B as a final grade just so I
don’t have to see you ever again. Good
luck! Enjoy your futures at Burger
King!”
Silence plus dropped jaws.
Then, mass exodos with threats of going to the Dean . . . or
whoever my boss is.
The two prepared, smart students are embarrassed and know
this little explosion will hurt me more than the “customers” I dismissed. This was my third strike, my third incident
involving . . . honesty.
Strike one involved a tech employee who demanded I abandon
my work at an office computer before class because he needed to update some
widget. I said “no”. He said “you have to.” And I stomped off to teach. I opened the session by describing what had
just happened and addressed my favorite students in the class directly. These two dudes were always prepared,
curious, and bad ass. One, let’s call
him Vito, worked as a rent collector and body guard. He packed heat. The other , let’s call him Hulk, was simply
huge, the size of your average NFL linebacker, and he always wore brass
knuckles on his right hand (taking them off to type or write essays in class,
of course). After my little
recollection, Vito and Hulk stood and asked my permission to “get some
water”. Of course I agreed and of course
I knew exactly where they were headed and what they would do. My heroes headed to the adjunct office and
cornered tech-dude, preventing his exit.
They just blocked the door eyeing him. Tech-dude was trapped for half an
hour.
The next morning, I arrived on campus and my Department
Chair gave me the lecture of the century.
Tech-dude was traumatized. How
had I dared to use my students as mafia hitmen?
I apologized and signed something and went about my business. Tech-dude avoided me from that point on.
Strike two involved the Bill of Rights. I taught a
Composition II course focusing on arguments.
Topics were always current and political. Spring 2012, many students
were thinking about the upcoming Presidential election, the one that resulted
in Obama’s second term. However, there
was this one guy who just couldn’t stay current. He was still enraged about the 2008 contest,
the one where Sara Palin ran as the Republican vice presidential
candidate. Obsessed with Sara’s supposed
crimes against democracy, Enraged Guy wrote an argument targeting her words.
The problem here is he was not actually citing her words. Enraged Guy confused a Saturday Night Live sketch with reality. In one of those sketches, an actor posing as
Sara stated “And I can see Russia from my house”. No.
Sara did not say that. An actor
did. Enraged Guy also cited a comment
she really did make about using our Second Amendments rights (guns baby) to
protect ourselves from . . . liberals (?) He managed to screw this up too
because he said she had prompted us to use our “Fifth Amendment” rights (not
exactly about guns baby). He was reading
this in front of the class and I had to correct him on both goofy errors. He was deeply insulted. After class, we had a little chat:
Enraged guy: “I don’t
appreciate the way you put me on the spot.”
Me: “Your content
contained two ridiculous errors. As a
Democrat and a liberal, I really can’t have you making my party look bad. If you are going to speak out against any
conservative, you better be accurate. We
can’t afford that kind of idiocy now.”
Enraged guy: “Those
were just typos.”
Me: “Oh hell no.”
Enraged guy: “I am
filing a complaint against you.”
Me: “Go ahead. Just make sure you show them the original
copy of this paper, the original with the idiotic errors in it.”
The complaint was filed.
I found out Enraged Guy was the son of some rather powerful local
people. They asked I be banned from
teaching. This didn’t happen, but I was
warned I would be watched. (Were there audio-cameras in those
classrooms? This foreshadows future fun
at JZPeppy.)
Back to this gorgeous autumn, 2012, the season of strike
three. My dear old Dad died in October
and this loss shifted the way I viewed everything. I knew future work assignments hinged on my
being on the chain. Losing Dad made me
realize I needed to get permanently off
the chain. Life is short. I can teach anywhere. We have a beach house in the Panhandle of
Florida that needs to be cared for, lived in, and Mom wants to stay in the
Birmingham house. I will move home. I will live in the Inlet Beach house as
caretaker and chain-breaker. Bring on
the lawnmowers, shovels, and tacky straw hats.
The city girl is headed to the Redneck Riviera.
