Closer:Poetry & Prose

 
The closer I get to death, the better.
The closer I get to suicide, the better.
The closer I get to the bottom, the better.
The closer I get to the end, the better.
For that is where the pain will end.
Please allow me to update you on my marvelous career.  Things were going just fine working as a janitor at a bookstore.  Then I walked into the men's room, to clean it, and it hit me: the smell.  It was a bad smell.  I checked the toilets.  Sure enough, one of them was filled with poop soup.  It was so f*cking gross.  I began to gag.  Tears streamed down my face.  What could I do?  I flushed it: hoping it wouldn't overflow.  It didn't, but the noxious mess didn't go down.  I kept flushing it, as I kept gagging with tears rolling down my unremarkable face.  What if I have to plunge it?!  What if some of it splashed onto me as I was doing that?  Fortunately, I made some progress with my flushes.  Finally, after several flushes, it was gone.  But, not surprisingly, the toilet had been annihilated with poop stains.  Lucky me, it was my job to clean it, which led to more gagging and tears.
That wonderful assignment ended.  I was merely filling in for a man that cleans bathrooms 7 days a week.  I'd rather be homeless or dead.  My job developer got me another cleaning job.  I wasn't at all excited about it.  First of all, it was quite a long drive away.  I accepted it anyway.  He took me to my first night there.  I soon learned it would be my responsibility to clean 4 buildings for a company that manufactures bricks or something like that.  The place was filthy.  Floors needed to be mopped, carpets needed to be vacuumed, and toilets needed to be cleaned.  I would spend at least 2 and a half hours working there that night, but I knew pretty early on that I didn't want that shitty job.  On the way back, my job developer and I didn't talk much at all.  I wanted to wait until we were in the parking lot of my apartment building.  Just before getting out of his jeep, I said, "I'm sorry, but I don't want this job."  He said, "Yeah, I figured that."
I'd rather be homeless or dead than clean other people's shit out of toilets. 
          

Overflowing with Anger

 
I had been unemployed for quite a while: more than 2 years.  Probably because my employment record is so shitty, no one has wanted to hire me.  I went to a place called RochesterWorks!  I asked them to help me find a job.  I was interviewed by an obese woman.  She asked me why I had been out of work so long.  Depression and OCD, I said.  She referred me to ACCES-VR, which helps people with disabilities get jobs.  It's been a long process, but I've been working the last few days as a janitor.  My shifts last from 1.5-2.5 hours per day.  It's temporary; it will be over in a week.  I'm filling in for a guy with a prosthetic leg who's on vacation in Florida.  I clean a Barnes & Noble.  I sweep, mop, vacuum, take out the trash, and clean the bathrooms.  I've cleaned shitty toilets.  Today, I found what I assume was a used maxi pad.  It seemed too big to be a mini pad.  It had quite a bit of dried blood on it. 
The problem is that the guy who got me this gig told me that it paid $8 an hour.  I said okay anyway.  But then I thought to look up the current minimum wage in the state of New York; it's $8.75 an hour.  I haven't been able to ask him about that yet, because it's the weekend.  I certainly will ask him, or someone else, about it tomorrow.  My anger has been building over this issue.  People who clean other people's shit out of toilets deserve to earn at least the minimum wage.  
I'm also angry at my neighbor.  Shortly after he and his fat, ugly wife first moved in, he played some loud music.  I tried to nip it in the bud.  I went over there and rang the doorbell.  I asked him to turn it down.  He apologized and turned it down.  It stayed down for a while: weeks or months.  Then it got louder again.  He also sings quite loudly.  He sings at the top of his lungs in his bathroom, which goes right through the wall.  I've yelled at him, through the wall, to shut up, but it never worked.  He also was singing in the hallways.  He'd come into the building singing loudly.  He'd continue until he got to his apartment.  Then he'd come out of his apt. singing loudly.  One time, I opened my door abruptly, and he looked at me.  "What's up?" I said with a mean look on my face.  He just shut up and skedaddled.
I got so sick and tired of hearing his f*cking singing that I wrote a note to him and put it under his door.  Then I went out.  When I returned, there was a note under my door.  It was written by his wife, and it was angry and defiant.  "I pay my rent.  You no work.  I'm a good person, and so is my husband.  Yes I sing, and in church too.  Don't put no more paper under my door.  Don't knock on my door.  Call the office if you have a problem."  I'm going by memory.  It was very poorly written.  I'm sure I just improved it.  However, things got better.  The loud music stopped, and the as*hole stopped singing in the halls.  When he and I pass each other by, we glare at each other.  I don't like him.  Now, after quite a bit of peace, the loud music has returned and so has his singing through the wall we share.  So this is my life.  I wake up early, clean shit out of toilets, and come home to more shit.