Gone, gone, baby it's all gone

Author's note: This is a separate story from the previous two posts.

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His phone rang. He picked it up, saw an unknown carrier message, and almost killed the call. He took a sip of his coffee, then answered it anyways.

"This is Brad."

"Brad, it's Tom!"

"Who? Shit, Tom? I can barely hear you."

"I know, this fucker's satellite phone is a piece of shit."

"Where the hell are you?"

"Tanroon, it's a small city-state just inside Somalia."

Brad choked on his coffee. "What the fuck are you doing there?" he shouted.

"I can't hear you man, this thing is a piece of shit. I should have left it on the asshole's body. Oh shit; gotta go, there's an air strike coming."

Goodbye summer my old friend

"Hello my buddy!" Harry Handoo pumps my hand not holding my iPod video with great enthusiasm. I like this guy. A lot. There aren't many restaurant managers that I'd help out as often as this guy needs it. There aren't many restaurant managers I'd brake for if I saw them crossing the street.

Owners, sure; I'll kiss their asses all day, and honestly too since they actually write my paychecks. I like owners. Rich people are alright. When your main worry is whether or not your son is going to live up to the family name and make it into harvard (which wouldn't even make a minor dent in your bank accounts), and not whether or not your next paycheck is going to be a week late or a month late, you tend to be a more mellow person.

Anyways, Harry. Hari actually. He's indian. He came here with high hopes (since he was from a lower caste in Indian society), became a citizen, and had those hopes destroyed just like the rest of us natives. He fits in well.

"Sit, sit, sit!" he crows. He waves to the back, his smile stretching from ear to ear across his welcoming, round face. I smile back, he smiles more, and we compete for a few seconds as to who can be happier to see the other. Finally, I concede defeat, and Harry/Hari sits down. He winces for just a brief moment, and I worry for my friend.

Managers work far harder than owners, since the owner is just a guy who happens to have enough money to buy a restaurant and hire people to work in it.

Do you really want to hurt me?

I am Doug, and I am a mediachondriac.

When I wake up, I face one of the three screens in my room: the one on the ceiling, the one to the right of my bed, and the third, obviously, on my left. They are all set to the same station since it doesn't matter what is on so much as that I have some form of non-conceptual input streaming directly into my brain.

(They happen to be set on Telemundo this week. I like the fact that not being able to understand the language isn't a problem for holding off the inevitable anxiety attack that comes after a minute or two of no stimulation.)

I eat in front of the TV for breakfast like I do at every meal when I'm at home. For a change of pace I turn it to Telemundo, and put it on mute. I don't have to hear it if I can see it, and vice versa. However, after a minute I start to feel queasy. I realize that I've been paying more attention to my food than the television since I couldn't hear it. I sigh and change it to APW, the Professional Wrestling channel. All "Sports Entertainment", all the time. On the TV, John Cena is walking around a ring proclaming his greatness. I only know who John Cena is because he has been the most heavily featured "babyface" since Hulk Hogan.

Also, because like most wrestlers he occasionally speaks in the third person.

My faith healer sister tells me I'm nuts, and that I'm making it all up. I tell her she thinks ginko biloba will help her pass the state nursing board without studying (she refuses to study since nearly all the test is about treatments and procedures that go against holistic theory).

I wish I was a pro wrestler, and not a resturant consultant. I'd certainly be a lot less fat.