josiahdavidchapman

[josiahdavidchapman]

Serving sexists

“Hello, welcome to Bob’s. My name is Josiah. I’ll be your server tonight. How’s the night treating you?”

“Fairly well. Look man, I’m a wealthy spoiled kid. But these prices on your wine list aren’t just rape, their molestation. I’m not gonna order wine by the bottle...it’s not your fault.”

“Not a problem sir, what else can I get you?”

“Jack and diet please.”

“Yes sir. Coming right up.”

I walk away from the hosts seat at head of the table towards the computer and order the man his drink. Why would he make such a comment? He’s rich. What does he care? Restaurants make most of their money off of liquor and wine mark ups. He’s a regular. You’d think he know. But I play it off. My job is simple: take care of the guest, regardless of how irrational he or she may be. This guy was the epitome of rich: boot cute faded jeans that reek of the “I buy pricy clothes but don’t give two shits about it” vibe; fancy pointed shoes that didn’t begin to redeem his lack of cohesive dress ware; a colorful button down with wide stripes and off putting shades of orange and brown; spiked thin hair undoubtedly groomed with “touch of gray,” inspired by the “save your hair” bosley mantra; a dark orange skin tone indicative of long hours in tanning beds and the frequent lavish tropical vacation; and to top it off, his dolled-up white teeth hide an unenthusiastic, banal smile that wants to be sincere but couldn’t possibly manage relatability, even given the best of days and a genuine effort. His name was James. From the moment I shook his hand, I despised the man. Everything about my first impression of him was contently stuck in the rich, snobby, egotistical realm. Regardless, I did my job, and he seemed reasonably happy, despite his complaints.

The more I wait on wealthy high profile people, the more disenchanted I become. What do they have to offer that’s acutely better than my arsenal of personal strengths, loves, and giftings? How did they grow into powerful individuals? And why should I give a damn about the particularities of one persons privileged, cushioned life? Throughout my life, I’ve had to work for everything. Food, drink, health, education, transportation, and a fragment of social relevancy, all on my own dime. Then again, maybe I’m wrong to judge him. Perhaps he’s entirely self-made and deserves every dollar the ecosystem of western capitalism has afforded him. However, if one man’s wealth speaks louder and more obnoxiously than every other potentially relatable subjective experience, I can’t help but think he’s on on the losing side of the spectrum. Money is great. But money can’t buy a blissful soul. Nor can it purchase happiness or love, as countless poets and musicians have articulated throughout past centuries. Being rich is great, when money is the thing you need to answer questions and solve problems. But when capital isn’t sufficient, a man’s true colors begin to show. And no amount of money could make this interaction any more pleasant.

“Hey buddy, I’ll take the tab. And add 18% please.”

“18%?” I thought. What a low-grade level of compensation for a far above average waiter that makes his bread and butter off of scum like this. I didn’t make enough that night. I don’t know if he was aware of how skimpy the tip actually was. Maybe he just wasn’t paying attention to the numbers. It’s beyond me. All I know is that I got paid less than normal to wait on an extremely high maintenance client full of complaints and extensive lip service. But complements don’t pay the bills. Maybe he meant well. More than likely he didn’t think far enough to give two shits about the severs that went out of their way to cater to him and his entitled group of friends and family. It was his daughters 15th birthday. She came across as 18+ with a lovely frame and a charming smile. I caught several older men giving her a look as she walked into the private dining room. I couldn’t believe it at first. Isn’t it despicable for a middle-aged man to gawk at a girl far below the legal age? Not my place. I’m just a sever. Put the blinders on—professional aura, expertise in every step of service from picking up plates to articulating features, and a “can-do” smile that diffuses tension and makes me appear completely willing to accommodate any request. To my core, I truly am available to fulfill any request. If a guest needs me to venture across the street for a pack of smokes or a small bottle of Advil, I’ll do it without question. I’m that kind of server. But this gentleman (I say that to formalize our interaction, not to commend his character) was impossible to please and made it a point to be difficult. I let it be. Just another night in the business of pleasing clients and tailoring an exquisite dining experience. Then again, the guest has to want that. I can only do so much when the man sitting in the chairs I’ve dusted and positioned precisely around the table wants to complain and bicker about the most tangential details. What can I do? Smile, accommodate each request promptly, and fulfill the role high-profile clients expect of me. Most are complete strangers. But my job doesn’t change due to that. I’m in it for the money and the experience. And on that night, both end goals were severely lacking.

As I walk around the table, surveying empty glasses and dirty plates, clearing away superfluous items, I can’t help but overhear the conversation. The same man I’ve overanalyzed from the first minute I saw him takes lead of the dialogue. What followed was a disturbing back and forth about gender, sexual equality, and current political affairs.

“Most of this shit, all the #metoo stuff...some of these girls, with the way they dress, they’re asking for it. You know what I call a girl dressed all slutty? A pound sign. That’s what I call them. They’re begging to be pounded. That’s what it comes down to.”

The man’s wife looks at him passively, attempting to dismiss the comment, but too apprehensive to call his bluff outright. Lots of cheap laughter and eye-contact evasion follows. The comment was off-putting, at best. Absurdly sexist and hateful, at worst. Whatever his intentions were, they were lost in his crudely expressed viewpoint of the role of women in society and his generic aura of pretension and esotericism. I certainly couldn’t relate to him. I needed only to oblige him. He couldn’t give a damn where I’m from, what I’ve been through, who I claim to be. Why would he? I’m just a glorified butler, here to accommodate his every request.

On nights like this, the waiting game gets old real fast. Feeding the mouths of entitled individuals, selling steaks and wine to the those who could care less about a price point, embracing the role of server and personal assistant in a world dominated by the rich and powerful—it’s all mad, every part. But until the world opens up to me, I’ll do my part, pouring wine, serving cocktails, picking plates up, setting others down, cleaning the table, smiling when a guest asks for my opinion, balancing on the tight rope of the perception of others and the obligation to meet and exceed expectations. It’s a mad science, this waiting game.

[josiahdavidchapman]

The most troubled souls are always the most creative.

Hallie

[josiahdavidchapman]

A friend named Caleb

February 3,

I slept most of the day, feeling sick but not, not wanting to move or get out of bed. I get up, shower, brush my teeth and then start my “day”. I feel this is the never ending cycle I live. Overwhelming, tedious. I’m mentally and physically exhausted. Yet no one knows. They know me as the guy who has their fix. Not for me. I don’t have anyone who I can freely express myself with. So I’m a blank faced dickhead. And I know it. Yet I embrace it because the truth of the matter is I’m too nice. Though I know i shouldn’t, I just love the feeling I get seeing people light up with genuine feelings— that’s what gets me. Though people use that to their advantage, I still do it.

That fucks me. But I don’t care, I don’t care about most things. I wish I did but I just can’t anymore even if I tried. My mind is always racing and sometimes I don’t know how to embrace it. Im lost. Yet here and seeing. I know what I have to do. But I don’t, I know what’s right yet I choose wrong. I know the right path to take but yet I don’t. Doesn’t make sense does it? I’m in the back seat of a car, bag full of clothes, money, and drugs. Going with the flow. No plan. No care. Yet I do. But I don’t know how much to care. I’m complicated and this is me expressing myself to myself. Due to the fact at the end of the day, it’s me, myself and I. No one else. And I don’t need anyone but me. And my faith in myself. I’ll prosper hopefully.

[josiahdavidchapman]

Two sides of 8 hours

Side 1: Misdirection

Something is holding me back. Maybe a little bit of everything is, truthfully. I moved to a city I love with next to nothing in my bank account, took a job I’ve already effectually reached my potential at, I’m working on a book that’s now seen a near month stall, I’m pursuing a job I don’t know how to attain, I’ve reworked my resume a thousand times but nothing seems to work, and every interview or callback or meeting with a focused peer has only left me feeling more indecisive and anxious. I’m eager to move on. I know what my next step is, but the precludes seem like mountains with a thousand tricky pathways hidden and mysterious and prone to all sorts of perils. In a way, I don’t feel good enough for the job I want. Not in my own heart and mind, but on paper. My qualifications seem a bit scattered. I’m a professional server who wants to teach, travel and publish. How can I go from pro waiter to pro traveling writer? Or am I forever doomed to the banal cycle of middle-class life, with a basket full of college debt and unrealized dreams? No, surely I’m not. I’ve lived passionately, like it all matters. I’m different than the sort of man who gives up. I don’t have an ounce of quit in me. I will keep fighting for what I believe ought to be mine—the chance to see the world for what it is, to be a student of it, and to guide others through the maze of reality that encompasses us. I want to leave the earth peacefully, knowing I’ve done all I can to understand the nature of all things and love and appreciate those who like me are on a surely perilous journey to find the sort of joy that comes with seeking out a purpose that transcends our knowledge and our finitude. To know the depths of our most complex fears, and face them—that is my task. Upending everything I’ve been told, I will continue to seek peace and contentment, no matter how grim the untold nature of things appears after tireless cosmic excavation. I’m here. And as long as I am, I will search for the answer.

Side 2: Monotony

It’s not just the routine that gets me, it’s the way routine seems to devolve into mindless muscle memory. I get up, shut off the alarm, some days I doze off again and others I get up right away depending on how I feel  mentally, then I make a pot of coffee, pull out my laptop, turn on some music, tend to some writing, some personal and some work-related, cook lunch, iron my work clothes, shower, before I know it it’s time to hit the road and head to work. On Wednesday’s - Saturday’s I cycle to work. Today’s Tuesday, so I’ll drive. I get to work, do the same setup I always do, tend to my section, make an Americano, warm up my dinner, pull out my phone and jot down some thoughts or check my emails or something to pass the time and make me feel mildly productive, then I get my first table and the night proceeds forward as it always does. Always forward, time passes and the next time I look up it’s time to do side work and polish my section, then I’ll be on my way. Back to my house where my housemates sleep, but I’ll stay up with the tv on and dinner and a tea. I’ll tell myself to read or write or play guitar, but usually I just watch the tube until I’m sleepy enough to transition to my bed, where I work for every weary hour of sleep. Before I know it, the sun's bright rays peek through my window and it’s time to do it all over again. The banality of days, passing swiftly with only an ounce of originality just like the thousands that have passed me by. But clocks hands keep turning, my skin shows wrinkles, my bones stiffen. The signs of age lift to the front of my awareness like a dawn's horizon exposing imperfections and inconsistencies that the dark seemed to pay no mind to. Here I am: aging slowly yet too quickly, degrading life’s hopes and dreams with each passing day, week, month, year, decade, hoping to capture something truly meaningful before my lungs rise and fall one last weary time and my heart beats slow then fast then calls it quits once and for all. I’m a flame burning all in my path, desperate to be seen and change the way of things before I run out of trees and grass and shrubs to tear through or a rain descends down from dark gray skies, snuffing me out as quickly as I sprung up. Who will remember the blaze that tore through a barren countryside? My scorched black path will soon show life again. All green will return in time, and my memory will remain only in the minds of those who witnessed my furor and persistence. By instigating death I’ve made way for life; in killing there is breathing and repair and growth all part of the cycle of this vaporous existence we call life. As the poet has said, “all is vanity...as grasping at the wind.” I’ll let my hour’s pass without a thought to elongate them. When a weeks come and gone and another month ticks away, I’ll look up unimpressed and indifferent. With another year comes ailment, worry, sorrow, and a heap of regret, wishing we could have known how quickly it would pass. We tell ourselves this day, week, month or year will be different. We’ll take time to do what we love. No one will keep us from our dreams or bar our intentions. This time around, I will sail atop the ocean of worry I’ve spent too many hours traversing painstakingly, hoping that the storm will pass, that my effort will take me beyond the tumultuous waves to a land with bright skies and green grass and tall trees with ripe fruits and shade-casting branches. Today, I’m going to live differently. Yet, we open our eyes and the same freight train of worry and stress and lack of understanding tears through our minds like every day prior, and we get up and brew a pot of coffee like lost sheep with short-term memory loss. There's no time for existential realizations, you’ve gotta rush to work, and I’m gonna pull up the sheets and hope for another brief dream that leaves me smiling and somehow motivated for the day at hand. Closing my eyes isn’t giving up, but it sure as hell doesn’t feel like change.

[josiahdavidchapman]

Great minds think in complementarity.

Brent

[josiahdavidchapman]

unstructured

Tick tock, back and forth, perpetually swinging; time’s hands cannot waiver. If they could, they’d choose another time and another place--somewhere far from here, at a moment of indispensable, irrevocable, transformative, inherent meaning. If hours could stand still, why would they choose me? How many of you would I let slip by just the see if you’d try? 

If time were my mistress and hours my pawns to command, I’d take each minute, grasp them firmly in hand, and see how long she’d slow her hands on account of my eager heart. If she gave me seconds, I’d stand still, breath deep, look up at the sun, and savor a moment truly mine. If she could sacrifice minutes, I’d run to a hill, a park, a stream; standing alone, wearing nature’s gleam--I’d arrive at a place exclusively mine; in some way subjectively divine. If in her wisdom, she afforded me hours, I’d fly above lavish fields of flowers--from Holland to Texas and oceans between; no stone unturned, no corner unseen. 

Time, be my servant, for an hour, minute, second--just a flash. Turn my axis on its head, stop the spin--embrace the rash. I wish for a moment to truly call my own. A point in space to call my home. With time suspended, I won’t feel alone. 

[josiahdavidchapman]

misspelled

let me

enchant you

I know you’ll adore

soft kisses on your neck

my hands on a trek

from your chin to your thighs

up to where your hair lies

grin at the thought

tell me your plot

with sun kissed ocean eyes

you shouldn’t be surprised

my pure fantasy hovers

like a cloud in your sky

[josiahdavidchapman]

a convoluted confession 10/30

Until recently, I never pictured myself as a realtor. A combination of life detours, what I consider to be healthy peer pressure, financial stagnation, personal ambitions, and the counsel of certain friends and relatives led me down the “real estate path.” When I returned to Dallas, my first instinct was to teach and work as a sever. Eventually, I’d reach grad school. But the combination of a less than ideal job situation--strangely enough, only by my perception was it anything short of glamorous and enviously lucrative--a bitter-ending breakup (curiously enough, each one seems to end more bitterly than the last), the continual realization that I’m a bit of a black sheep in some ways, specifically in regards to my family, and a generic aura of pessimistically-charged self-discovery opened up an entourage of doorways, each a broad spectrum of possibilities. I began to feel stagnant, discontent and descended into a dry well of frustration. The past two years have taught me a wealth of life lessons, from accepting my own vulnerability to depression, addiction, and prescription-worthy anxiety, to understanding death and my own finitude in terms more vivid and provoking than ever before.  Such a strange detour...even now I struggle to articulate the depth of these marks of personal evolution and growth; growth in nonlinear, ambiguous terms. What took me from an aspiring teacher to a budding realtor? More than anything, the mountain of personal doubt and emotional volatility looming in front of me, almost snarling as it remained affixed to the horizon. I was afraid. And in a sense, that fear was valid. I was living in my hometown, far from the streets of Brooklyn that, to my core, still felt like home, staying in a beautiful home with three well-meaning friends who so happened to be devoutly religious, making our interactions valuable but fundamentally driven by competing assumptions and values, leaving me with a growing sense that ideological estrangement may perhaps be the norm for me, driving a car I couldn’t afford (technically, I still can’t afford it), juggling credit card and college debt, nursing a knee injury that I had neither the insurance coverage or the patience for, and at a crossroads, with endless energy to give whatever task I chose. I couldn’t choose then, and today I still am not certain of the next step. I have an idea of what’s next...but there’s no guarantee of anything. Perhaps that’s the beauty of it. Perhaps it’s all going to end before I see the next phase. But I know one thing to a certainty: there’s inherent beauty in the search for truth and meaning. And I, for one, will never abandon it.

[josiahdavidchapman]

On a fundamental level, men and women don’t understand each other.

Ben

[josiahdavidchapman]

Doubt will kill more dreams than failure ever can.

Ben

[josiahdavidchapman]

Complacency is the death of all dreams

Ben

[josiahdavidchapman]

repost: subway evangelist

She paces up and down the scuffed floors of the old subway car. “Love the lord your god with all your heart, soul, mind and strength! This is the command of the lord!” She screams. One sentence is english, the next in spanish. She holds a tattered bible in one hand, and waves the other around hysterically. Her gestures signal urgency, but her expression is marked by uncertainty. Who will listen? Who will heed the subway evangelist?

Follow the ritual: headphones over ears, music on, volume up and up–as high as it will go. Drown out the desperate cries of the zealot. This train compartment packed with restless passengers is not her stage. Nor are we–average souls caught in the rigors of a life too short and a to-do list too long–her congregation.

I look up from my reading. She marches toward me chanting a bible verse in Spanish. I catch her eye. My gaze is stern. Her’s seems to plead we me to listen and understand. I hold my eyes firmly affixed on hers. Her passionate gaze crosses into paranoia as she turns around and continues her lecture.

I contemplate her life; past, present and future. What would compel her to march into a subway, preaching, lecturing and pleading? If she had a nickel for all the glares and eye-rolls she received within an average days work, I swear she’d be a millionaire. Her line of work must be exhausting. Processing rejection isn’t a career I’m inclined to take up.

She walks up and down the rows of passengers, each one enraptured in a world of their own where crazy subway preachers are turned away at the door. She closes her eyes, uttering Spanish phrases laced with an occasional clumsy English paraphrase. I open my bag, slide my book in, and again find myself looking up at her.

I don’t quite know why I paid any attention to her. She seemed a bit desperate, not to mention melodramatic. Maybe it was her earnest tone; the way she eagerly searched for someone to hear her plea. I admire persistence. Especially in the face of rejection.

Next stop, Fulton St. She continued on. I gathered my things and exited the train, wondering if her slew of sermons would forever fall on deaf ears.

[josiahdavidchapman]

9/27

What does it mean to age? To grow older, physically, mentally, and emotionally. Is it simply the number of years one's been living? Or perhaps the number and variety of experiences notched in one's belt? Is it wrinkles, eyesight, hearing or dexterity (or lack thereof)? Perhaps it's an issue of outlook? The old undoubtedly know things the young don't. Is it a sense of aged realism developed only by hours, months and years?

I've always sought to be wise both in thought in practice. For me, age is a sort of privileged access into a realm of knowledge often unknown and more frequently underappreciated. Growing up--"coming of age"--has far more to do with perspective and outlook than years and wrinkles. Even though the body may age, the mind doesn't always follow suite. Some of us live and die in a naive microcosm. Others spend their time seeking social exposure, only to be ruined and exhausted, with little to show for their efforts. On each end of the spectrum, the young and old alike have stories to tell. Perhaps the divide in accounts of individual existence and life outlook can be calculated in years. Perhaps it can't.

When I graduated college over two years ago, I became infatuated with beatnik poetry. I read just about every Kerouac novel, and immersed myself in Dylan Thomas' work. As transformative as these and other authors were at the time, I was both mortified and perplexed when I learned of their respective deaths. Kerouac drank himself sick, and left the world on a hospital bed at age 47. Thomas collapsed outside of a tavern in west village, after bragging that he had drank fourteen whiskey gingers in one sitting. He was 39.

Just like a handful of the great writers of the twentieth century that came before them--Hemingway and Fitzgerald amongst the most notable--Kerouac and Thomas died young. They possessd more talent and artistic originality than most of us can personally imagine. Yet, their self-destructive habits got the better of them. Was it a coincidence that many of my early literary heros were alcoholic degenerates that either died young or took their own lives?

Aging is a privilege. It means that you're still alive. As long as you have breath in your lungs and blood flowing through your veins, you have something to live for. Whether or not that reason is significant to anyone else is irrelevant. Aging gives you the chance to find out why you're here, and what you aim to do with the few short years you have at your disposal.

When I tell someone I'm 25, they typically respond with, "oh you're a baby!" Or "you're still a kid!" But for me, I've never been older. I may not make it to 26. Lord willing, I will. But nothing is certain. And while I'm here on this small planet with billions of other humans, I aim to uncover wisdom in every way I can. Regardless of my age, I want to exceed every expectation; to live with an open mind, not content to leave this world without at least giving my dreams and ambitions a proper shot.

Age is a number. A label. A restriction. Some of the greatest minds the world has seen lived and died in a flash; far below life expectancy and somewhere between obscurity and notoriety. To live long is to secure your legacy. But not everyone has that privilege. Some of us pass far before we or anyone else expects us to. Learning what we value and how we intend to age is one of the most inherently beneficial tasks we will ever undertake. While some of us wait, others seek answers urgently. Time is relentless and unforgiving. What are you waiting for?

[josiahdavidchapman]

Quote (3/12)

Life without parole is the fate of every word unspoken.

[josiahdavidchapman]

recovery

I can't say exactly why, images of you pierce the eye. A mention of you in poor time, rings obsessively at the crime. Of self-discovery gone awry, and a loving heart left to dry. But love is a dare we both chose to take. In the aftermath, touting recovery seems fake. There was never a simple answer; never a single cure. For the riddle gone wrong--the story of him and her. Yet, words sound cheap and platitudes are straight arrows. I can't count the missteps I took, the twists in plot. Blood spills too freely--still waiting for the clot.

[josiahdavidchapman]

8/5/2016, 12:36AM

My parents are 56 and 57. Today was my mothers birthday, she's 57. After a family dinner tonight, we gathered in the living room to talk as a family...all 23 of us (mind you, there were 3 missing--we’re 26 total). He confessed that he might cry a little. But what he said changed me. It was one of the most sincere things I've ever heard. He talked about the day they first met. “When I first met you, I admired your adventurous spirit. It was one of the reasons I was attracted to you initially. Through all the years, this hasn't changed. You pursue your dreams steadfastly. I love you. I'm for you. Happy birthday sweetheart.” I fought a few tears. //jdc//

[josiahdavidchapman]

refrain

Nothing is set in stone Look up--you're not alone; Crimson horizon, be my dawn Weary eyes awake in splendor Midday sun, be my warmth Love's regeneration; heart-stricken spawn Chapter 1: mystery eyes, enchanting lips Final page: fingers with untiring grips Boxes stuffed with letters, journals in shifty stacks Memories to fill the cracks Broken records' love-struck tracks My dear, this tune is ours alone Of all melodies, yours sounds like home