#bro i work at a HOMELESS SHELTER ...... had to tell him to park around the block smh

[disengaged]

went on another coffee date, it was running a bit late so i asked him to drive me to work and it turns out he uh. he drives a custom-wrapped tesla

[missarchivistdoodles]

Chapter 18: Art Store Musings

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[[TW: Emotions. All of them. Descriptions of physical injury from acid. Referenced self-harm/suicidal ideation. Unintentional self-harm.]]

Swatch wasn't sure how they ended up in the passenger seat of Crimson's car, listening to their youngest sibling natter on about the new dish he wanted to cook tonight as they headed for a small grocery store on the edge of the city. It was a farm-to-table type store, everything sold coming from the owner's large farm in the Cyber Fields. Crimson was convinced the produce from there tasted better than from the more corporate grocery store near their apartment, and had bribed Swatch into joining him on their day off.

"You haven't gone anywhere but work and your apartment for months," the red Swatchling had huffed as he dragged Swatch to the car park. "Besides, there's a new art supply store down the street from the farm that you'll love."

If they hadn't been in desperate need of a new sketchbook, Swatch would have shrugged their brother's invitation off. Instead, they begrudgingly got in the car and listened to him go on about the evenings menu, waxing poetic about the Baked Alaska he had planned for dessert.

"He can have visitors now, y'know."

Swatch, who'd been watching the city pass by around them (driving was actually quite pleasant outside of rush hour), eyed Crimson cautiously. "Who?"

Crimson kept his eyes firmly on the road as he spoke. "Spam. Addy sent me a photo of him a few days ago, holding Shock."

Swatch frowned, and turned to fully face their brother. "Crimson, if you are driving to the Addison household-"

"No, no!" The Swatchling took one wing off the wheel to wave at them. "I wouldn't do that to you, bro. We're going to the RSS Feed Store, promise." He allowed a pause to stretch between them, "But if you wanted to…"

The withering glare he received was answer enough, and he huffed, a thread of annoyance seeping through his adoration of his eldest sibling. "You know, you're going to have to talk to him eventually." Swatch didn't answer, just turned back to watch the buildings begin shrinking as they entered the more suburban areas, absently reaching up to trace the scar along the left side of their beak. Crimson let the silence simmer for a minute, before flipping on the radio

"-nd that was Reverse Uno Card by Q.U.E.E.N., hope you all enjoyed it! You're listening to CCPR - Cyber City Public Radio, and coming next up is our top-of-the-hour news! I'm Amplitude -"

"And I'm Frequency!"

"-and diving into the news today, looks like we have a flash from Adaptable Marketing Solutions! Why don't you go ahead and tell us about it, Freq?"

"Sure thing Amp. Looks like AMS is launching a new fundraiser for the city, aiming at helping the homeless population. They want to build a shelter and offer retraining for down-on-their-luck programs who are struggling to find a job."

"Well I'm not surprised by that, Freq. You've heard the CEO's muffin story, right?"

"Right, Amp! It's a classic, pretty sure most of the city knows it by now. Hey, whatever happened to the other guy from the story? The original owner?"

"Oh, you mean Spamton G. Spamton?"

"That's it! The guy with the name so nice, you said it twice!"

"He vanished last summer, after there was some kind of dust-up in the Mansion."

"Oooh, right! Wasn't there a story going around that he took a dip in Queen's acid pool?"

"Among others. My personal favorite was-"

Crimson pulled into the parking lot squeezed beside the small, brick grocery store and turned off the car, killing the radio before Amp and Freq could go into a rundown of their favorite rumors. He gave his elder a quick glance, and saw the brood leader looked twice as tense as before. "How about you head on over to the art store?" He suggested, "I'll grab the groceries and meet you there, sound good?"

Swatch nodded and climbed out of the car, relaxing as the soft sounds of suburbia (lawn mowers, young programs playing, distant traffic) washed over them. Much better than the dredge from the radio. Honestly, a news station shouldn't be gossiping like that. Crimson gathered his shopping bags and headed into the small store to haggle with the owner over the price of eggs and chives.

The art supply store was housed in a small building with white-painted bricks and large windows. A bell dinged cheerily over the door when they entered, and Swatch felt their ruffled feathers fall flat as the smell of acrylic paints and balsa wood filled their beak. An employee - peacock like in appearance, but with an Addison-ish face - greeted them cheerfully as they entered.

"Welcome to India Inks, I'm India!" He chirped. "Just lemme know if you need anything!" When Swatch just gave a nod of acknowledgement, the owner went back to his magazine.

Swatch meandered through the aisles of art supplies - the store, while small, was well-stocked, bursting with everything an artist could want. Paints of every type, brushes of every size, canvases (both panels and stretched), along with every coloring implement they'd ever seen, and some they hadn't. They took their time examining the oil pastels and chalks, absently wondering how they would look if used alongside the acrylics or watercolors they preferred.

A pack of colored pencils caught their eye and they paused, reaching out to run a talon down the side. It was the same kind Spamton had gifted him, so many years ago now. They still had them, and the sketch book, now one of many fit to burst with doodles and plans and rough ideas of larger pieces. They'd used the pencils until they were nothing more than nubs, but kept them all the same, stored in a small pouch in the back of a drawer.

They hadn't used colored pencils since the Fight (that was how his siblings spoke of it, assigning the event a capital 'F' in texts and messages). Not since the man they'd come to think of as their best friend, their confidant, and maybe, possibly, something more, had left a permanent mark across his face, maring the thin keratin layer down to the bone.

They'd been planning on asking Spamton out that night. It was their day off, and after years of dancing around the topic they'd decided to address head on, and ask him on a proper date. Swatch had arrived late in the evening, unwilling to wait another day lest their nerves get the better of them, and Crimson had directed him to the east wing of the building. They'd barely seen Spamton vanish through the hidden door to the basement, and had felt every nerve in their body come alight at the sight.

The only thing in the basement (besides cobwebs and a defunct coaster station) was Neo.

Neo was dangerous.

Swatch had followed him, of course, racing after the man, who seemed well acquainted with the twists and turns of the basement halls. He'd barely made it to the chamber ahead of the butler, who had been horrified to see Neo laying out on the ground, not safely pinned to the wall as it should have been. Spamton had been kneeling beside it, something small and metallic in his hand, and had been smiling.

It had not been his smile. Swatch couldn't explain it, but the tightness of the cheeks, the curve of the lips, the manic triumph in his eyes - it hadn't been Spamton. At least, not their Spamton.

Swatch had tried to get him to move away, to speak reason, to convince Spamton that whatever he was about to do wasn't worth the possible outcome (not when one of those very possible outcomes was death), but the salesman wouldn't be swayed. They'd resorted to physically hauling him away from the machine, arguing with him about his need for it. Spamton had yelled about heaven, and freedom, about wanting more.

And he'd yelled about Mike.

In the end Swatch overpowered him, taking the keygen and destroying it with surprising ease. They'd thought it finished then - with Spamton unable to achieve his goal, they'd be able to calm him and talk this out, understand what was going on. But no.

Spamton had lashed out like a wild tasque, delivering a scarring sucker punch to their face. The tacky gold ring he'd taken to wearing had sliced easily through the tough keratin of his beak, leaving a wound that sunk into the bone beneath. Before they could recover, those same hands had been around their throat, ripping out feathers as the salesman yelled, screamed, about everything being ruined.

You’ve destroyed everything I’ve worked for! Everything I’ve done! You bastard! Don’t you understand? My chance at freedom is gone!

Their siblings had come then, pulling Spamton off and restraining him. Teal had used what he knew of healing magic to try and stop the bleeding, and Mauve had mopped up what they could of the mess, putting aside her own squeamishness at the time. Ebony and Ivory had held Spamton at bay, though it seemed the fight went out of him as soon as he was restrained. He didn't say anything, didn't look at Swatch, just stared at the ground and muttered something about rings.

Teal had the bleeding stopped rather quickly, and between the five of them they had enough handkerchiefs to wipe away the worst of the blood. They'd stood (with help) and smoothed down their ruffled feathers, doing their best not to look at the slivers of black discarded on the floor. Crimson and Lemon hauled Neo back into the holder on the wall, fixing it into place and checking the hull for any damage. Spamton had looked up then - jerked up, as though startled - and stared as they did it, looking distraught.

The expression had Swatch ordering Ebony and Ivory to take Spamton to his room for the time being. They'd taken a deliberate step to the left as they did so, blocking his view of Neo. Spamton tried to glance over his shoulder as he was carried from the room, but instead could only look at Swatch. And for the first time in ten years, seeing the man's face filled them with…nothing. No intrigue. No happiness. No joy. Just a thick, tarry emptiness that made them want to curl up and hide from the world.

Despite what the doctors had tried, the wound on his face wouldn't completely knit together, leaving Swatch with a thick scar in the keratin. It arched from beneath their left eye to where their beak met feathers. The skin that had been split was healed more easily, although the feathers there regrew in shades of gray instead of black.

The feathers on their neck, which Spamton had pulled out while screaming at him, grew back with much less fuss, and in their natural, glossy black state. A few weeks after the incident, it was impossible to tell they'd been plucked in the first place. For the first of those weeks they'd stayed at home, a rotating mix of siblings crowding their apartment to tend to their every need (which was mostly tea and books and space to think, to mourn a relationship that had never been).

Crimson reported that Spamton had holed himself up in his room and wasn't speaking to anyone, just staring at his phone and refusing to eat. Swatch tried to feel concern at that, but…couldn't. The words Spamton had screamed rang in their ears.

You’ve destroyed everything I’ve worked for! Everything I’ve done!

Had all this been a ruse? A play on Spamtons part, to get close to Neo and steal it out from under them? Had they truly ever been friends, or had they been duped, used, abused, until at last Spamton had no need of them anymore? And if so, then how stupid were they, to have fallen for it?

A week later, Teal had called, uncharacteristically panicked, screaming about the acid, about Spamton, about Crimson. Swatch and Mauve (who'd taken nursemaid duty that night) had raced to the Mansion, arriving the same time as Siren, to chaos.

Spamton - once a tall, proud man, who swaggered with his steps and gave an air of confidence and surety, but never superiority - was writhing on the tiles before the throne, fine suit soaked with acid, tears streaming from his eyes as vomit stained his mouth. He was glitching, stretches of white skin growing staticy before fading back to normal. The ring - that damned thing, which had injured him so severely - was melted to his finger, and Swatch had been mortified to feel a thrill of satisfaction at the sight.

Crimson sat beside him, awkwardly holding out his hands, which Teal was trying his best to rinse off. Destroyed feathers slid free, the acid eating away the down and blistering the skin beneath. He'd given Swatch a lost, haunted look, barely paying attention to his injuries.

"He just walked in."

Siren had shoved his way in then, followed by several nurses, saving Swatch from having to say anything. Spamton had been whisked away by the medic, taken to the medical wing to be treated. One of the nurses, an Ambyu-lance named Suture, stayed behind and took over tending to Crimson. She'd flushed his hand and arm with a soapy substance, removing the last of the acid, and gently pulled away the destroyed feathers before slathering on some antivirus ointment and wrapping it loosely with gauze.

"You'll be fine," she patted Crimson on the head, then glanced up at Swatch. "He'll need a few days of rest with minimal movement for his arm to regenerate, and there may be some discoloration of his feathers, but the acid didn't destroy any of his code or core files." She'd stood, brushing herself off, all business, and once Teal had said something to reassure her that they had it handled, she'd hustled off to the medical wing.

Swatch and Teal managed to get Crimson back on his feet, but he didn't step away, still staring at the acid river. "...just walked in…" He muttered again, and it was then that Swatch began to hate Spamton.

Not for the fight.

Not for the scar.

Not for trying to kill himself.

But for allowing their youngest sibling to see.

And yet Crimson insisted on tending to Spamton, on being there when he woke up, on making sure he was alright, was fed, was comforted. No matter what happened, Crimson stuck by him, was his friend. And in the end, Spamton ran out on him as well, absconding without a word and vanishing in the street.

Good riddance to bad rubbish, Swatch had thought at the time. They'd focused on other things - smashing watermelons, running the cafe, assisting Queen with her plans for a robot of some kind. Whenever their thoughts strayed to Spamton, whenever Crimson or Lemon asked if they'd heard from the small man, they shook them off. Good riddance, they told themself, ignoring the ache the name brought up. He never loved you. It was just part of his plan. Don't mourn what you never had.

"Welcome to India Inks, I'm India!" Swatch was jarred from his recollections as the owner repeated their greeting, and he glanced towards the door. "Oh, hello Crimson! It's lovely to see you again."

The Swatchling's beak blushed the color of his namesake, and he awkwardly smoothed his feathers from his forehead. "Oh, hey there Indy, ahem, India. It's nice to see you too." He ignored his oldest siblings' knowing smirk from behind the shelf filled with sketch books and drawing pads. "How have you been?"

The tail of peacock feathers behind India flared, and he leaned forward on the counter, beaming up at Crimson. "Why, I've been wonderful! It's not every day I get two handsome birds in my store." He swung his hips slowly back and forth, tail following the motion, and the flustered Swatchling followed the movements closely.

Swatch desperately wanted to know how long this had been going on, and poke some good-natured fun at their brother, but their phone chose that moment to vibrate with a call. They turned away from the pair to give them an illusion of privacy and, after frowning at the "Unknown Number" flashing from the screen, answered the phone and brought it to their ear.

"Swatch Paletta," they said in their best customer-service voice, wondering if a regular barfly had managed to get their number from a sibling. There was silence, then an odd, trembling hitch of breath. "Hello?"

"Twitter."

The nickname, spoken with such desperation, sent a shiver down their spine. They'd just been thinking of the salesman and here he was, as though summoned by the memories themself. "Spamt - Spam," Swatch barely remembered the name change in time to stop themself, fighting to keep their voice level. "How did you get this number?"

"Addy."

"Ah." Frowning, Swatch tried to remember if they had given Adapter permission to share their number. They'd been roped into the search for Spam a few months ago, after his brothers requested help, but hadn't expected their phone number to be handed out willy-nilly as part of the deal. "Was there something I can help you with, sir?" They forced themself to be professional.

A long moment of silence - if it weren't for the harried breathing, they'd have thought Spam hung up, then, "The strings. They're back."

"The strings…?" A thrill ran up their back - the strings? A vivid memory flashed behind their eyes - bloody wrists on the spotless bar, the air smelling of gin and iron, dim eyes set in a pale, sunken face. If you ever see the strings, give us a call. "The same strings from your nightmare?" We will come and check, any time, day or night.

"Yes." The voice was so faint they almost didn't hear it.

Swatch took a deep breath, glancing over his shoulder at the front of the store. Crimson was leaning against the counter, chatting with the clerk, who had toned down his flirting and was now showing off something on his phone. Good - they didn't want their brother traumatized a second time.

"Spam, I need you to listen to me. Are you listening?"

"Yes."

"Where are the strings right now?"

"Around my wrist."

"Both of them?"

"No, just my right."

"Okay, good. And what are they making you do?"

"Write."

"They're making you write words?"

"Yes."

"What words?"

"Sorry."

The apology was unexpected - had he not understood what Swatch asked? Well, the connection seemed fine on their end, but perhaps there was static on his. "It's okay, Spam," Swatch kept his voice calm, "Can you tell me what it's making you write?"

There was silence for a long moment, and Swatch pulled the phone away from their face and glanced at the screen, concerned they may have accidentally hung up on him. Then, "I'm sorry!" burst through the phone, loud enough that Crimson and India stopped their hushed discussion and glanced over at them. Swatch fumbled the phone, nearly dropping it, and brought it back to his head. Spam was still talking - rambling - on the line. "I'm sorry, god, I'm so sorry, for everything. I'm sorry, I know you won't forgive me but I have to tell you, I'm sorry, I'm sorry, I'm so fucking sorry Swatch, it was all my fault."

"Is that Spam?" Crimson had abandoned his crush to join them in the sketchbook aisle. Swatch nodded, pulling the phone slightly away from their head so the Swatchling could hear the rambling. After a moment, they tried to cut in.

"Spam-"

"Please," Spam gasped from the other side of the phone, and Crimson's feathers stood on end at the sheer desperation of the voice. He grabbed Swatch's arm, gripping it hard enough to hurt. "Please Swatch, you can hate me, I understand, I deserve it, just please don't leave me with him again. I can't-"

"Their house is just a few blocks from here," Crimson whispered, and Swatch nodded, the pair of them moving towards the door. India watched them from behind the counter, and asked Crimson something as Swatch tried to calm down the salesman, but he wasn't listening.

"Spam!"

There was an audible click as his jaw shut, and Swatch took a deep breath, trying to center themself. Crimson said something to India before opening the door to the shop, the little bell chiming as they hurried out and down the street, towards the car. "Listen to me," Swatch continued, "The strings aren't there. The strings aren't real."

"They are," Spam whispered, so softly the butler had to strain to hear it. "They're here." Crimson unlocked his car and slid into the driver's seat, turning over the engine and snapping off the radio as soon as it began to play. "And if they're here, then he is too."

Swatch felt their blood run cold at the simple statement, and they didn't bother with their own seatbelt, just slammed the passenger door and motioned for Crimson to go, go, go. He muttered something about 'safety laws' but obeyed, backing out of the parking lot and pulling (a tad too quickly) onto the main street, heading towards the neighborhood behind the small shopping area. "Who's there Spam?" Swatch pressed, setting the phone to speaker so Crimson could hear as well.

"Mike."

Crimson swore, and the steering wheel creaked beneath his hands. Swatch swallowed, hard, then cleared their throat. "Mike isn't there, Spam. You destroyed his phone, remember?"

"It doesn't matter," Spam's voice was louder, higher - panicked. "He doesn't need the phone, he never did, he's always had control and I'm never going to get away, he'll always be there he's always watching and listening and I'll never be free-"

"Spam? Listen to me, he's not there. Just hang on, okay?" Crimson took a turn a bit too fast and Swatch slid into the door with a grunt. "Ooof - just - we're almost there, okay, Spam?"

There was no answer, just heavy breathing, muttered words, the sound of a pen scratching against wet paper. Swatch brought the phone closer, straining to hear what was happening on the other end. Someone was speaking - so faint, they could barely parse it out. They pressed the phone to the side of their head and focused.

"Oh Spamton, do you really think it's that easy?"

Swatch had never heard that voice before, and it raked down their back, feathers standing on end and bile churning in their throat. Mike was real. Of course he was real, Spam had to be talking to someone on the phone all this time. But he'd always been abstract, a voice on the phone, a distant business partner Spam sang the praises of. Never a threat, not beyond overworking Spam, not beyond corrupting his plans and dragging Neo into the mix.

They'd always thought every decision Spam made, from his first day at the Mansion to the last, were his. But now…Just how tight were the strings Mike was pulling?

"Mike is there." Swatch whispered, suddenly sure that Spam was in great danger.

"What?" Crimson didn't take his eyes off the road, but the feathers along his neck fluffed up in alarm.

"Mike is there."

Crimson laid on the speed, zipping past more roads until they were nearly at the entrance to the Cyber Fields. On the phone, Spam gasped as something that sounded like a rubber band snapped, then there was a shuffling sound.

"Spam? Spam, can you hear me? We're almost there, just hold on!" Swatch demanded, once again forced against the door as Crimson took another sharp turn onto a residential street. They shot past several houses, then the Swatchling slammed on the brakes. The steering wheel jerked, and the car jumped the curb, crossing the sidewalk and taking out a bush covered in bright-yellow flowers. "Crimson!"

"Sorry, sorry!" The Swatchling barked, sounding absolutely un-sorry. As soon as the car stopped moving, Crimson shoved the gear stick into park and they were both slamming open their doors, rushing towards the neat two-story house. Swatch, smaller but faster, reached the door first and found it locked. Swearing, they leaned back, then rocked forward, slamming their shoulder into the solid wood.

The door didn't budge, but before they could try again Crimson was wedging himself in the way. "I have a key!" He elbowed Swatch aside and fumbled with the knob, then shoved the door open hard enough it bounced off the wall. They stood there for just a moment, eyes sweeping the room, trying to spot the specter of Mike.

There was no mysterious phone man, just Spam, laying on the ground between the barstools. Without a thought Swatch was moving towards him, barking at Crimson to check the house as they went. The Swatchling moved without a word, hurrying through the kitchen, then moving to check the other first-floor rooms.

Swatch paused beside Spam. The salesman was looking at them with distant eyes, which flickered to the ceiling before focusing on them once more. They glanced up, but saw only white plaster and light fixtures. Grimacing, they knelt, carefully moving the barstools aside so they could lift him off the ground. His right hand was bleeding, several cuts dug into the back of the wrist, and there was a bruise beginning to bloom on the side of his face. They produced a handkerchief (a good butler was never without one) and, cradling Spam with one arm, pressed it against the wounds on his wrist.

"You came."

His voice was weak and cracked, like brittle glass. Swatch started at the sound, but didn't pause, working to wrap the handkerchief around the cuts tightly enough to stop the bleeding.

"Of course I came," they said after a moment, tightening their grip ever-so-slightly around the smaller man's back. "I promised."

[davidfostercomedyblog]

Secret Shopper: The Only Time I Unknowingly Broke the Law

Before he was outed as a rapist Bill Cosby had a great bit about parenting (many actually) where he declared that if you only have one child then you can’t fully know the experience of being a parent… because you always know who to blame.

 I’ve applied a loose parallel to job hunting: If you’ve never job hunted without a present job or savings and/or with someone else sheltering you, you cannot fully know the experience of job hunting. I myself was in that more fortunate, unknowing group for most of my life, until I moved to L.A. with no money or contacts, only hopes and dreams, figuring it was good that originality doesn’t much sell these days.

 Real job hunting becomes a perpetually desperate state of panic, albeit within the pragmatic reality of “Groundhog Day:” Wake, eat, Craigslist, click, copy, paste, attach, send, repeat, repeat, repeat 50-100x over the course of 6-12 hours interrupted by naps and more food, exercise or masturbation or both, and occasionally either proactive motivation or cabin fever will be the impetus to a ride around town, just popping into places the old fashioned way: “Wanted to see if you guys might be hiring.”

 I once walked in to every front desk in an office building on Hollywood Blvd., feeling like Will Smith in Pursuit of Happyness (sans the racial handicap and ultimate success), and one guy took me in for an interview on the spot. He was so excited and sweet in what I’d come to identify as a very L.A. kind of way. Unfortunately I didn’t get “the job.” To be honest I don’t know if there even were any jobs, or if so which I was applying for. I went home. More masturbation – I mean exercise.

 One guy from a Craigslist link kept calling me back, Brian Cooper, and he couldn’t have sounded more like the character, “Douchebag” had he been reading for it in an audition up the block.

 “Yeah man, yeah, David, right?! So sorry, bro’, sorry I haven’t gotten back to ya, it’s just been crazy here, absolutely crazy. I got a job for you though, dude, I definitely do. Easy money, not alotta work! Sound good?”

 I said it sounded good, even though he didn’t. He was fake and flaky (can’t spell flaky without fake!) and nothing thus far had worked out, so why should I expect any different? Nevertheless, consistent with my equally pathetic online dating pursuits I followed up and returned Brian’s calls and eventually, also similar to dating pursuits, it sorta kinda briefly paid off.

 Apparently Brian worked for big companies, the likes of Apple and Verizon, which at least explained the “easy money, not alotta work,” platitude. His department was customer service review, not something that I’d really ever heard of, but it sounded like a thing, plus what about any of corporate America had I ever heard of? I was desperate and broke – not “broke” like the people who can’t afford the vacation or car they want and have to be mindful about their budget and spending on eating out. Actually broke: There’s no money. Credit cards maxed out, parents have no money and I’m borrowing $50 or $100 from various friends to put together this month’s rent, shoplifting toothpaste and every meal is either homemade rice and avocado or taco truck food. Broke(n).

 This experience is a small part of the reason why I’ve become more generous with the homeless. Whether conscious of it or not I think we’re all guilty of believing laziness or self-destruction are ingredients that lead most people to homelessness. Meanwhile at this stage in my life I had a B.A. and Master’s degree, had worked as hard as I possibly could every week of my life, appeared on HBO and Showtime as a comedian, won competitions in national festivals, and I had nothing. I digress.

 The job title Brian offered was “Secret Shopper.”

 “I’m gonna assign you to a team, you guys just drive around all day, scout different locations to make purchases, go in and review your experience with the staff. Sound easy enough? You’re a comedian, so I know you’re a good judge of character, right?”

 “Haha, yeah, totally.”

 I never understood this – even the positive stereotypes that get assigned to comics by the infinite ass hats trudging over our Godforsaken planet. Is a Master’s degree in Psychology suddenly prerequisite for a career in stand-up comedy? How do you know I’m a good judge of character? What if I’m the worst comedian in the world?

 No matter. Beggars can’t be choosers, and I was the closest to being literally a beggar I’d ever been. The job was to meet up with Cici at the Starbucks in North Hollywood tomorrow morning, and basically follow her lead, driving around all day, assessing… customer service?

 The whole thing was suspicious, and as I sat in front of the café, dutifully early, sipping my morning coffee, taking in the lovely L.A. morning that never got old, I grew “cautiously eager” (caffeinated) to see how this would play out.

 Finally Cici called.

 “David.”

 “Hey, yeah. Is this Cici?”

 “Oh hi, it’s Cici.”

 Right. Anyway…

 “Hey.”

 “Are you there?”

 “Yeah, I’m sitting here in front having coffee. Are you--?”

 “Okay, I’ll be there in a few minutes. Can you meet me in back, in the parking lot? The whole crew is there waiting already. I’ll be in a red Toyota, okay?”

 “Yeah, sure, no problem.”

 “Okay, thanks. I’ll see you soon.”

 I made my way to the back parking lot and noticed a crew of young adults standing around who seemed to not be saying much to one another, thus were probably unfamiliar with one another, thus probably fellow beggars in a work crew.

 “Hey. Are you guys waiting for Cici?”

 “Yeah,” one of them barely offered, and I noticed they were uncharacteristically unfriendly for L.A. A young white heavy metal-looking guy and a pretty young black girl, and I immediately wondered if they were a couple, and should I be jealous of the guy? Finally was an enormous young black dude, and he was the only one who didn’t look downright miserable, instead wearing a confused, dumbfounded expression that I imagined mimicked my own. He was the only one who smiled when I shook his hand.

 “How you doing, man? Charles.”

 I immediately liked him. The others I did not.

 “John (Preston).”

 And: “Hi, I’m Rien.”

 Ugh.

 John took out a cigarette and Rien took out her phone and apparently we’d go on as strangers. It’s obviously a cliché, but I immediately felt empowered by being from New York, especially having run in mildly criminal circles as a teenager. The whole situation was suspect, and I figured the smart thing to do was gather information. Fortunately we live in a day and age where it’s considered socially acceptable, even expectable, to ignore all physically present beings in exchange for typing on our phones so I opened up my note app and began slyly recording whatever I could.

 Rien drove a Prius, just like everyone else in L.A. who didn’t drive a Benz. License was Vermont (vomit): FTX504.

 Cici finally arrived in a red Toyota Yaris, license: 7CDF875.

 “Hey guys, sorry I’m late, Jason (Cruz) kept me at the office to determine our plan for the day. We just had some delays.”

 “Oh, no problem,” Rien’s tone had changed, perked up for Cici, and I wondered if it meant Cici was the boss or Rien was just especially turned off by me. I assumed a bit of both.

 “Are you David?” Cici extended her hand and was at least a bit more pleasant.

 “And Charles?”

 They shook hands and I was ecstatic to not be the only new guy.  

 “You guys are gonna roll with me.”

 Even more ecstatic. Let the love birds pout off in the Vermont-mobile while I get to roll with the homeys whose cheekbones and outer lips at least raise upward.

 First stop was Ralph’s, some stupid L.A. supermarket chain, though I had no idea why we were there. Where were we going on this mission? Would there not be places to stop and eat? Was an earthquake in the forecast? Did we need supplies?

 “Wait here,” Cici requested. “I’m just going to run in and get a drink real quick.”

 “No problem,” Charles passively mumbled, but I said nothing, and if I’d been a cartoon my eyebrows would’ve been raising to inhuman heights, eyeballs popping out of their sockets with frazzle lines around my neck and shoulders.

 We just came from a Starbucks. Now she realizes she wants a drink and feels she has to get it from a Goddamn Ralph’s. Ya suspect!

 I decided it was past time that I ingratiate myself with my fellow inmate.

 “So this is your first day doing this too?”

 “First day, bro. I’m in it with you.”

 “Right, right.” I paused, not wanting to let on my suspicion too quickly, because what if he’s lying too?

 “You ever done this before though? Like for any other company?”

 “What, like secret shopper job?”

 “Yeah.”

 “Nah. I heard of it though. Couple of my friends done it. Supposedly an easy way to make some extra cash, which I definitely need…”

 I believed him. I couldn’t tell you why, except that I liked Charles and he just felt sincere. He was a tech guy by trade with a passion for comic books and other typical nerd things, and in spite of being from Compton everything about him fit the bill. He wore glasses and an unkempt afro and when I mentioned my Master’s in Chinese Medicine he told me about his hyper-reactive skin conditions. If he was in on it – that is, if there was an “it” in the first place, Charles’ performance was exceptional and he should have been at Central Casting, not working as a secret shopper or whatever the hell we were doing.

 I paused again. I thought of my HBO appearance, and how I didn’t have any shows booked yet for the week. How did I get here?

 I turned to Charles: “Don’t you think this is kind of weird though?”

 “What?”

 “This. I mean, I dunno. This whole thing. Why are we at a supermarket right now?”

 “So she could get a drink.”

 “Right, yeah.”

 Longer pause. “You think this is legit though?”

 “Yeah, man, secret shopper,” and he shrugged his shoulders so matter-of-factly that I was almost convinced. In any case it’s not like it’d be my first time breaking the law and I definitely didn’t feel in danger. I know we can’t assign any one individual as representation for an entire city, but I did think it was funny how the black guy (from Compton) was taking everything they said at face value and the white guy (from New York) was constantly peaking over his shoulder in criminal paranoia. Cici eventually returned from her suspiciously long drink purchase, which immediately changed the topic of conversation.

 Cici was mildly attractive and had an accent, something Eastern European, and I at least appreciated how chatty she was. As a matter of fact everyone was, making for a pretty fun drive-around dynamic and for a brief moment I felt almost happy and optimistic, a passing feeling that would become eerily familiar for me out west. For the moment I sat back and enjoyed the ride.

 We arrived at some Verizon store on Ventura Blvd. and Cici took out a piece of paper for me to review before going in. A customer survey without any real official-looking branding on it.

 “These are the questions to keep in mind when you go in, okay?” she instructed.

 “How quickly were you greeted by the Verizon professional?”

“Were all of your questions promptly and fully answered?”

“Was there anything about your experience today you would change in the future?”

 It was as if they’d copied it out of every online survey I’d ever seen, but then again, so is every online survey I’ve ever seen.

 “Take this credit card,” and Cici gave me what looked like a fake credit card, though I think it was just prepaid and/or some corporate thingamajig that impoverished luddites like myself know nothing about. Nevertheless, there was a fake name on it, which Cici quickly addressed.

 “Do you think you can sign that name when they give you the receipt?”

 “Yes, I can.”

 “Okay, so as soon as we get the green light you’re gonna go in and buy the new iphone 5s, okay? All the features, take whatever they offer in extra data, applications, everything, okay? Because we need a full assessment. But you can’t let on that you work for Verizon. Just play it totally straight. If you get confused or you think they know you’re a secret shopper just leave the store and call me, got it?”

 “Yup, no problem.”

 It reminded me of my work as a hidden camera actor on MTV eight years prior, though that was a much better job, and you know… relatable to my passion. Nevertheless it was useful experience in deceitful teamwork, strategy and of course, acting, albeit in a different context.

 I waited for the green light, went inside and told the customer service professional what I wanted. He was young and eager to help, eager to sell, even more so than his east coast counterparts, surely not as accustomed to as much attitude or rejection. I had no idea whether or not I was breaking the law, but my conscience was clear. I was a desperate man without a dollar to my name and as far as I knew just doing my job. What’s more, it felt nice to have money to spend, for the first time in my life to not feel like I had to duck and dodge every additional offer and feature, to not have to get the most affordable option and decline everything extra since I could barely even afford the basic device. Of course nothing about the phone was mine, but still, it made the shopping experience more pleasant to be able to appease the young lad surely working at least partially off commission. I followed all of Cici’s instructions, forged some asshole’s name and walked out of the store with some fully loaded adult toy that I couldn’t care less about, but made my “boss” very happy. 1 for 1!

 “Okay, your turn, Charles.”

 Cici got on her phone and laptop to report back to home base and prepare for the next secret shopper and my nerves calmed down much like they did in the wake of so many shoplifting successes in adolescence.

 “How was it man?” Charles asked.

“Fine. I, uhh… I bought a phone.”

 He laughed.

 “Cool.”

 “Okay,” Cici, chimed in. “I’m gonna give you a different credit card now, obviously (obviously), but you’re going to get the same thing, okay? Same exact thing. Because we want to see if your experience is any different, and honestly it helps that you’re African American.”

 Ugh, these fucking Californians and their “African American.” Haha!

 Charles and I laughed, and Cici scrambled to support her rationale.

 “No, seriously though, it’s important for employee review. That’s why we paired the two of you together and Rien and John. We have to know if any of these assholes are racist of course.”

 For a moment I was convinced. Maybe I wasn’t a part of some low frequency, slime bucket criminal enterprise and hadn’t just committed petit larceny. Maybe Cici and Brian and Charles and I really all worked for Verizon and we were doing the Lord’s work of seeing to it that one of the planet’s most powerful conglomerates could become more powerful via the fair and responsibly receptive treatment of its millions of inadvertently enslaved customers. Maybe. And maybe Rien and John weren’t a couple after all.

 We waited for over an hour in the car to give Charles the green light, but I never got bored, also figured we were getting paid by the hour. The weather was great, car windows were open and I felt great. We talked about astrology and comedy and Chinese Medicine – okay, I guess I was steering most of the conversation, but Charles and Cici were eager participants and whenever they got distracted by the job or a call came in from headquarters I pounced with the corners of my eyes.

 Cici would open her laptop to communicate over email with one person while she spoke on her headset with someone else. Her email was cicimissy84@gmail.com and she wrote to Justin Stevensen, who was supposedly the man in charge. Finally Charles got the go ahead and headed into the store.

 “Good luck, man!” Don’t get arrested, I exclaimed silently to myself.

 There was more confusion with Charles’ mission than there was mine. He kept having to come out and get more information, and finally even needed a different credit card. Fuckin’ nerd, I thought.

 After a bunch of confusion it worked out and Charles finally exited with another fully loaded, fancy new phone. He was sweating, wiping the beads from his brow as he collapsed back into the back seat, but I assumed this had as much to do with his weight problem as any nerves or apprehension. After all, Charles’ conscience was even cleaner than mine. “Secret shopper,” right?

 Cici then burned rubber, screeching tires out of the parking lot and pulled out a loaded .45, emptying the clip through the sunroof into the air as we made off with our new devices. No, she didn’t. We quietly pulled back on to the road and headed for the next destination, Encino shopping mall.

 Nothing happened at the mall. A lot of waiting and talking and walking around and checking in with Justin Stevensen, but no green lights and no more purchases for the day. Cici said she was happy with our performances – that we both proved worthy of, achem… “employment,” and asked if we were both free to work tomorrow.

 “Sure,” both pathetic souls replied, and I was thrilled to be paired up with Charles.

 “Since today was a trial I’m going to pay you in cash now, but tomorrow will count as the start of your employment, which means you’ll get a check in the mail next week, cool?”

 Yes!

 By the time we got back to Starbucks it was 8pm, a long day but so fucking easy. Cici handed me $120 cash and had me fill out a W2 in the car, and gradually I was becoming more convinced. I just wasn’t sure what was less conceivable – that such a job actually existed or that I could actually fall ass backwards into such a good situation. I decided it was too late to hit the comedy clubs and instead chose to head home and get a good night’s sleep for more secret shopping.

 The next day brought more of the same, but this time we forewent Starbucks and just met at the first location, another Verizon store in Westwood, a wealthier, more bourgeouis part of town. This time Sir Charles would go first. He successfully bought another cell phone and I awaited my green light that never came. For some undisclosed reason we had to move on to another location.

 We trekked all the way to some mall in Ventura and my mission was to purchase an ipad from the Apple store. The clerks, true to form, could not have possibly been more friendly and helpful, but we kept hitting a roadblock. It seemed that my credit card required some kind of passcode that neither I, nor Cici, nor Justin Stevensen upon follow-up communication, could provide. Twice I had to scramble back to the car and report what was going wrong and twice I returned to the Apple store for unsuccessful re-tries.

 “No problem,” Cici sighed. “That’s not your fault,” she said, as if I needed to hear it.

 I’ve been doing stand-up comedy for 13 years. If you think a purchase rejection at the Apple store rattles me you’re out of your fuckin’ mind.

 I reclined back in my chair and spent the rest of the ride home inquiring to Charles about how to convert the format of some video footage I needed to edit. Charles seemed to know just about everything about technology, and I think we both looked forward to a mutually beneficial friendship, he for my tech issues, me for his dermatological ones. Cici seemed a bit stressed and I couldn’t have cared less. Still, when she dropped us off at our cars Cici was pleasant and appreciative.

 “Brian’s gonna contact you either tomorrow or this weekend and let you know your days for next week, okay? And your check should go out tomorrow.”

 “Sounds good. Thanks Cici! Have a good weekend, y’all.”

 They wished me the same, and I was off. I was happy, even optimistic. This job was weird, but seemed more legitimate and innocent with each day, and so perfectly fit my needs. Money, first of all, and a part time gig with free evenings to do my shows. At $120/day and my present rent I could work four or even three days a week and get by. I was grateful. And then, I never heard from them ever again.

 I gave Brian a call over the weekend and got no answer. I followed up on Monday and got voicemail again. When the following Friday came and went with no check arriving I couldn’t have been less surprised. I realized of all people I’d forgotten to get Charles’ contact info and had no idea what his last name was to search Facebook.  

 While unemployed with no friends or girls, minimal stage time and no resources with which to enjoy life one has plenty of down time, which I’d intermittently use to call or email Brian or Cici. First my messages claimed to be just following up for my check, but after a while I began unapologetically saying I knew what they were up to, reciting their license plate numbers and email addresses. I should have reported them to the cops, but just didn’t have the energy, nor desire or time. I needed a job.

 Several months later I missed a call from a strange number, checked the voicemail and it was Charles! I was so happy he’d kept my card, not as happy to hear the news.

 “I got arrested.”

 “What?!”

 “I got arrested, bro’. That whole secret shopper thing turned out to be a scam (ya don’t say, Charles?), and I got bagged last month trying to buy a laptop in another Apple store. I had no idea what was going on and when I tried to tell them about Cici and them they just all played dumb, like they didn’t know me. I was wondering if you wouldn’t mind testifying for me, you know? Or at least go on the record that I wasn’t in on it and my lawyer said I could plea, and hopefully it won’t have to go to court. They’ll just knock it down to shoplifting or whatever.”

 “Of course, bro’, of course I’ll testify, and I actually have a lot of their information – license plate numbers, emails and stuff. I never trusted them.”

 “I know, man, I should have listened to you. Is that why you quit?”

 “Quit? I didn’t quit. After that second day we worked together I never heard from them again. I never got my check for that day and just never heard from anyone.”

 “They told me you quit.”

 “I bet they did. How much longer did you work for them for?”

 “’Til now. Until just last week when I got arrested.”

 “What?! You’ve been working for them this whole time?!”

 “Yup.”

 “Holy shit. You must have made some good money, huh?”

 “Yeah, it was all right, man, but now I’m fucked up. Gotta give it all to my lawyers.”

 “Right, right.”

 I thought about the awful, abusive restaurant jobs I’d held during those six months and was overcome with jealousy. Then I thought about Charles being pulled away into custody by the police and pleading to the police in high-pitched panic: “Secret shopper, secret shopper!” and it took everything I had to not laugh.

 “Yo, so it’s okay if I have my lawyer call you, right?”

 “Yeah, yeah, of course, man, keep me posted.”

 “Okay, thanks so much. He’ll probably reach out to you tomorrow or the next day.”

 “Alright. Take care, Charles.”

 I hung up and couldn’t believe it. It all felt like a lifetime ago. I was on my third (and first decent) job since Secret Shopper. I was finally in a good place and felt bad for Charles. I wondered why they’d kept him and not me. Were they suspicious of my suspicion? Had Cici noticed the corners of my eyes? Had Rien noticed me stealing glances at her license plate, alternate with her cleavage? Would that matter? I looked forward to hearing back from Charles. My life was still so boring and shitty and I was excited for some excitement, also excited to partake in bringing those douche bags to justice, but I never heard from Charles again.

 I think there are legitimate secret shopper jobs, but this apparently was not one of them, obviously just a strange crew of con-artists using that label as well as unsuspecting desperados as a front for their scams. I hope they get what’s coming to them. More importantly I hope Charles is okay… that is if he’s not one of them!