Poetry: Christopher Titus Save Me!

The following is an embellished account based on a real experience. Inspired by the poem “the 12 hour night” by Charlies Bukowski from his book “what matters most is how well you walk through the fire.”

 

Christopher Titus Save Me!

By Shannon Laws

“…our bodies were worn, our spirits whipped. there was a sense of unreality.”
the 12 hour night, Charles Bukowski

 

I found myself in middle age working the graveyard shift as a deep cleaner at a casino, and somehow there seemed to be no way out.

I was smothered by
Waist-less woman
in high heels
butts in the ashtrays
butts in the seats
baseball hats on empty heads
guts spilling over large buckles
Work boots, flip flops
bring in an endless
amount of pine needles
and waffle-mud cakes
Everything looks too tight
especially the Tuesday Tweakers.

I am drained here
my life is ending
but Christopher Titus is coming
in February. He smiles at me from the poster’s place
on each side of each four-sided pillar and near the door.
“As seen on Comedy Central!” “Get your tickets now!”

Christopher is coming!  His spiky blonde hair and blue eyes hold life.  He is my savior in an ash covered world. As I sweep up pieces of paper, fingernails, toothpicks, squeezed out limes from the casino’s clown colored floor, I imagine sweet Christopher busting through the main entrance on a white steed
shining
he is shining
glowing with a bright future
a future he offers me if only
I wash off my Cinderella ashes
take his hand and leave this place
Oh, how he glows!

He talks to me—
Why are you here? C’mon, you can do better
You’re wiping up blood and vomit from slot machines.  Your new skill is how to reach into the bathroom garbage to avoid a hidden syringe,
-and the SHRIMP on Friday Fish Day! All that half-chewed shrimp clogging up your vacuum!  C’mon!
look at ME
look how happy I am
join me in this happiness

I was so tired, so dazed, my anguished mixed with hopelessness.  I saw myself fifteen years from now, hunched over the sweeper, being called darlin’ and sugar, taking empty glasses once full of spirits, offering clean ashtrays.

I talked sense to my Titan
This isn’t so bad.
I’ve learned much more than biohazard clean up.
I’ve studied this species of human
that gambles.  You can learn a lot from the way they put out their cigarettes. Like footprints in the snow, you know what animal walked by

The Texan—punches the butt straight down, it stands erect
The Cowboy— rolled and smashed, falls to the side
The Camper—sits at the same machine for hours, same butt brand overfills ashtray
The Britney— pink lipstick on the butt, usually a camper
Ladybird— smokes the very thin lady cigarette, flutters around from machine to machine
Still, my Titan smiles

Then one night I stood up for myself and left
My last day is this Friday, I told my shift manager on Thursday.
You found something else?
Yes
yes, I did.
Fresh air and dignity
It pays nothing

On my last day I hand in my badge, I returned my uniforms, left my locker unlocked,
Christopher Titus had come and gone
A new act was plastered on the pillars
I turned and walked away
into the night
and my life was touched by
magic.

and it still
is.

 


Want to learn more about Christopher Titus? Of course, you do.

https://www.christophertitus.com/

Christopher Titus, 2013

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Spawning

Spawning Coho Salmon are one of the most attractive fish.  This is a BIG fish with an average length of 28 inches, occasionally reaching 36 pounds.  This fish is currently “in season” at the processing plants on the docks of Bellingham Bay.  I know this first hand because I am a fish flinger.

Coho’s Looking For Love

The Coho pre-spawning colors are silver with some black dots on the back.  When the hormones activate and send the fish into “spawn mode”, it transforms into a monster fish! Vibrant shades of pink, burgundy, neon green and black grow over the silver scales.  The males mouth jets out, teeth blaring like an old lady’s stubborn poodle.  The females grow eggs, 2500-3000, on either side of their organs in sacks that start just under the jaw and run down the length of their bodies.  These fish are ready to get it ON!

BAM! Who’s Your Daddy?

There is something beautiful about watching this fish fly by me on the line.  Not sure why. The males swoosh by nose first.  Those teeth will destroy my rubber glove if I’m not careful.  A hole in the glove means a cold finger till break time.  Shoot-slime and ice cold blood will absorb into the cotton of my under-glove. Seems that Dr. Hyde of a fish wants to take a bite out of something, even after death.

Spawning Coho: Male – top, Female – bottom

When the shoot is full, and the fish are stopped up in front of me, a sea of clear dead eyes stare upward looking for a fight.  After the line ahead opens up I stretch an arm out and push them along to the left, forward, to be filleted. Their challenge ignored.

 

 

MY JOB
Eggs Photo credit: NWFSC and NOAA by Jen-McIntyre

This is my first week here.  My job is egg removal.  As the males zip past, needing no attention except to keep it moving, the females have their bellies opened by the dorsal-fin-cutter person, then slid into the egg gutter lane in front of me.  The average Coho holds 2500 eggs.  All the eggs are collected into a gutter that drains into a bucket.  The buckets are filled quickly enough to have a dedicated  “bucket guy” whose only job is to bring us empty buckets and dump the full ones into a large holding crate.

To remove the eggs from the fish I reach my hand into the body and rake ‘em out.  If I’m lucky the eggs will still be in the thin membrane.  With two gentle tugs at the top of the sack I can pull out all the eggs with two moves. (see photo)  Otherwise you just rake and rake with your fingers until you get them all.  But you really can’t get them all.

eggs in the membrane

The fish slide in front of me all day on a long steel table covered in this cosmic mix of melting ice, fish slime and blood, fish sperm and loose eggs.  Everything runs smoothly if all the fish are pointed nose first.  Sometimes a fish turns sideways and stumps them all up like a scene from Keystone Cops.

 

 

I AM A WILD FISH

We stand, all day in a cooler, geared up with gloves, long plastic sleeve protectors, rubber boots, a body length stiff plastic apron, long underwear under the clothes and a hat for the head.  In this place I am not cute.  There is no need for me to comb my hair; it is under a hat all day.  Make-up is unnecessary and perfume is not strong enough to rise above the stench of fish.  All day a grey spotted sea gull laughs at me from the back gate, as it stands on a crate outside hoping for some fish to drop.

Picture 236
My apron back on it’s nail at the end of the day

There is still much to learn about this operation and my part to play in it.   I expect all next week I will stay on the egg gutter.  Haven’t asked too many questions, nor received any feedback, but the boss did ask if I was coming back.  The season ends in January.  Wondering if I can make it that long.  I took this job because they hired me right away.  After the lay off in September I needed work fast.

Coho smelling their way home

Since I returned to my state of birth, five years ago, I have been laid off three times.  While my professional life suffers, my volunteer work is prospering.  In the last two years I started hosting a successful poetry group, producing radio shows on a community station, and my first poetry book was published, February 13′. Like the Coho I have mutated to spawn, out of a primal urge to survive and pass on my traits.

Slowly I step on this human ladder… I climb, and climb and climb, with hopes of reaching the final destination: to plant my eggs, my ideas, my hopes.  Will good fortune find them at the bottom of the river nestled among the rocks and multiply my efforts?  I hope so.  Spawning takes the life right out of ya.

 

 Isn’t there a little fish is all of us?

 

 

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