Friday, May 1, 2009

Mexicans


One time I went to the dry cleaner and I asked them if they could clean my jacket, this brown corderoy number, and the guy was like, "yeah, we clean things, but don't get 'em wet."

"Beautiful," gave him like four dollars and a jacket, and a ticket that said -- in so many words -- come back tomorrow and you'll get jacket back, clean but not wet.

I came back the next day and showed him my ticket, and I could tell it wasn't ready before he said anything. I knew the second he looked at the ticket; it was like he'd never seen a dry cleaning ticket before in his whole life, raising his eyebrows and all that, despite the fact he owns a God damn dry cleaning business. So there he his, pulling all this bullshit to indicate he's concerned, exaggerating every little gesture that's involved with reading a ticket, and sucking air through his teeth, the whole nine yards, right, when I'm like, "hey, where's my jacket," when-- and I swear on the whole Holy Bible that this is true -- he says, "Mexicans." That was his excuse. That was why my jacket had failed to be cleaned.

Despite the fact that his whole operation relies on his ability to clean clothing in a timely fashion, he claimed to be a victim of the vicious Mexican people, stealing through their life-threateningly bad work ethic. These dastardly Mexicans had curtailed this humble dry cleaner's efforts to wash my coat. This is what I was supposed to believe.

It was one of those situations where you wanna say something memorable and hard because you're so fucking obviously in the right, but I end up saying something retarded anyway, "I don't care about the ethnicity of your workers." Not my proudest moment. I wish I had said something more monumental, something that would go down in autobiography decades later as an example as my ever-present vigilance against hatred, but I went with that I don't care line. Every time I think about it, I do a weird shake a breathe in this sort of staccato way. It's like, like...

Remember in D.A.R.E. they had that thing those work books where they would give examples of conversations you might have in a drug-using situation? For example, if someone says, "Yo, buddy, you want to try some drugs," you could say, "No, I don't use drugs," which is corny but you could get away with it in real life, but then it goes on for like a twitter-and-a-half longer, "...because I care about my future and my body, and I know that all drugs -- including Marijuana, Tobacco, and Alcohol -- are dangerous and have been shown to destroy brain cells, and that just trying drugs JUST ONCE can still result in addiction and even if it's your first time, you still may overdose!"

...that's how corny I felt when I told him that I don't care bullshit.

Anyway, I eventually got my jacket back (I've since giving it to GoodWill) but I still think about that fella in the Dry Cleaner. I thought, if I was a racist, wouldn't I just be angry with him for employing a unreliable people? And also, was he a racist against Mexicans, or did he see my face, Straight Outta The Caucaus Mountains, and think to himself, "maybe this white guy is a racist, and I can use his shitty preconceptions to buy me time to wish his fucking jacket."