One Way to Lose a Job

             I was home from college on summer break and wasting each sunny day trapped in the windowless confines of a corrugated box factory. (Note to reader: What most people think of as “cardboard” is actually “corrugated board.” Corrugated board has air between its walls. Cardboard does not. You will probably find this small bit of information absolutely useless in life, though if for some strange reason you ever find yourself in a box factory, at least you won’t sound like a complete fool.) It was the summer I started smoking cigarettes, not because I enjoyed cigarettes, but because if you smoked cigarettes, you were allowed to step outside the factory once an hour for a ten-minute smoke break. If you didn’t smoke cigarettes, you were only allowed a break every four hours. Who would have thought a habit so unhealthy would bring with it such great benefits?!? [questlamation mark (see: “Questlamation Mark Todd,” February 17, 2015)] With each box I handled, I dreaded the job more and more, and couldn’t wait for each day to end. But enough about me—this story isn’t about me. This story is about Jehovah the Ghost.  

            In 2001, the most popular pop musician on Earth was Eminem. I didn’t much care for the guy, but everybody else my age seemed to. So much so, that half the white suburban kids in America were convinced that they could be the next great rapper. My friend James was no exception. He dubbed himself Jehovah the Ghost, which was quite fitting since he had hair so blond it could have been called white and skin so white that he could have been mistaken for an albino. He was so serious about his career as a rap artist that he went as far as having “Jehovah the Ghost” tattooed on the back of his neck in large Chinese lettering. But enough about Jehovah the Ghost’s musical ambitions. This story is about how Jehovah the Ghost lost his job.

            After a long day stitching boxes at the old factory, I ran into Jehovah the Ghost at the town park. In his possession, he had a plastic baggy full of magic mushrooms. I distinctively remember that they were covered in specks of gold dust, like something out of a fairytale. “Do you want to split these with me?” he asked.

            “Of course,” I said, because when you’re 18 and working in a box factory, at the end of a long day, everything seems like a good idea.

            We ate the golden mushrooms. I dropped my car off at my parents’ house and climbed in Jehovah’s passenger seat, because even though I knew that driving an automobile while tripping balls was a bad idea, it never occurred to me that riding with someone else that was also tripping  balls was an equally bad idea. We drove to a local waterfall that was about seventy feet high and climbed to the top. At the top, I sat far from the edge and simply marveled at every incredible thing that Mother Nature ever had to offer—things like dirt and water and rocks. Jehovah the Ghost found no excitement in Mother Nature’s simple treasures. No, Jehovah the Ghost had other ideas about what it meant to have a good time.

            Jehovah repeatedly ran along the small stream that fell over the cliff’s edge. At the point where the water began its seventy foot fall, he would suddenly stop, his arms spread wide open, as if he thought he could fly. If he took just one more step—if he made just one critical error—he would have certainly tumbled to his death upon the jagged rocks below, transforming himself from Jehovah the Ghost into an actual ghost. He did this for about twenty minutes, stopping at the edge each time. I watched in both horror and delight, but mostly delight, because after all, I was tripping balls. Suddenly, halfway through his routine, he stopped in midstride. “Oh shit,” he said, his eyes as wide as a bug’s. “I’m supposed to be at work in ten minutes!”

            I laughed. “What are you gonna do?”

            “I guess I should call them,” Jehovah said as a cell phone miraculously appeared in his hand. He dialed and put the device to his ear. He looked at me. “It’s ringing. I’m getting the machine. Hello Marilyn, this is Jehovah the Ghost, I mean James. How are you doing? I’m ok. I’m just here at the falls kickin’ it with Jon. Oh shit, you don’t even know who Jon is, do you? Well, anyway, work…yeah, I don’t know about that. It’s just that it’s so beautiful out today and well, you know…anyway, have a goodnight, take care, I love you…Oh shit, who is this again?” And with that, Jehovah slammed the phone shut.

            “Who just called me?” he asked.

            “I think that was your boss,” I answered, “and I’m pretty sure you called them.”

            Suddenly, the phone rang. Jehovah immediately threw it over the cliff. We both laughed hysterically.

            Jehovah never went back to that job, but in the long run it didn’t really matter. It was only a job after all, not his true calling. He would eventually become the famous rapper he always dreamed of being, better known to the world as Macklemore. And as for me, well, I still get up every morning and go to work at the box factory.