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 deadbeats   forward

  Chapter One: Downward Mobility

  Chapter Two: Concessions

  Chapter Three: Conversations at the Convo'

  Chapter Four: Straight Back Chairs and Belly Laughs

  Chapter Five: Drinks for Free

  Chapter Six: Anything for a free meal

  Chapter Seven: Jukebox Jive
  Chapter Eight: Sunshine Daydream

  Chapter Nine: Return to Paradise

  Chapter Ten: Moving Day




jackson avery cain



C.J.O.B. Radio A.M. 600
Jimmy Yergeau and Book Talk
Live from the Old Town Book Shop
With Guest Author Marvin Filon

        "The following excerpt opens Marvin Filon's examination of the job hunting experience as way of life..."
       In a time when hundreds of books get published that answer questions long before we ask them, guides that show us what to do and how to live, it's a wonder that anything of substance even gets written any more. Euphemisms and off-hand remarks, like Double Dip Recession reminding us of some ice cream parlour treat gone wrong, have made me ponder my own place in the world of print.
       The books that we publish aren't for the literate minded. Three percent of Americans actually read books, so what's the need to have any kind of substantive content. Each new product is marked more by it's market potential and dumbing down factor than anything else.
       I find myself in the midst of a rag tag gang of young urban failures, our story is chock full of all the complaints I don't have the guts to face. When the check comes due for all these cups of coffee we can't even muster together enough for the tip. It's no wonder the bill remains unpaid.
       My non fiction social document of looking for work portrays the moral abyss that has been left for a generation of unemployed and unemployable. It poses all the questions of what it means to have education, power, and control over your future. The future is the nineteenth hole on a sunny afternoon while some slob beats the pavement...
       "...and so ladies and gentleman I introduce to you our guest."

deadbeats cover photo

       It would have been better if he had stayed in bed, but for Marvin that's simply not an option. He won't allow himself to become the facade that he puts on, so instead of laying in that one warm spot, he resigns himself to the day ahead. Heading down to the Roxie Five he notes that he is already ten minutes late.
       The Roxie Five Theatre complex was none of the things that it claimed to be, not much of a complex and only three theatres, but it remained the last of a dying breed of neighbourhood cultural venues. That wonderful community experience stood on the verge of extinction, what with Mega-Plexes taking over one after another in rapid succession. Marvin called them Sphincter-techs, entertainment mausoleums that left you empty having provided nothing more than the opportunity to shake your wallet clean.
       Though the movie theatre job was just another in a succession of failed attempts at responsibility, he took it so he would be able to say that he had worked here. When the last of the local theatre closed, at the very least he would have the experience to draw on.
       All for the book. The line between research and necessity had become blurred. It would be a flood of words the day when his manifesto emerged from the depths of his soul and burst forth into the world, a fresh lamb cut from his skin, until then he remains employed.
       His agent says that a book deal is, how did he put it?, in the pipe. Marvin is supposed to be researching his non fiction social document of looking for work. Keeping himself motivated while remaining in the centre of that storm is tough. The only thing to do is keep at it, embracing the knowledge that everyone he knows seemed to be reading a book.
       His own formal education had been left behind, a past that beckoned for his return, a family that he was hiding from. This city, anonymous with it's size, held a diversity that allowed him to hide. His heritage was something he denied fiercely and without shame, Marvin would allow none to know what had preceded his arrival, everything that had come before had no meaning to him only the now and the person he had become. At first his aimless wanderings had been a way to keep people at arms length, then as the months turned into years and finally nearing the decade mark, a new history had been born. Nina, Robert, and D.G. were his family now, his only real friends.
       As he enters the Roxie his mind is swirling with ideas. Walking down the red carpet to the front of the auditorium, he envisions the scene as if watching from above. Detached from himself, he produces an endless barge of mental notes that will go down in the pad. The pad that hangs from his back pocket the pen dangling around his neck stands at the ready.
       His lanky six foot frame is too thin, his metabolism burns at a rate spurned on with the adrenaline rush of thought that seethes always. He will end up leaving this job before the weeks end. An excuse that's all, something dramatic. Marvin needs anecdotes to fill the pages between his thesis, the warning of how horrible working for a living can be.
       All the while the manager stands there glaring, as if that one look is going to change the clock.
       "You're late Filon." The only difference between this boss and the fifty two that have preceded him is, well, nothing actually. No, that's not true. Marvin does have perspective on his side.
       "So Marvin, what's your excuse this time?"
       "How about the weather?"
       "You live upstairs! Do yourself a favour and just get to cleaning up theatre three."
       Nobody wants the truth.
       Marvin heads on over to the rear exit. Opening the doors he lights a smoke and kicks back before getting down to the business at hand. The back of the Roxie leads out to an alley that has all the grit of any city anywhere, Generica. His back to the door he leans out into dank festering grim environments, sucking on vice, and waiting on his pals.
       His cohorts have even less motivation than he does. That might explain the method behind their individual job hunting techniques. Nina, Robert and D.G. should be looking for work, the break in their day is knowing when Marvin starts his. He spots them as they turn the corner and lets his impatience get the better of him. His friends may know the truth beneath the charade, but they sure don't act as if it makes a difference.
"C'mon you guys, get in here." He's annoyed and lets them know it. He doesn't have time for their games today.
       "Cool your jets baby..." D.G. has his own special way of communicating. Really, to be fair, it's not that different than the rest of their pals, only he sticks with it longer. "Take a gander at these fab shirts we picked up."
       Nina, Robert and D.G. peel open their jackets to reveal the latest in modern fashion. Each t-shirt has a custom nick name printed on the front with their names emblazoned across on the back. The fonts are an unforgiving rip off of the corporate logo of their choice. Genius it's not.
       Robert the 'Bitch King' is quite proud of his."Yea, aren't they the most?"
       "Hey easy there beatnik-boy." Nina's top is more of a fifty's drive in kind of thing, after all she is the `Queen Bee'. She was ever wondering why she put up with these guys.
       "Hey D.G. let's take a gander at the back of yours." Marvin like the rest of the gang can never let the matter of D.G.'s name drop.
       This one time D.G. won't allow their jibs to bother him. For now will play along. Proudly shedding his jacket, D.G. turns his back so they can all get a good long look.
       D... G... Sanders, his acronym fully explained. The front however tells the real story, `Professor Nerd Boy'.
       Marvin's toothy grin is marred only by the curls of smoke that eject from his nostrils, his eyes squint from the overcast sky above. Butting out his cigarette he ushers them inside. Marvin smiles at the notion of D.G.'s name in all it's glory. "So, where's mine. Or does the working stiff not earn something for letting you cats in to the matinee double feature for free?"
       Reaching into her bag Nina produces a shirt for Marvin. It's perfect and he says as much.

*** *** ***

C.J.O.B. Radio A.M. 600
Leora Lindsay and the Spoken word Hour

"Each week seems the same,
every job is just another game.
It's a wonder why I don't lose my mind

...the weeks roll on by
my friends seem to have no time
and so it goes
I'll pay the bills and pack a lunch
and spend another afternoon
trying to find my place
with Job."

*** *** ***

       Marvin's been up to no good in the days since he got canned from the Roxie, he should have known better only he can't help but fight the man. It's five in the morning and the first of the days light is burning off the fog that still lingers about. He's pulling a stolen Radio Flyer that some kid will wake to find missing, their precious toy awol.
       The cart is empty for the moment, save for the crow bar. Pulling up beside a row of newspaper boxes, he begins the extraction. Sunrise glints off his sunglasses his grin that of a Cheshire cat. Each box gives way, it's loot springing forth freely. He could invest a couple of bucks in quarters and take the papers just the same, this holds more of a mystique.
       Marvin does nothing without reason. He knows that when it comes time to write the bio for his book, it had better be rife with desolation and crime. He chooses to live the part. His individual resolve is so great that it flows beyond motivation and allows him to perform the impossible, to work for nothing more than food and rent.
       The crowning glory of the morning, the transaction that will set his fate in motion, is knowing the owner of his local newsstand. The guy is without shame, he's well aware of the source for Marvin's daily run of discount papers. It's an exchange of services. Marvin lets the papers go for a pittance, content in the knowledge that when the book publisher he has been trying to hook up with picks up his next morning edition, there will be a very special insert. It's good to have friends.
       Marvin will meet up with his pals a little later in the day. First he will mosey on back to his apartment and get ready for the next series of interviews he's going to conduct, the research never ends. He's short on time, and without energy. The confusion in his mind is keeping him up nights.
       It's the internal dialogue that keeps him going more than anything else. With his headphones plastered to his ears, and the thump of Bjork to keep him moving, he get's lost in one of hundreds of opening bits that he has run past himself.
       "Some people say that I lack reliability. I've been told that this constant change that I'm in is unhealthy. Well I say nuts to that. What?, I've got to somehow justify my actions. So what if I won't compromise my standards by sticking around. What's so bad about wanting a little variety in my life?
       I've seen what my friends go through. The constant angst, the general malaise that falls over them every time they have to go through another round of job interviews. The problem is they are precisely the kind of people who shouldn't be doing interviews, they haven't a clue as to how to land a job without giving themselves an ulcer.
       "Sue me if I know what I'm good at. I can't be blamed if I find greater security in job hopping that in job hunting. After all, I'm to busy to get caught in the trap of thinking that anything lasts forever."

*         *         *

       The Cafe Convo is a home away from home. Here in this haven, he can feel a sense of purpose. It goes beyond the hours he has spent here, far beyond the money for endless cups of coffee, and well beyond the ogling of men that saunter by. At it's core his sense of comfort comes down to identifying with everything and everyone in this place.
       Marvin's sense of community won't allow him to frequent super market style coffee shops, establishments that make their buck on the back of both the employee as well as off the customer. The cafe's that import coffee from far off jungles where wars are waged over the power of the bean, it must be a dark luscious brown with flavour and potency. He enjoys a cup of Joe as much as the next person, but to be honest, it's water and beans. Get over it. The idea of paying three bucks for a cup of mud is beyond him.
       The prices at the Convo are modest at best. The Cafe Convo is non prohibitive both in style and in substance. They never close, still serve meals, and if you bring in your own music they will play it. This place is the last safe haven for the tragically over educated and intellectually exclusive. More to the point he knows most everyone here.        Over the last couple of years he has slipped into a routine. It's a safe bet that if you want to find Marvin or any of the rest of his group this is where they will be.
       Sitting in his regular corner a space framed by mirrors in the bowls of this joint, he sits hunched over his note pads. Marvin is in his element. Scores of paper surrounded him and half a dozen pens of varying size and colour. Every craft has it's implement. The words flow from mind, through hands, and to paper. The pads each comprise a separate part of his work, in his own mind there is a logic to it all, if only he could crack the code that remains a secret even to himself.
       He looks up from his obsession only when the coffee cup before him is replenished. Rose is the consummate professional waitress. She takes it upon herself to fill his cup silently and without invitation. She is the last of a dying bread. When she leaves this place it will be a loss. He knows now that it was a real coup getting her to agree to this interview.
       "So Hon..." She says in a drawl all her own. "What you were talking about earlier, yeah I could tell ya about this profession of mine."
       "Fabulous your divine."
       Rose is walking over with an ashtray in one hand and a cup of coffee for herself in the other. Reaching across the table she removes one of the vile foreign cigarettes that Marvin fancies. Not missing a beat Marvin lights the smoke. He can't help but admire her ease.
       "First of all..." She begins. "I'll give you a piece of my mind but don't think for a second that your getting into my head."
       "I wouldn't go there, I'm not so much interested in the psychology of work as much as I am in your experiences." That wasn't completely true but she didn't need to know his objectives.
       "I could tell ya lots." She thinks about it a moment, and then Rose offers an explanation of how things ended up this way. "I've been here at the Convo for seven years. I was at the Belmont twelve and was rescued from that dump when it burned down. My unauspicious beginning at the Chicken shack came during my senior year in high school."
       The basics, this is what he liked knowing, the history and most importantly why people limited themselves to one select set of experiences.
       "I've been talking to a variety of people in different jobs asking them about their work experiences. What I want to know is how you view the job that you do, in contrast to how your customers view your occupation?"
       Taking a slow languid drag on the cigarette she gives the question it's rightful pause, and then answers his query.
       "The way that cafes have sprung up these days, it's like the seedy bars in those fifty's movies. These down and out losers who had nothing better to do with their time would sit around and get into bar stool philosophy. They would talk to anybody who would give them the time and spout off one of their latest theories of the universe. Nothings changed, only the names, and the fact that now we have some how legitimatised the art of sitting around and wasting time. I'll tell it straight. This jobs about two things.
       "It's about making money, and not making money."
       He is mystified, case number two hundred and sixty one has an absolute sense of calm about her experiences. It goes against everything he has learnt so far.
       "So how do you make sure that you gain satisfaction from your employment?"
       "Nobody gets satisfaction from the work that they do hon.
       "The last thing that you can ever afford to have in this line of work is an ego that can't survive a solid bruising. You have to be able to subjugate yourself to the whim of others with the knowledge that you are here to serve.
       "Every morning I wake up and try for a moment to remember what it was like to be selfish. I can't afford that luxury any more. Somebody has got to be the waitress of society. The work that I do, it's a means to an end. I bring people something that they want and I get the money that I need. This isn't the type of occupation that you choose it's something that you just, happen into."
       "So if you feel that way why do you do it?"
       "Have you ever worked with the public?" She takes one last drag on the smoke and lets him mull over her accusation. Rose rises from the table, the place is starting to fill up and it's time for her to get back to the real world.
       "Look Sweetie I would love to enlighten you a little more about the intricacies of the modern day working gal but my breaks about done. Do me a favour, try and go a bit light on any sarcasm that you plan on including in that book of yours, it'll make a better seller that way."

*         *         *

       The space is devoid of character, there is no sense of style and even less warmth. Nina sits in this white on white environment in her best business suit. The only sign of personality that she has allowed to remain are the abundance of berets in her hair. Nina is hair conscience to say the least.
       She is cognizant that this may not make for the best of impressions for her interview, and upon reflection, the truth be told, she doesn't really care. Of late Nina has been on more interviews than she would like to remember. Still the search goes on. She has another week or so of this left in her, and then it will be time to be less selective.
       She looks up at her interrogator, imagining herself a victim of the inquisitions. She knows the only way she can assure herself a return to safety is to answer her tortures questions correctly.
       "If you could just put down your availability for me that would be very helpful." The interviewer says in a conciliatory tone.
       "Actually, I've got a slight problem..." Here she went, Nina was hesitant to respond and most certainly embarrassed at her predicament. "I'm an Army Reserve."
        The enemy is non pulsed and continues on unabated.
       "How long do you go in for?"
       "Two weeks, and as a matter of fact that's why I brought it up. I go in at the end of the month. I'd love to take the job here but I've got to fulfil my duty, I am the C.O. after all."
       The interviewer lost interest the moment she opened her mouth and was already looking for a way out.
       "That's very interesting.
       "Look as it happens the end of the month is our busiest time of the year..." Looking down the interviewer takes one last quick glance at Nina's fifteen page bound C.V. "We'll call you, have a nice day."
       Nina can do nothing more than accept the outstretched hand before her. She isn't really that surprised. She consoles herself as she walks out into the afternoon sunshine with the knowledge that she was overqualified. Nina tells herself half truths and deceptions, anything that will ease the anxiety that grows with spending yet another afternoon unemployed.

*         *         *

       Robert is waiting.
       Rumpled with pants that haven't seen an iron in weeks and a shirt collar with a permanent twitch, he can feel the three cups of coffee working their way through his veins. He is completely out of place in this office. Though he almost looks the part his mind won't allow him to forget just who he is. He's not kidding anyone with this act. Taking a magazine three years out of date from the side table his eyes scan the room appraising it's contents. The waiting area is plush, resplendent with art, plants, and seating arrangements that he wishes he could walk away with.
       His fellow applicants sit patiently awaiting their turn for supplication. Each will state their case in a calm mannered tone, playing the game and obeying the rules of engagement. Job hunting is war and it's a winner take all environment.
       Everyone around him fits a particular demographic. Robert is one of the aimless, jobless, hopeless, and without direction. To himself though he is the pillar of sanity missing in an insane world. This is a time, he notes, where all sense of moral obligation has been turned on it's ear.
       He tenses, drawing inwards to find the seriousness that seems to so often be lacking. Robert has been at this for as long as he can remember. It isn't that he can't recall the last time that he had a job, not so much as it having receded so far back into his memory it seems like a distant dream. He never much liked working for a living in the first place.
       Looking up from the magazine that has absorbed his attention he allows his eyes to focus on the secretary. She guides each applicant that precedes him, they follow her lithe seductive form to their interviews. Every one of these places seems to have a token beauty queen, window dressing, the kind of individual that is given busy work, he admirers her really if he could get away with it he would.
       They pass beyond this outer office to a mysterious nether world never to return. Where do they go after their interviews? It is as if each finds their place within the system and is immediately absorbed. Shall this be his fate?
       The secretary approaches and beckons him to follow. Robert stands with all the cocky self assuredness of one who knows the outcome. It's a guarantee, he has to get this job, it's what he was destined to do. He follows down a long hall way, around corners, back and forth, deeper into the bowls of this factory of bureaucracy.
       Finally he arrives at his destination and stands before the examiner. This passionless individual looks up at him with all the interest and scrutiny a ten year old applies to an ant colony. It's fascinating work. You inspect the workers and evaluate each of their worth, until finally bored with the afternoons game you pull out your magnifying glass.
       "Um, we aren't hiring anyone for the mail room..." The interviewer says.
       "Actually, I'm here for the C.E.O's position."

*         *         *

       D.G. is chasing his dream.
       Standing across the street from this nondescript building he carefully studies the rear entrance. It took him six months and countless hours on the internet, but finally he's located that one special effects house. He's quite familiar with their work and though his formal training is far removed from the field, he's counting on his enthusiasm to make up for any lack of experience.
       The door swings open and two burly men appear carrying crates and other assorted paraphernalia. This is his chance. D.G. drops his empty water bottle into the trash along with a half eaten apple. He makes his way across the street to nonchalantly offer a helping hand. D.G. acts as if this is where he belongs, holding the door open for them he helps to carry a few items and then melts into the background. He's great at making himself invisible.
       He knows that sliming his way in is the only way that this is going to work. D.G. eyes the gear that makes it's way onto the truck, the road cases are stamped in heavy black lettering with the name of the project that they are destined for, it takes all his will power to stand silently holding the door and watch these wonders of latex and foam rubber that remain hidden from his view pass him by. Finally with the truck loaded the driver and assistant, barely acknowledging D.G.'s efforts, drive off. Disappearing into the warehouse and up the stairs he follows the lead of signs, discerning the location of the only occupant in which he has any interest, until he arrives at his final destination. A closed door stands between him and opportunity. Sizing up the moment he holds his breath and places a hand on the cool metal frame, his fingers glide across the logo design, the etched surface of the door with it's intricately weaved criss crossing symbol, a hieroglyphic of the modern era.
       He takes one last breath, holds it and walks in.
       Looking around it's a moment before it becomes clear to him the direction he should take. He walks past rows of foam latex masks, body suits and various articles he recognises all to well. Coming towards an open work area in the centre of the room he sees a lone figure hunched over a table intent on painting an eyeball.
       D.G. let's his enthusiasm get the better of him.
       "Hi, I was wondering if you're looking for anybody to help out around here. I was looking for full or part time work. Whatever you have available really. You see, I loved the work you did in `Attack of the killer mutants with brains of super zombies from Mars!'" The words explode out of him in a rush of air, they tumble past his lips his tongue trying in a vain effort to keep pace with his head.
       "Excuse me who the hell are you, and how did you get in here?" The young woman is taken aback by the appearance of this interloper, her paint brush held firmly in her fist all that stands between her and D.G. She can hardly believe her eyes, this goof-ball with the pink Buddy Holly glasses and bowling shirt is some kind of fifty's wannabe thinking to pluck a career from the job grove.
       "My name is D.G. Sanders and, Um, the door was opened see, so, Um, I was just wondering if you needed any help..."
       "Look buddy it takes two people full time to do this stuff. Unless you want to be a model for severed head work, just beat it."
       "Cool, I could do that."
       "Sorry the positions been filled."

*         *         *

       She's darting through traffic, no cross walk here and no time to wait for the light to change it's mind, Nina has other plans. Car horns blast out a warning that can't break through her concentration, traffic is whizzing by and she pays it not a whit of attention. She finds that all her thoughts are consumed by one thing, a sign in a window that could mean her salvation.
       She recognises, as she enters the grocery store, that she is merely enacting a social stereo type. Nina pulls the sign out of the window and approaches the nearest clerk, she enjoys the irony. With her background she should be holding down a six figure research job buried in some lab in a secret instillation, instead she leads the life of underground social deviant, these days anything sounds better than being between jobs.
       The clerk points her in the direction of the office, it sits elevated at the back of the store as a testament to the power this potential employer holds above her. The music from the speakers over head play a soft waltz. Nina finds her self dancing through the aisles. Her slow languid movements are accented by the snatching of several snack type items, a case of beer, and some dip. Her arms are heavy with groceries as she climbs the flight of stairs and walks into the open office.
       She waits as the man behind the desk finishes his phone conversation, from the sound of things he's going to be short staffed this evening. Taking a seat she places her items on the floor beside her. Nina can't explain her own mood, a sly grin cracks it's way along her jaw line despite the fact that she doesn't want the job.
       Nina nods and smiles her way through the pleasantries, her basic dissatisfaction providing reason enough for the owner to cut right to the chase.
       "Do you have any experience?"
       "Punching Cash!" Nina's amazed, as if experience for this kind of job should be a prerequisite. After all her resume alone should be reason enough to hire her.
       "Yes, we need people who have previous experience so that we can be assured of their professionalism." The owner is non-pulsed by Nina's attitude, he sees her kind twenty times a day. Young and desperate, but not desperate enough, when she hits rock bottom she'll be ready for work.
       "Look, I can punch a cash register."
       The owner has gotten a whiff of Nina's apprehension and begins to back away.
       "Maybe you might be better suited for our stock boy position."
Nina closes the conversation as she is so apt to do, with a statement that can have no response.
       "Stock Person or Stock Clerk if you will."

*         *         *

       Once again, in the thick of things.
       When the alarm clock went off this morning, at an unholy seven thirty, he needed only think of the mounting pile of unpaid bills, the stack on the kitchen table was a real annoyance but motivation enough to get him out of bed. Robert had to concede to D.G.'s wisdom in this one matter, getting back to a state of control was going to have to take precedent.
       Living with one of his best friends was a trade off, while he was privileged with D.G.'s quirkier side (it was a struggle to deal with his undeviating obsession to keep his permanent record' clean). It was that side of his personality that had managed to keep Robert in line for the last two years.
       This most recent spell of unemployment, since the onset of an early spring that had seen a flesh bearing trend that kept a constant smile on Robert's mal adjusted face, was proving to be a hard nut to crack.
       This day would be about fulfilling objectives, being about people. He may have hated getting out of bed so early, but his annoyance didn't slow him down. Robert popped out of bed and was in and out of the shower, shit-showered-shaved, by seven fifty five. Breakfast consisted of day old coffee and stealing some bagels from D.G. The guy slept in every day, went to class late and yet maintained a four point zero average, and had mummy and daddy supporting his over-privileged ass. No Robert wasn't the least bit bitter.
       He walked the short distance from their student ghetto apartment to the centre of town. There was no better morning than watching his city come to life. It was great to be in the epicentre of it all among towering architectural feats of glass, metal, and brick.
       Robert's day starts off slow, he's beating the pavement by nine thirty and on his way to the first of his interviews. Pulling the paper from his back pocket he checks the ad once again to be sure that he's read things right. With great care he refolds the one page of want ads and moves it back into his pocket. This will likely be his only appointment for the day, yeah he'll get the job.

       Now, standing at the bar Robert notes to himself that it is only ten in the morning, no matter, no time like the present. The bartender returns from the kitchen with a plate of food and drink in hand. Passing the items over to Robert he comes around the well worn oak island and takes up an empty stool.
       Robert is right back into the conversation not missing a beat. He's on a roll today and is using his fork and the moments between bites to emphasise his point.
       "Look I know the advertisement in the newspaper said that you were looking for a bus-boy, to tell the truth I had something else in mind.
       "I mean after all, you're clearly not making enough money. It's obvious to me at least that your establishment is being run into the ground. What you folks need here is an improvement in the general environment.
       "You need to shake things up, hire me to redesign this place so it actually works for you instead of against. What do you say?."
       Robert is one of those guys who has no verbal restraint. It's gotten him into trouble on occasion, he's betting that one of these days his brand of honesty will actually be in high demand.
       "Do you have any experience as a bus-boy?"
       "Well no. But as I said I could really help make some positive changes around here." Today's score, honesty zero.

*         *         *

       Some days even D.G. worries about his own sanity. He's sitting on the couch in his living room in his full Star Wars regalia. One Halloween not so long ago he went to the trouble of making a completely accurate replica of the Boba Fett costume. That despicable bounty hunter who was responsible for Han Solo's transportation back to Jaba's palace, was a character D.G. could identify with. A real working stiff.
       He removes the telephone from the handset and begins dialling a number from memory.
       "Hello? May I please speak to Mr. Lucas?."
       D.G. is completely absorbed in the moment. He waits intent on every word the executive assistant puts to him.
       "Yes, you can tell him it's Gary Kurtz." A small lie. Okay a huge one, but in this competitive market you have to try out every option.
D.G. waits anxiously for Lucas to pick up, and soon finds himself humming the Imperial Storm Trooper Theme song, which he then segues into the theme from George of the Jungle. D.G. is lost in his own little world and breaks into lyric.
       "George, George, George of the jungle look out for that tree..." A click goes unnoticed until the voice on the other end pulls D.G. back to reality. He back pedals to some kind of explanation.
       "...whoops, oh! Um, hello Mr. Lucas. Well, Um, in actual fact this is D.G. Sanders..."
       D.G. knows better, he shouldn't be doing this, really it's a pipe dream gone bad. Still knowing that only two films remain he regards this as his last chance to be a part of his own history.
       "Well you're quite welcome for the flowers. I hope you enjoyed your birthday sir. I was wondering if you were looking for any Storm Troopers for your next movie..."
       D.G. cringes at the response. The logical part of his mind is only springing into action now. Too little to late.
       "Yes sir. I did get the restraining order you sent, and I am a couple thousand miles away. You're hanging up now, Oh...all right have a nice day."


 jackson avery cain  

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