Dearest friends,
I was deciding which picture to go on my resume. Normally, I think I’d just go with the latest headshot I got. But since this time I decided to bring in a little bit more personality to my presentation. I really need it to be right. I had a set of pictures done by a professional a few weeks back. But the result was not good and the photos embarrassed me a lot. So I dug out some old pictures of mine, and found this particular one. There’s nothing seriously wrong with it except that I’m not sure if that’s me. It’s one of these pictures that if I see one on the Internet, I’d go like “stupid twink.”
I looked at it and then started to think: if I put this on my resume now, what difference will it make? Will it make me a goody goody boy again? Or will I remain the hopeless tattooed nutcase that I am?
Sometimes, we talk about it as a bad thing, like a prejudice. Sometimes, it turns out to be beneficial, and we cannot deny the comfort that piece of security bring us. Stereotypes. Does it trap us in a box that we can’t be anything else other than what’s already decided for us? Or does it keep us safe in the boundary that everything beyond it is chaos, but we are complete within?
Kings
We have these chain breakfast shops in Taiwan that only open from 6 in the morning to noon. They serve Taiwanese omelets, crappy burgers and sandwiches. You see these shops cluster especially around schools or office buildings, for those who can’t afford a leisure brunch and need an outlet for their out-of-bed temper.
“Hurry! I need a burger with eggs. Hurry! And I need it NOW! Hurry!”
As unfulfilling as you could probably imagine how their lives are like, still, breakfast shop staff greet customers with broad smiles and noisy hellos that most certainly annoy passers-by. You see, they kinda think it’s part of their duty to cheer you up.
However, there is this one in particular that draws more attention other than its purpose for sustaining morning energy. It’s operated by a gay couple and a dog. The cook has tattoos all over his arms, not what people usually expect from people who work in breakfast shops. And when people expect someone behind the counter to smile sweetly at them and wish them a perfect day, he doesn’t smile, and as far as I know, he might not even talk at all. But people show up anyway, maybe to see how they do it, maybe to see how they are holding up, and maybe to shortlive the fantasy that we are finally accepted into the society, I guess.
They always have branch names by their location. For example, My Warm Day, Taida Rd branch. But this one, they named themselves ‘the kings’, so it’s My Warm Day, the Kings branch.
I half imagined it’d be a place with a touch of sensitivity bestowed exclusively to gay people. And it’d make people feel courageous, in a way, to be who they are. I got up early the other day, and rode 30 minutes only to find that they had the day off. I went back this morning. I should know better, nothing can tell you to be brave, least of all, the kings, cute as it is, but a chain place, after all.
The ground floor is where the open kitchen is. You order here, and if you like, watch your food being cooked. Unfortunately, it is a little messy here. It could be very rush in the breakfast hour. But this place seems like it needs more maintenance.
The second floor where few seats are available reminds me of old Hong Kong diners in the 50’s. Things are painted baby color green. There’s plenty of light. And it can be sort of cute if you look at it from a certain angle. But everything feels greasy and definitely needs a much more thorough clean-up.
I can’t deny that I was disappointed a little. Maybe I expected too much, after all, it’s a breakfast shop, what else could it be? But I just have to say, for tattooed guys, they really need to macho up the place a little bit, your grace.
Sisters
When it comes to restaurant jobs in Taiwan, there are what people call full times and part times. Full time often means you have to do all sorts of different things. You may have to wait on tables. You may have to bus a little. You may have to step inside the bar and help squeeze orange juice when there’s a party of twelve, and they all decide to order a different, complicated cocktail that takes 10 minutes to make apiece each. And you may have to wash the dishes when people pour in at the same time and you are out of silvers. Part time means you only need to show up on time and act snobbish, and at the end of the day, complain.
But there’s also something that’s not on the menu. Let’s say, somebody suddenly decides he’s going to be really sick. The restaurant desperately needs someone to cover the shift. Thus, the invisible workforce behind the chic dining scene: the one time workers.
One time workers are the best, and they are most of the time highly regarded by their coworkers. First of all, they are there when people need them the most. Second of all, they don’t pose any threats. Thirdly, you don’t need to pay for their insurance (actually, you have to. But nobody follows the law, and these motherfXckers (owners) all think they have the right to do so), you don’t even need to pay them very well. Lastly, you don’t need to pretend that you like them. They are invisible, disposable, come and go.
Since I’m not working now, sometimes, I work as an one time waiter at a restaurant, well, to eat the food mainly, and to finish the opened wine.
One day, a party of five walk-in walked in. At first glance, there didn’t seem to be anything worth-noting about these dressy women having a girls’ night out. But as I approached then and dutifully urged them to order the daily specials I didn’t really like, I realized one of them was actually a guy, well, down there and under the make-up and the dress.
After the rush hours, the sous-chef commented on the sisters.
“Next time, seat the likes of those as far from me as possible.” (The kitchen has see-through glass panels from the seats in this one.)
“What? You mean the girl that’s actually a guy?”
“Yeah, he made me really uncomfortable.”
“Huh, really. But he’s actually very nice, very polite.”
“Well, it doesn’t matter. The point is, he made me sick.”
“Huh, in what way?”
He didn’t really answer. Like I said, I am an one time worker, I don’t really exist. So he just ignored me. But in my head, I couldn’t really get it. I was not just trying to defend him because I am gay. What was he saying, that a pretentious skinny stick who orders pasta without olive oil is fine because she’s got the whole package, well, what little that’s survived the diet? Hell no! Obviously, he really needs to see this from my perspective. I would rather serve perverts anytime (as long as they keep their hands off me) instead of someone who orders her salad with more than three sentences.
My rules are simple. As far as I am concerned, you can be whatever you want to be, as long as you finish your meal and leave. Do not pull any crap or stop every thirty seconds to ask what’s on your plate.
“What’s that?”
“That’s diced mushroom.”
“What’s that?”
“That’s artichoke.”
“What’s that?”
“That’s the poultry. If you order a chicken, we’ll bring a plate with a piece of chicken in it.”
“Oh, okay, but, but what’s that?”
“Do you want me to call the police?”
“Pardon?”
“I said, do you want me to call the police?”
“Er…, no, thank you. I don’t actually know what you mean.”
“Would that be another question? Never mind. Do you have any last words then?”
“Wha… Arrrrrrrr! My ear! Arrrrrr! My other ear!!!! And my Chanel earrings!” (female disturber, terminated, ears bitten off and tortured to death.)
(Imagined conversation.)
By the way, man and woman customers are stupid in their own way. The women always want to know everything. The men, well, they think they know everything, even when they do, it still pisses me off.
Salesmen
If we ever try to introduce the human species to aliens, we have to show them the persistence of a sales representative, by far, the most perfected form of our kind, how they could lead every conversation to one philosophy (the latest product), how they have every solution of all the problems imaginable (the latest product), and how generous they are to help our society (the overstocked or expired products).
Needless to say, I’m terrified by them, most of all, the insurance salesman, who must have had secret service experience before they turn in.
I once saw two salesmen corner one armless man in a café (I was like ‘good luck, bro’). The duo consisted of one male senior overseeing a female rookie negotiating a new deal, the all in one, getting back to the society, look no further policy. They talked as if conducting an improv play. I couldn’t help but wondering what course do they take in their trainings, rap lessons?
Anyway, after a while, against all odds, the victim got away and ended the conversation with ‘I need to get going, but I’ll think about it’.
Five minutes after the man ran to freedom, there was a silence. I had half imagined that I'd hear them smirk in triumph, turn into crows and fly away. But slowly, I realized that the girl was crying.
I felt guilty. What if she’s a single mother with three kids to support, just trying to survive?
After she calmed herself, the male senior coldly said. “Well, what went wrong?”
The girl hesitated. “I didn’t really know the policy?”
“No, the problem is that you talked too much, blah, blah, blah, but what does that have to do with me? You have to show him that this (poking at the table) is (poking at the table) what (poking at the table) he (poking at the table) needs (poking at the table). You have to let him know that he (poking at the table) doesn’t (poking at the table) lose (poking at the table) anything (poking at the table).
Wow. Poor cow.
I always have a hard time answering people what’s my type, do I like bear, do I like twink, blonde, dark, tall, short? And I always have a hard time telling people who I am, top, bottom, innocent boy next door, or fucked up soon to explode psychopath? If I have a type, if I belong to a type, does that mean that I don’t have any other options anymore? And what does that say about me?
Expectation, I think that’s the main key behind stereotypes. When we try to define people into certain categories, aren’t we, maybe on some level, actually defining ourselves? Stereotypes help us to put a name on it, so that we can pretend that we understand something or someone, that we can reassure ourselves that we are still free from judgment since we put the name on someone else, the tag won’t fall on our heads, and that it’s all under control. But is it? Or are we in return limited?
But what do I know? Maybe being limited is a good thing. Since we are able to cut something out, maybe it’s easier to count what’s left inside. And maybe it does make us feel secured. But what’s the point anyway?
I once had a conversation regarding types. And a very wise man said. “What are you talking about? I’d just ask the guy out, if I want to fuck him, then he’s the type.”
You betcha. But I suppose I can only guess. 
No comments:
Post a Comment