Welcome to my second installment of Cut of the Day as fictional story. Today brings us to the electronic track “Culture Junkies” by the dream catcher-wearing Guidance Counselor. My interpretation of the song in short story form uses a few lyrics as dialog and is rash—with possibly offensive stereotypes. It tells the story of Cleveland Fitzpatrick, a native Floridian who moves to Portland and becomes a bike messenger! Let’s dive in, shall we?

Download audio file (Culture Junkies.mp3)

Just ahead of Cleveland Fitzpatrick rested an the enamel nameplate, sitting on the oak desk in front of him and predictably surrounded by a pile of obsidian arrowheads. In gold lettering, the name “Willy de Weil” was inscribed, indicating the office to be that of Hallendale High School’s guidance counselor. A guidance counselor who, during second period, had summoned Cleveland from his senior English class. The interruption didn’t bother Cleveland in the least, seeing as, instead of discussing the assigned novel, Inherit the Wind, it seemed as though his fellow students’ preoccupation with acclaimed titles such as Us, In Touch and OK! magazines had won the battle for relevancy in class. His teacher, Ms. Gannaway had resigned herself from trying to redirect them long ago.

What did bother Cleveland became immediately apparent as soon as Mr. de Weil entered the room sporting yet another item from his illustrious closet. It must be said that the majority of staff at Hallendale High School dressed rather conservatively, but not Mr. de Weil. Every day without fail, Mr. de Weil came dressed in a shirt with a wolf silk-screened onto it, sometimes accompanied by the image of a moon, a hunter, an entire pack of canines or a grizzly bear. In Cleveland’s entire enrollment at the school, never once had he seen the same shirt twice.

“Ahhh, Mr. Fitzpatrick,” Mr. de Weil welcomed graciously. “Do you know why I’ve called you in?”

“Uhhh… yeah,” said Cleveland, temporarily distracted by the miniature totem pole also adorning Mr. de Weil’s desk. It appeared that the faces of de Weil’s Polish wife and their brood of children were carved into the cylinder of driftwood.

“I think it’s because I didn’t fill-out this form you sent around to seniors about colleges and career choices,” Cleveland said, waving around the surprisingly crinkle-free sheet of paper that had languished in his binder for three months.

“Correct! You’re the only senior who hasn’t turned it in. I’ve even had a couple juniors turn in xeroxed copies in order to get a jump-start.”

“Well, I don’t plan on doing it. Like, I don’t think life…it don’t fit into forms.”

“What?”

“I don’t think anyone can predict the future from an assortment of boxes and check-marks, nor define an individual based on a piece of paper.”

“Just as the Native Americans have looked to shamans within their tribes, you have me, Cleveland, to help guide you towards your future. A future that I can see with the help of that little survey you have in your hands.”

“Are you honestly equating yourself to a spiritual advisor?”

Mr. de Weil offered a blank look in response.

“Because that would be rad…

“And only enforce my beliefs,” Cleveland said while slowly backing out of the room decorated with enough dream catchers to rid the world of its nightmares.

“People box themselves in enough. Follow-the-leader type crap and -”

An exchange between his fellow students passing by in the hallway temporarily cut him off:

“Hurry up Edwin! We can’t be late for class! I’ll have to make it up after school and I will miss the very beginning of TMZ!”

“I’m trying, Polly!”

“Stuff like that, Mr. de Weil,” Cleveland said redirecting the attention back to him once the pair of a boy and a girl had run past. “Pop-culture junkies! I’m surrounded by culture junkies! I find it rather confining. Not just to me, but to those who can’t see outside of boxes they create for themselves through their habits. It’s just like those boxes on that form.

“I have to get out of here, away from this. I’ve never been out of Hallendale and don’t now what it’s like, so how do I even remotely know what my future hold for me?”

Two days after the exchange, Cleveland enrolled in the local community college to finish out his remaining high school credits. He was unable to continue on at Hallendale, feeling that, by staying, he was endorsing the neuroses of his former classmates and that obsessive/excessive guidance counselor. It only took two sessions of his new psychology class to convince him to continue moving on.

“Narcissism as a personality disorder: Is Lindsay Lohan’s self-promotion a sign that she is addicted to attention?” read the hand-out on a Tuesday.

The following Thursday wasn’t much better as the topic of the day was whether or not Britney Spears suffers from bipolar disorder.

Cleveland exited the classroom faster than daytime updates on Perez Hilton to return to his home, packing up a backpack full of his most immediate belongings, nudging up his kick-stand and setting off west by way of his reconditioned bicycle.

His pursuit led him to Portland, arriving in the town of bridges after nearly a month weathering the elements on the open road and crouching in the open beds of pickup trucks.

“A great opportunity for full-time employment,” Cleveland thought to himself considering his penchant for cuffed jeans and all things with spokes as he looked on at a help wanted sign. Bucking the state’s unemployment percentages, Cleveland was on the streets for Posthaste Post only three days after his arrival to the Rose City. Cleveland quickly settled into town as a bike messenger.

Post Haste Post’s only workforce was bicyclists. It was courier service dependent on bikes—not because of short distance business, but for environmental reasons and the ever-understandable purpose of of saving on gas. Understandable to the owners of such a small business, not necessarily its workforce. Instead of incurring gas expenses to fuel a small army of vans, Portland’s Post Haste Post relied upon an army of bicyclists for all of it’s business—regardless of distance. The average pedal between Post Haste Post, a point of delivery and back often measured twenty miles—with messengers running between five and eight runs a day, day in and day out. As a tricky way of getting around subsidizing a full-time staff’s insurance, the company often back-handedly forced riders into part-time labor due to leg fatigue.

In terms of griping about this perceived injustice, messenger Gabriel Cash was perhaps most vocal. Every time the 27 year-old docked back for another item to deliver, he would allow a ration of expletives to escape his mouth, a habit that caught the ear of perennially dissatisfied Cleveland. They became quick friends.

Each day, when the team reported for duties, Isaac Owens, co-owner of Post Haste Post, would dole out sheets of paper alongside his un-rallying pep-talks of unity and the assertion that they were “all in it together” (an assertion met with eye rolls and stray coughs). On the sheets of paper were the day’s assignments and a target timeline for each run. Luckily, there were no repercussions for cyclists that didn’t meet the apparently unreasonable goal times, as they were rarely met. Not only were timelines unfulfilled due to the targets being unrealistic—that darn lack of team spirit played a role as well. A lack of riders’ personal desire to go above and beyond to serve a company that could barely be bothered to help with health services for the obligatory stitches and concussions that arise due to collisions with automobiles and concrete.

But that didn’t apply to Cleveland. No, quite the opposite. Despite his personal disputes over insurance provisions, every single day Cleveland returned to Post Haste Post well ahead of Isaac’s estimations. So when Gabriel offered to export the music from his iPod to Cleveland’s to help with “focus,” Cleveland initially declined.

“Dude! Seriously! This is so sick! I’ve never been faster then when I’m listening to this! You’ve got to import. Even if just one playlist!”

“Nah… I don’t need it. Isaac even gave me a gold star for being the best,” Cleveland said, pointing to the gold star that was indeed affixed to a chart behind him on a line next to his name.

Isaac had resorted to such cheesy gimmicks to win over his staff since his personality was such that he was constantly seeking approval, approval that was in no way coming his way. His not only-so-deep pockets wouldn’t let the personality flaw triumph his tendency towards greed.

Gabriel couldn’t stand for the resistance. He has great taste! He had a music blog for crying out loud! Blogger accounts are clearly the best indication of authority. Clearly. He understood everything James Murphy spoke with such poetic justice in the LCD Soundsystem song “Losing My Edge.” On first listen! He knew everything about good music! He had to prove it! With haste he stuck the white headphone buds into Cleveland’s ears and just as he predicted, Cleveland was sold.

“What? Is? This?” Cleveland questioned with the phonetics of a robot.

“Techno.”

“You. Don’t. Say…”

Over the next weeks every musical suggestion Gabriel offered was either batted away with such intensity one would think a plague of flies had swarmed Cleveland or met with despondence.

“But dude, I was right last time. I know what you’ll like. You’ve so gotta check out this dude called Breakfast Mountain. He used to be called Kissin’. The beats are dope!”

“How about Easter Egg? He’s like the local Girl Talk—all these popular songs mashed up. Perfect mix for pedaling.”

Eventually, he took Cleveland’s lack of response as a “no” as he appeared to be too involved in the heavy electronics causing his eardrums to vibrate. It wasn’t until a month later when Gabriel stepped into Cleveland’s apartment and saw Kraftwerk posters adorning the previously bare walls that he was able to grasp the magnitude of Cleveland’s dedication to the dance music. Kraftwerk posters sharing space with ones baring the mug of the ever iconic David Hasselhoff.

On the ides of February, Cleveland came to work sporting a mustache.

“Hey Adolf!” Gabriel greeted him.

Cleveland’s lips curled to a smile over the quip.

“I thought to change it up a bit, but I couldn’t be farther away from the Third Reich,” he said taking off his jacket and pulling up his shirt sleeve to point to the Star of David tattooed on his bicep. Gabriel wasn’t even looking. “Hair today, gone tomorrow,” he said, pausing to laugh at his own only-mildly-funny-to-kindergartners type of remark. “I’m taking it all the way down to John Waters territory tomorrow.”

“Yeah…sure…,” Gabriel responded absentmindedly.

In seconds he delivered a hard slap to Cleveland’s chest. A “Hello. My Name Is:” sticker appeared, the “Adolf” so speedily scrawled across the face of the sticker that the “f” was almost an implied letter.

“Thanks dude,” Cleveland replied facetiously, though he didn’t bother to remove it because it would interfere with the timeliness of his run. The Turkish couple who were the recipients of the letter he carried didn’t seem to appreciate the humor.

Just as Gabriel dropped f-bombs, Cleveland dropped bombshells. From the admission that he’d gotten his cycling start by way of a unicycle given to him by his uncle Troy at the age of eight to the fact he’d never once suffered chicken pox, which left him with fear of shingles as he aged, the first Tuesday of March was no exception. Post Haste Post’s Employee of the Month dropped a bombshell to his partner in crime-and-critique while crossing the strap of his messenger bag across his shoulder and gearing up for his first delivery of the day.

“I think this might be my last day,” he said loudly to Gabriel, since the techno on his iPod caused him to misjudge his vocal volume.

“What?”

“I think I’m moving over to DHL.”

“Do they even use bikes?”

“In a business that’s about utilizing time, I take issue with Isaac’s inability to enforce that reality among his workforce.”

“So this is about his character? You’re being silly Mr. Star-literally-employee,” said Gabriel, glancing up to Cleveland’s spot on the staff chart of rewards. The only line on the staff chart decorated with a row of daily golden stars. The only line with any stars in fact.

“Okay, I am,” Cleveland offered with a sly smile. “I want somewhere where I can move up and Post Haste Post doesn’t offer that. DHL does.”

“Since when are you about career? Up where?”

“Abroad,” he replied shoving a DHL Wikipedia print out towards Gabriel.

“Look at all those locations!”

Gabriel did so, noticing that while founded in the US, the global service was currently owned by Germany’s state-run courier company Deutsche Post. Out to warm any heart that beats between capitalism and socialism.

Cleveland continued, “That said, efficiency is really important to me. I’m beginning to applaud this company’s policy not to inform clients that the work is done by bike, therefore accepting jobs of all distances when in actuality they should really try to limit it to downtown. I mean, it keeps expenses lower than they could escalate to on so many levels: from having to get a fleet of vehicles to weeding down those capable of full-time employment and the benefits that go hand in hand with 32 plus hours. And dude, that is scary! I don’t mind siding with what some regard as a corporate monster if it means not having to side with Isaac.”

“Whatever, dude. This means we’re obviously gonna have to be hanging out more outside of work though. There’s more people to complain about here than there are to complain with. And those that are available to bitch lack diversity in their snark.”

“Fo ’sho.”

“You do realize this is going to cut into your relationship with Netflix, right?” Gabriel mentioned, bringing up a powerful point to the home-delivered DVD addict.

“Instead of going out for beers, you could just come over and watch a movie with me. Yet another way of cutting expenses. A six pack of Pabst and my wallet go together so much more than say my wallet, a barstool and the price of pints.”

“I’m down.”

Over the next week they watched two DVDs together. By Wednesday, they were in a Chinatown bar. Within minutes of opening a tab, a girl approached, wearing a wardrobe colorful enough to indicate that she worshiped at the alter of American Apparel. Her eye was aimed solely at Cleveland.

“Are those prescription?” she asked him referring to his wire frames.

“Umm.. no. I’ve been rocking them in yearbooks since first grade.”

“Oh. I like them. I like your hair too. What do you call that again? A faux-hawk?”

He squinted at the transparency of her attempt to pick him up—and at the transparency of her image, in which everything appeared to be contrived; from her high-waisted jeans that had undoubtedly been skinny just a season before, down to her purposely haphazard hair-cut.

“Big bad bucks to make it look like you cut you’re own hair…I actually cut my own hair.”

“Huh?”

“Do you read Vice?”

The girl looked blankly on without offering a denial.

Cleveland continued. “The concept of fake glasses only occurs to hipsters. I’m not really interested in anyone who, in all likelihood knows the Cobrasnake’s real name.”

“Everybody knows it’s Mark. It says it at the top of the page in his email address.”

Awkward silence came to pass until the girl wandered away to take up drunken residence at the DJ Booth.

“Dude, what was that?”

“Not my type,” said Cleveland. “They take their cues from sites like Last Night’s Party and the Cobrasnake. That vanity alone has spawned a vapidness that’s probably going to destroy future generations. They like stuff because they’re supposed to like it, not because they actually do. And you take it all away and they don’t know who they are. It’s that kind of dependence…like they’re culture junkies! Let her thrive on Hipster Runoff, I’ll take—”

“But you could’ve gotten—”

“…One like that,” asserted Cleveland, affectively cutting him off mid-sentence while turning his attention to a girl on the opposite side of the room with a severely angular hair-cut who at that moment was indulging in a cigarette.

“She looks just like those girls in those German art-house films you made me watch,” Gabriel grumbled with an arched eyebrow recalling his bout with cinematic agony.

“I can’t help it if those are what Netflix recommends to me based on my ratings,” said Cleveland, half-heartedly justifying what had brought Gabriel to storm out of his apartment but two nights before.

“That doesn’t mean you have to watch them or that I do for that matter! Goodbye Lenin was good, we get it. That chick from Run Lola Run is hot in a weird way. That does not mean that industry is any good, Cleveland!

“Soulja Boy had one hot song. The album? Not so much. But you can already know that without having to subject yourself to spin after spin. Read the track-list even though his freakishly oversized T-shirt on the album cover is enough warning!

“There is a reason for user reviews.”

… Just as there is a reason for citizen input. Some seven months down the line, Cleveland sat in city hall suited in DHL’s signature colors of yellow and red with a black scarf loosely jumbled at his neck—on a late lunch from his Friday shift.

On the agenda for the day was the proposed new bike lanes and a pedestrian area to surround Pioneer Square. To say a good portion of the turn-out vehemently opposed the idea would be an understatement. Still, the room was densely populated with women with strollers and a contingent of folks in their twenties, jeans cut off mid-shin and Timbuk2 bags aplenty. Through neighborhood newsletters and community meetings at district schools after-hours, the community in favor of the proposal had rallied. Now they stood near idle as one particularly upper-middle class man derided every aspect of the project.

“I cannot stand for this! Who’s gonna tell my daughter that she’s gonna be late for soccer practice because her daddy is late coming to pick her up from work? Not late due to his own fault, but because there are practically no streets to drive on downtown?”

“Excuse me,” Cleveland offered, as if personally offended, cutting the father off six minutes into his repetitive rant.

“This isn’t a self-serve issue and how it’s going to affect you as an individual. This is a community improvement issue. This is about bringing people together and making people feel safe. Not about a suburban individual who only feels safe behind the wheel of a SUV and by amassing junk that’s going to keep him insulated and away from the greater population.

“It’s like you’re some sort of culture junkie, and like the commercial goes, “No one ever says, ‘I want to be a junkie when I grow up.” Why? Because it’s not a good thing! You and people like you being one are going to erode what’s important to Portland.”

“You’re accusing me of being a culture junkie? We don’t need to make this forum that personal, Mr. self-serve versus community. That said, you can stand there and tell me you’re not like some kind of crazed neo-German bike messenger or something?”

Cleveland paused for a moment, making sure to wait until the count of sixteen seconds (the precise amount of time a moment is) before responding. Cleveland used the time to notice the messenger bag draped across his own chest, the “free health care” button on his chest, the mustache above his lip, the David Hasselhoff melody inside his head and how the color scheme of his outfit was that of the German flag.

“Hmmm…Good point…”

Links:
Guidance CounselorSpace
Guidance Counselor LC Live Photo Review
Portland United Messenger Association
Blitzhaus - a blog from a Portland bike messenger
Team Wreck - blog from a Portland bike courier “krew”
Easter EggSpace
Breakfast Mountain on Virb

Photo by Nilina.