I went to a small, private Episcopalian high school in Monterey called York. In their church, I made out with my first love Maeve on the 2nd floor of their chapel. I'm proud of that.
I�??m the type who would sin in a church. And not know it. The other day I was telling a friend that I would never get married again. "So," she inquired, "you would live in sin with your girlfriend?" Without thinking, I responded, "What does that mean? Live in sin?" It then occurred to me that she meant "would you have sex before getting married?" Hell yes. Of course.
In 10th grade, I hacked into the school�??s network and was suspended for three days. Being a rebellious teen, I posted the source code and an explanation of how to use it to hack into the library�??s computers. The science projects were put on display IN the library. They ended up covering my display with a tablecloth. I was given hundreds of hours of mandatory community service and decided to drop out. Well, not exactly. My girlfriend Maeve broke up with me and naturally I thought she was my soul mate. I had a mental breakdown. I started stuttering and twitching. My mom tried to help by overdosing me with xanix. That probably didn't help, but she meant well. I moved away from my parents at the age of 16 to attend a high school in Davis �?? my second attempt at 10th grade. I found the instruction so boring and the work so easy that I attended class about once a week. After missing 80 days of instruction, the administration kicked me out. My friend Andrew told me that the physics instructor was still recording my grades in his assignment book but, obviously, I was failing everything because I was not enrolled. After final grades posted, Andrew came to me and said with disbelief, �??You still got a higher grade than me and you didn't even take the final!�?? I took the GED and resolved to get straight A�??s in college. I did just that.
I�??m the type of guy to drop out of two high schools and graduate from a university as its top student.
I�??ve spent the last year slipping in and out of cultures and classes to find stories, characters, plots, and ideas. At least, that's what I tell people so I don't have to tell them "I've spent the last year just slipping - falling from culture and dropping from class. It makes good stories, I'm quite the character, and I'm out of ideas."
Here's how clever I can twist the reality of my life into respectable bullshit. I wrote this to a girl I liked, briefly, until she flipped out that when I told her I had bipolar disorder and demanded I never contact her again. Good times. Here it is:
For the last forty-five days, I get up in the morning, shave and shower, and get into my green Lexus RX300 which I own outright. I usually wear kakis, a white t-shirt, and my Movado watch. On the few days I worked as an accountant, I wore suits with remarkably snazzy ties and carried documents and a Sony Vaio laptop in my black Ferragamo briefcase. I am not giving these details about my material possessions because I think you care about wealth, but because they stand in such stark contrast to where I live. I am at a �??sober living�?? house. I have a roommate, a curfew, and share meals with forty alcoholic men. Every evening at 10:00 pm I humbly sweep and mop the lobby floor. After having a wonderful dinner at Rodney�??s (okay, okay I love the place!) to celebrate a recent business success of mine, Chris laughed and remarked, �??Well, I guess we better get you home so you can mop the floor.�?? I am NOT an alcoholic �?? in fact, alcohol gives me migraines so I generally don�??t even like it. I left a cozy Santa Barbara apartment with easy access to a pool and other extraneous luxuries a little over a month ago to embark on this experiment.
Hahahaha. I'm pretty good at bending the truth into a total disillusion. However, I will now return to fact:
For the first few weeks, I was put in the dorm rooms. There was no door and I shared the incredibly small room with three other men. The window wouldn�??t shut so brisk, cold air blew through the room all night. This was particularly bothersome on windy nights. I slept on a top bunk and had to climb up wooden ladder to get to my bed. I think I fell off the ladder three times. That was not fun. It was humorous to sleep in a tiny room on a bunk bed with only a few thin sheets while my California king and bedding slept in my storage unit. I�??m required to go to four �??meetings�?? a week. They are all Alcoholics Anonymous meetings. Individuals at these meetings speak of what they lost, how they recovered from alcoholism, and how their lives are today. A few very nice men here committed multiple DUIs and are killing time before they are sentenced to jail. Others broke into cars, robbed from homes, prostituted themselves, and committed other crimes to pay for their drinking or using. But they are here. They want help. I get to learn about whom they were, intimately understand where they are, and slowly see who they become. I don�??t think they could all become extraordinary. Statistically, sixty percent of them will die from their disease before living out the term of their natural lives. I don�??t make their problems mine, but I observe them. Yes, I'm above all that. Naturally I'm better than them. Please note the sarcasm.
Back to my bullshit - the letter to this woman I liked, her name is... what the hell is her name... oh right, Valerie -- the letter continues:
I will not stay here much longer. Let�??s just say, hypothetically, that after dinner you wanted to go back to my place. Well, that�??s obviously out of the question. What if you asked me, �??Why don�??t we just get a room?�?? I wouldn�??t say, �??Well, my curfew is 11pm.�?? I would say, �??Screw the curfew, I�??ll live somewhere else. I�??m done with that research.�?? The men living here have no place to go. If they miss curfew, they are immediately kicked out. That includes me. The difference is, I will just run to the Double Tree until I find a nice apartment. Or travel to another place and live another life and complete another chapter. Or find a woman and settle down. The short time I�??ve been living here, I�??ve had two different jobs.
And back to the truth.
I worked as a supervisor at Borders. The interview process was comical. Cheryl, the store manager at the time, read my resume, glanced up, looked at it again, and asked, �??What are you doing here?�?? I immediately thought, �??I knew I should�??ve toned it down.�?? My application stated that I wanted to work as a part-time cashier at the lowest possible wage. Instead, they gave me the highest possible pay and asked me to be their Merchandising Supervisor. The job was extremely entertaining and enjoyable. Friends who know me outside of my adventures as a writer, such as professors, would occasionally see me running around in Borders. They�??d walk up to me and ask, �??You deferred graduate studies to work at Borders?�?? Well, that's not totally true. I ran into one professor and lied like crazy.
When I finally left Borders because I was hired as a person in collections (aka accounts receivable) at one of the best companies to work for not only in Santa Barbara but in the nation, Network Hardware Resale, the manager of Borders sat down with me twice and begged that I stay. Part of me wanted to stay, but the very fact that this company had hired me in accounting was so funny that I had to try it. Ultimately, our new manager refused to let me go. I am still technically a contingent employee. If I want, I can work any day at any time. In a rather arrogant slip of the tongue, I told the manager that working a day or two at Borders would �??be more like community service than supplemental income.�?? He laughed. I visited the store the other day and got my employees candy. They were MY employees because I got to boss them around as their supervisor. They used to joke that my job consisted of telling them to do my job. It was true. The phone would ring and I would glance at someone, point to the phone, and give them that look like they should really answer it. Even if I were standing right next to the phone, they were ten feet away, and I had to move to let them get it, I would just move over and let them get it.
Or if a customer needed to find a book, my typical response would be, �??Absolutely we can help you. But you know who is an expert on (whatever the topic might be),�?? and then I would point to some random employee. That�??s what made Borders so amusing. I created countless games that kept the day hysterical. One evening I told the cashiers that I wanted to see them up-sell products (such as get a customer to purchase a bookmark with their book). At least, the manager wanted our cashiers to up-sell products. I could really care less but I liked the idea of trying to make the cashiers sell something in addition to what the customer actually wants. So I decided to make this �??something�?? a small yellow duck that squeaked when squeezed. I told them that I would buy the individual who could up-sell these ducks a twenty dollar gift card to subway. The entire night the cashiers pleaded in desperation that their customer purchase this duck. Some customers laughed while others were rather bothered. I laughed the entire time.
Yes, accounts receivable was amusing because I am so deep in debt, and get several calls from creditors everyday, that putting me into that position was either perfect or stupid. I was only in my accounting job nine days. It was so incredibly boring that I found myself getting to work early and leaving late so I could learn other positions. My immediate boss told me that I couldn�??t arrive early and leave late because they�??d have to pay me. I told him that I didn�??t want to be paid and I just wanted to learn. He smiled but said it was technically illegal. The company seemed so rigid. I wanted to be in sales anyways. I told them if I could sell them the idea that I could work in accounting, then obviously I can work in sales. He said, based on my articulate and colorful emails, �??You should just write full-time, Roger.�?? So I do. Well, sort of. That's what I say to make myself feel like I've got an identity. It's one of those situations in life that are so terrible it is comforting to stand back and reflect, "Well, at least this will make a great story someday." It's one of those 'the glass is half full' positions. But we know the glass isn't half full. It's not even a fourth full. So it's like, "F. off." Sorry to use such harsh letters. Anyway, the manager also figured out that I was probably bipolar. The 'colorful emails' were ... quite colorful.
This is a partial truth. My letter to her continues:
You could say I am a businessperson. The third or fourth week of this May, the CEO of a corporation based out of India will be visiting me. I am providing him with a room at the Double Tree (I like that place, can you tell?) and we are discussing the specifics of a partnership to launch his US operations. I don�??t think we�??re going to Rodney�??s, because they think cows are sacred. Personally I think they are delicious. I first contacted Nagaraj Kumar in 2004 when I operated Fine Jewelry Photography. I (and eventually my assistant) took photographs of jewelry. Then we had to carefully edit them by isolating the jewelry and framing it against a white background. This two-step process took up valuable time and made my company less profitable. I trained several graphic designers who work for Mr. Kumar on what techniques work the best to edit my images and from that point forward I outsourced the work. I would shoot jewelry all day long, upload them to their FTP server, and they would edit them all day long. When I woke up in the morning, my images were done. My clients got their product faster and I was able to serve more clients. I increased profits by 400 percent. Mr. Kumar and I want to take our business relationship to a new level. He wants to start operations in Chicago and Los Angeles. I make money when I need it or when the opportunity arises. In this sense, I am a successful entrepreneur.
Yeah. Successful entrepreneur? How are we measuring success, Roger? The debt to income ratio?
Last year, I took a few spontaneous trips. My most recent was in August. I had just met a girl and we casually dated (actually I had as much sex as possible for months). It was basically a rebound girlfriend �?? which is good. My wedding anniversary was August 4 and I wanted to get my mind off the day. So I wrote to her over instant messenger while she was at work, �??Hey, have you travelled the Chunnel?�??
�??No,�?? she replied, �??I�??ve never left the country.�??
�??Oh, well, when you get your passport let�??s go to London and then Paris.�??
She thought I was joking. But we went to London, toured the area, saw Superman the Escape in at the IMAX theater in 3D (that was so fun), rode the London Eye, and pretended we were roughing it like Brits by finishing the day with a beer at the local pub. That night she asked me if I loved her. Loved her? Geez, if she has to ask... take a hint you stupid bitch. Of course, I told her yes. I loved her. Oh, I love you honey. Now let's screw. But we know I didn't love her. Of coures I didn't love her. She had this complex over my ex-wife like she was in some sort of competition. We travelled the Chunnel which was not as exciting as I thought it would be. Basically I was on a train, suddenly it was dark outside and forty or fifty minutes later, I was in France. That part was neat. But back to this question about love�?� Come on, it�??s August 4 and I�??m in Paris with this chick, do you think I�??m there because of her? I was not ready for love. That relationship didn�??t last. She seemed baffled and confused at chess and had no intellectual depth.
How I met this 'chick' aka Kara was funny. I was in a bar one evening. I managed to wind up there in one of my manic episodes. I need to preface this story by stating, once again, that I don't have a problem drinking. Although, yes, I was in a bar. I saw this woman at the other end of the bartender's ... what do you call that... I'll just say bartender's table where there are seats. Anyway, it was dark. I was drunk. She had blond hair, breasts, and at the time she was wearing contacts so she cheated. I ordered two beers - Budweiser's to be exact - because obviously I'm trying to make an impression (that is wit, fyi). I thought I would be smooth and slide her beer across the table to the other end. Unfortunately, right before it got to her it fell over and sent beer across her dress. I quickly scurried away to a table and sat, nursing my beer, in the cover of darkness. She came up to me and started talking. Out of my mouth poured a sob story about my wife, who hadn't even sent me divorce papers, and she actually gave me her number. I gave her mine, what the hell, I thought. My wife is being a little bitch anyway. What is shocking is that this woman actually called me. God, what low standards. I should've taken that as a sign.
Even more spontaneous was my trip only a month prior to that. Being in graduate school and taking these �??spontaneous trips�?? is not easy so this one was particularly short. One morning I got up, looked at myself in the mirror, and thought, �??I want to visit Amsterdam. I�??ve never been there.�?? I packed my bags, drove to LAX, and flew to Holland. I had neither travel arrangements nor itinerary. When the plane landed and I exited into the terminals, I realized that a little planning might have helped. I really had no particular destination. I remembered that this 'chick' aka Kara liked tulips and Holland is world renowned for its tulips. So I went hunting for tulips. Besides tulips, I was bent on taking photographs with my Canon 5D, shooting video, and exploring the city. I committed myself to �??travelling like a student�?? and as such my idea was to stay at a random youth hostel in the heart of the Red Light district. That�??s scary, by the way. But not as scary as some of the crazy stuff I did in Amsterdam.
For the record, I DID hire a prostitute in the Red Light District. But I did one better, I actually hired two. And then I paid them even more money so I could make my first porno. I took my camera and they went to town. I still have that video. It is sacred.
The first night I got there I was too exhausted to do anything meaningful. I got to my room and wondered if George Orwell was also bothered by the lack of room service. The room lacked everything! There was only one bathroom and shower but it was shared by everyone on the floor. No television, telephone, electric outlets (US outlets are different and my trip was too spontaneous to think of bringing a converter), air conditioning, so on and so forth. But I was �??roughing it.�?? It took great will power to sit on that bed feeling tired and miserable with thousands of Euros in my pockets. For this trip, I carried only cash. No �??plastique�?? as they say. I collapsed on the bed in my clothes and listened to my stomach growl until I fell asleep. The next day I wandered out with my camera and took photographs of narrow streets swarming with people darting in and out of boutique shops. I finally did look into tulips. They have over 100 variations of tulips!
I continued wandering the Red Light district into the night. I saw row after row of beautiful naked women posing behind glass windows backlight with pink glow. They gestured. They tempted. I walked. �??Bad roger,�?? I thought. �??Don�??t be a bad roger.�??
And I was bad. Very, very bad.
Passing out of that area and into a different part, I decided it was time to make a film. Well, technically, a second film. My first, you might recall, was my now famous porno. At least famous to me. For my second movie, I approached a fat man eating salty fries out of a cone shaped cup. He looks British and I say hello. I tell him that I�??m filming this conversation because I need to interview people about the war in Iraq as part of an assignment. I love debating. Everything he says, I disagree with. We banter back and forth for quite some time and then it occurs to me that this man has been eating these fries throughout this conversation. And he�??s had a lot of fries! I find this impossible because the cone he holds is hardly capable of containing as many fries as he has already consumed. I start to lose my concentration because I start obsessing over how many fries he�??s consumed and then I become disgusted with his weight. What a blob.
By the time my �??interview�?? was over, it was about 3 am. The streets were becoming very empty and then I realized I was in a foreign country, without a map, and didn�??t think of making a mental note of where that youth hostel was. I didn�??t even remember the name of it and it wasn�??t on the key chain. There were no receipts. So, in the early morning, in the dark, alone, in a dangerous part of the city, in a foreign country, I had to find a youth hostel without a map and without knowing its name. Whenever I get into a situation like that, which isn�??t often, I tell myself, �??Well, at least this will make a great story.�?? And it does. I was petrified by the vagrants, drug addicts, and rowdy groups of drunken men that floated through the city�??s streets. To make a long story short, I eventually found my room. That was my last night in Amsterdam. I flew home the next day. I do remember paying one herione drug addict bum about 20 bucks to take me to a doctor's office so I could try to convince him to give me Vicodin. I just wanted to get high. It's kind of silly. If I'm paying a herione addict to take me to the doctor's, why don't I just pay the guy to take me to the drugs?
That's not really a brief history of Roger. That's Roger from late 2005 to late 2006 - about a year. There's so much more. Stay tuned. I'm so excited.