Roger - Amanda Propaganda

Things that need to be addressed before this post:

1) I understand that there is some one in Columbus that shares the title character's name, Amanda Propaganda. That is unfortunate, but I promise I have never met her.

2) I haven't posted for quite sometime. I have found the blog problematic in that it is not possible to edit shit like I would like. So there are things on here that I have since realized are complete garbage. For that I am sorry.

3) Enjoy!

“What’s your book about?”
I looked at the broad with confusion. Who are these people that ask questions of men with headphones on? I marked my page with an ancient, laminated bookmark and slid it across the table to her. She turned it over and read the back cover
“Sounds interesting.”
“It gets me through class alright.”
“I’ve noticed. So has probably everyone else in the class.” She was right. There were only seven students in the class. I’m sure it was awkward for them; all trying to critique my work as I burn through novel after novel. Fuck ‘em, I say. They had made it clear they weren’t interested in anything I had to say.
“It’s too angry.”
“I don’t really know the characters.”
“Maybe it’s just too abstract for me.”
Bollocks. All of it. Anyway, the professor was too scared to say anything to me due to a certain inappropriate habit of hers that I had fueled once or twice prior.
I noticed the inquisitive young lady and I were the only ones left in the room and snatched my book up and started to leave.
“I really like your writing. I don’t think most people catch the allusions.” She was right. Recall something from anything but the bible and it goes over everyone’s head.
“Whatever. It’s all just lazy.
“What is?”
“Allusions. I just pop open some dumbed down book of mythology and pick a fucking story. Then put it into some semi-relevant modern circumstance and there ya go. It’s just lazy.”
She either wasn’t following or disagreed. We walked out of the room. I held the door for her but didn’t look at her just. That way she wouldn’t think I was trying for anything (which I wasn’t). It probably didn’t work.
“You done for the day?” Nope, definitely didn’t work.
“Nah. Gotta walk straight to work.”
“Which is?” She wasn’t exactly smiling anymore. I saw this as an issue. Like she was trying to match my apathy or something. She wouldn’t last. I wouldn’t let it.
“Plasma bank. Couple times a week. Gotta change my name each time though. But, fuck it you only have to pay state taxes.” She laughed. I win. “Nah, I work at Hound Dogs.”
“No shit? I love that stuff man! Best pizza in Columbus. Hands down.” She kinda jumped up and down when she said it. If she had had tits they would have bounced. Alas—“What do you do there?”
And here is how you slowly sabotage a good thing at its earliest point. Right at that point of beginning where things will still move forward, but will inevitably fail because of this one, singular moment. Like some kind of fuck up clutch.
“Bartender. Next door. At the bar. There’s one next to it.” I was stammering. It happened without me thinking. What purpose did I have to lie? Fuck her if she thinks less of me for being a pizza cook. Money’s tight, had to pick the job up. She was clearly into me, why fucking lie? Who in the fuck was I lying for?
“You mean Ravari? Dude, I’m in there all the time. How come I haven’t seen you? Wait a minute? Do you do karaoke?” Yes! God change the subject! “Hol-y shit. You’re the guy who sings Erykah Badu!”
“Indeed I am.”
“Man you are something else. You got some balls for a white guy to sing songs by strong black woman.” For some reason it always stings a bit when someone reminds me that I’m white. Like I’m not hiding it enough. I’m not being cross cultural enough or something. It really bothers me. Eli recorded me rapping once. He said it sounded good, but I thought I was just so fucking white. He said it just made it funnier. Fuck that. He didn’t have as much of a need to be legit as I. “Fuck, you did Chaka Khan once!”
“Shit, I’m just glad I made an impression.”
“Well listen, I got some shit I gotta go do, but maybe I’ll stop by for a drink a little later on.” If I wasn’t so worried about how I was going to become a bartender in the next few hours I would have asked her what shit was being done or what she drank or all kinds of other great, stimulating questions. Instead…
“Word.”
“Right. Well, later?”



The problem with making pizzas is it’s a messy business. Making hundreds of pizzas a night requires a lot of people and even more ingredients. One must have sauces and toppings and dough. Oh, God! The fucking dough! Every shift just flour in places only your mother and that stripper you dated once have ever seen. Eventually the flour forms cake with the sweat caused somewhat by the five hundred degree oven and somewhat by the anxiety of attempting to not be the slowest kink in the machine. And today was just like any other day. A thin layer of cake on my arms and face. A slight buzz from the case of beer we found in the cooler (I think it was Blind Larry’s). Just the same old shit.
But, I need it to not be. I was trying not to blow anything out of proportion; she’s just another girl. I barely even remember anything about her from before today. Is it just the lie that made me so pressed for it to go right? Things haven’t been good for so long, why would I need it to change just then?
As I was cleaning up and getting ready for the boss man to let me get out of there, I decided to just to run home, tail firmly placed betwixt my legs. I figured either she would miss me and she’d chalk it up, or she wouldn’t show up at all. Maybe I was just confused over the whole thing. I had simply just over analyzed the whole fucking situation.
“Hey, Mr. Jude! Some lady’s askin’ for you at the bar,” said Crash. He was a good bartender, but he was as silly as his name implies.
“Thanks Crash.”
“I told her they needed you in the back. Figured you could use the time to clean up. Told her your bartending shift ended half hour ago.” That beautiful bastard! The second you think these aging alcoholic punks have nothing for you, they hand you a gift like this.
“Shit, thanks, man.” I hadn’t the words.
“Just doin’ what I can, Mr. Jude.” He smiled at me. Not mockingly, nor cynically. But like a man who had just battled through years of memories of booze and dope just to remember what chasin’ skirts was all about: disguising one’s true self.
I went to the bathroom and cleaned up as best I could. They had taken out the light bulb after they found a few too many dirty syringes (like darkness would ever stop a morphine addict). I ran to my car (checking to see if she was outside or not first) and found a decently fashionable shirt in the trunk. This was just about as good as this situation would be.
She was sitting at the end of the bar, he back to the door. It’s a bad seat. Grandpa always told me to sit where you can see the door, that way you know where everyone in the bar is. I think I had forgotten what she looked like. She wore a black shirt, colorful half sleeve, and the best set of hips I’ve ever seen. I sat down next to her and she smiled without looking at me. I grabbed the short glass in front of her and smelled it. I threw a deuce in the air which Crash picked up right away.
“Fuck’s your name anyway?”
Crash set down two shots of Old Grand Dad’s and two Pabst’s. We toasted and threw ‘em back.
“Amanda. They call me Amanda Propaganda.”