Showdown at the Recliner Potato Place
On Once Being a Former Professional Recliner Potato and Dances With Wolves
I used to be a professional couch potato. Although I wasn’t really on a couch. It was a recliner. I used to be a professional recliner potato. My job was to watch dvd’s before they came out for quality control purposes. I’d watch the first dvd to make sure there weren’t any mistakes. Sometimes there are stories involving a class of fourth graders enjoying a Disney movie on dvd, when suddenly the dvd cuts to a scene from a porn involving anal or frottage or some such thing and the betrayed fourth graders turn to one another, commenting, “Why, this isn’t a Disney movie at all,” and later we hear about it on the news.
When that happens it’s because the quality control person wasn’t doing their job. Whenever I saw porn in the middle of a Disney movie, I would put it in my report and it was promptly removed. Conversely, if I was checking a porn disc and suddenly Goofy came traipsing through a scene, I would also note that in my report – unless of course it was intentionally part of the porn.
Anything that didn’t belong, it was my job to note. Once all the mistakes were corrected, thousands upon thousands of copies would be made and sold to the general public. I had your back, America. And yours too, Region 4: Latin America.
The job wasn’t as cushy as it might seem, watching movies all day. You ended up having to watch the same movie over and over again. It had to be watched in English, Spanish, French, The Director’s Commentary, The Music Track, The Boring Film Critic’s Worthless Opinion Track – however many audio and subtitle streams were on the disc, that is how many times the movie needed to be watched.
How to Watch Dances With Wolves Six Times in a Row and Not Suicide or Join a Native American PAC
Once I showed up for work and was told, “Good morning, Carlos. Today you’ll be watching Dances With Wolves six times.” Six times. If you’ve never had the pleasure of consecutively being subjected to Dances With Wolves six times in a row, I can describe to you the emotional journey one goes on when one does such a thing:
The first time you watch Dances With Wolves, it’s all right – it’s fine. Kevin Costner grows his hair long, has coffee with the Native Americans, tatonka. The second time you watch Dances With Wolves, your brain sends you a quick message and the message is, “We just watched this. Seriously, just saw this. Kevin Costner, tatonka. Got it.”
Once you’ve finished watching it twice, you take a deep breath, you stretch. You’re feeling pretty good because you only have to watch Dances With Wolves four more times. The third time you watch Dances With Wolves, you’re in a rage. You hate Kevin Costner and his family, you’re furious that cinema was invented, you’re glad the Lakota Sioux lost their land.
The fourth time you watch Dances With Wolves, you fall into a deep, dark depression. You’re sad about all the things you’ve missed out in life, you’re wondering what’s happening in the real word, devastated that the Lakota Sioux lost their land and even worse, that Kevin Costner’s first marriage didn’t work out.
The fifth time you watch Dances With Wolves, your mind goes numb. You’re a blank. You don’t know what’s going on. You’re eating applesauce and you don’t even know how you got it or why you’re eating it. The sixth and final time you watch Dances With Wolves, you’re strangely calm and you suddenly realize you are now fluent in the Lakota Sioux Native American language. Shumani Tutonka Ob Wachi!!!
So that’s how it went, this job. Every day I’d go to the office park in Los Angeles and work on a different disc in one of headquarters’ screening rooms. There was very little interaction with other human beings. The most I experienced was in the middle of the day when The Sandwich Man would show up toting his cooler full of goodies. Every day, at around one o’clock in the afternoon, someone would knock on the screening room door and yell, “Sandwich Man.” That would be my cue to step outside and buy some food from The Sandwich Man. The Sandwich Man was shorter and older, perhaps in his sixties. He had white hair and an Eastern European accent, maybe from Transylvania – I’m not sure, I’ve never been.
Brief Encounters of The Sandwich Man Variety
Most of the time I would just say hello or goodbye or thank you or do you work out? to The Sandwich Man. But one afternoon we had an exchange that was longer than any other. I looked down in his cooler and saw the usual tuna salad sandwich, egg salad sandwich, eggless egg salad sandwich, etc., etc. But I also spotted something unusual. He had one lunch offering sort of hidden. It was wrapped in aluminum foil and carefully covered in a paper towel.
Out of curiosity, I asked The Sandwich Man what was in the specially wrapped meal. He quickly reported that meal was reserved for someone else. Fine, wonderful. I simply wanted to know what the secret meal was. “You can’t have it,” specified The Sandwich Man.
“I don’t want it. I just want to know what it is,” I clarified, keeping my tone courteous.
“Somebody ordered it.”
“Okay. I don’t want it. I don’t want to buy it. I’m just curious what it is.”
“It’s not for you.”
“Is it heroin?” My patience was starting to wear thin. The Sandwich Man was also beginning to lose his cool. We went back and forth about thirty-seven times, volleying questions and statements to each other. I can’t sell it to you – I don’t want to buy it, I just want to know what it is – It’s been reserved – I know it has, you’ve been very clear about that, what is it? – They’re waiting for it – They’re going to have to wait longer because I’d really like to know what it is. Our voices became testier and testier until eventually this evolved into a full-fledged argument.
What began as an innocent query now became my life’s mission. I didn’t care if I ever found a better apartment or a soul mate or if I ever managed to invent a machine that could tell me where the nearest Great White shark was while I was swimming in the ocean. None of that mattered now. The only thing that mattered, the only thing that ever mattered, was finding out what meal was wrapped in the paper towel and aluminum foil.
It got to the point where The Sandwich Man was yelling at me, expressing frustration at how difficult I was being. “I don’t know why this is an ordeal. I’m just asking what’s behind the paper towel,” I snapped back. He reached down and picked up the top-secret meal, wagging his finger and shaking his head. “You don’t have to unwrap it,” I told him. “I just – want – to know – what it is.”
“I’ve wrapped it very carefully,” he said in disgust as he aggressively removed the paper towel and aluminum foil. When the meal was finally unveiled, I had no clue what is was. It was some kind of lunchmeat. Other than that, I hadn’t the foggiest notion of its identity. I studied it carefully, to no avail. The Sandwich Man waited for me to comment. I shrugged my shoulders, informing him, “I still don’t know what it is.”
He sighed angrily and replied, “I told you. It’s chicken.”
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