It's Brandon Vaughan!!!

Here's another interview with Brandon!!!

Can you talk about what happened at work when you lost your job? Some funny store brand water, right? 

BV: Safeway has its own labels (Select and Our Brand) on merchandise. Register coolers are stocked heavily with Our Brand bottled waters. My first day at work the front end Supervisor told me to grab a bottled water at no charge. There is an unwritten rule that no employee pays for Safeway water. During the summer, we filled ice chests with waters and left them at Customer Service. When I ran the Front End, I would hand out Our Brand waters to employees stuck on register. I moved to a different store, and management assured me that no employee need pay for water. Before every shift, I would grab one to keep nearby. By now I was a manager, and we all helped ourselves to Safeway Our Brand bottled waters. I transferred to a bigger store in June, and continued taking water without concern. An employee called Safeway’s Employee Theft Hotline on me. 

About a week later, loss prevention detectives ambushed me. An embarrassing interrogation ensued. I immediately lost patience. I’ve been in real police station interview rooms suspected of such and such. Actual detectives have sweated me with crossfire questions. So, I interrupted the Hardy Boys in the manager’s office. I said, “Is this about the water?” Two years of hard work and commitment dissipated in seconds. I started as a part-time cashier, fast-tracking into management in about a year’s time. None of it mattered now because I fucked up. Managers must lead by example. There can be no grey areas.  I felt like a hypocrite. I was ashamed. I’d let myself down. As I left the Safeway office, I was told to clock out. Composing myself, I strolled toward the time clock. My path took me past Customer Service, past the checkout stands, and past the deli. I didn’t speak a word to anyone else.

This triggered an identity crisis that lasted months. I had lost my first real job (after sobering up). A job in which I excelled. I set and exceeded my employment goals. It felt more home than work at times. I had solid working relationships with staff, and my boss’ support. I felt successful (itself a concept I associate with sitcom dads), well-liked, and even a bit respected. My pink clouds are incredibly comfortable. In losing my job I also lost myself. I’ve always joked that Customer Service is a calling. And without it, I no longer recognized myself. 

The next day I got a job at a porn shop.

Would you consider working for Trader Joe’s? Or what about Wegman’s, if they expanded out west? I’ve heard they’re a good place to work and customers love the store.

BV: Wegman’s has an interesting vibe. Total rebel spirit. Walgreen’s bullied them with a copyright lawsuit over the letter “G”. I think there are less than a hundred Wegman’s stores in total. Who doesn’t love an underdog? From a career standpoint, I would absolutely apply. Of Fortune magazine’s “100 Best Companies To Work For”, Wegman’s is ranked second. It’s been voted “America’s Favorite Grocery Store” in customer surveys. Food Network awarded them “Best Grocery Store.” Consumer Reports subscribers voted them “Top Grocery Store.” High schools have put together Wegman’s musicals, and the brand name can be spotted on many episodes of The Office (American version). Wegman’s is the kids getting high at lunch. Wegman’s is the kid tripping balls during his drum rehearsal. Wegman’s is the Delta Tau Chi fraternity. 

Trader Joe’s is every poser kid who lets his dad do his science projects. It feels like your average upscale hippie supermarket. Faux wood floors. Smells like patchouli. A cashier who designed his own name tag to read HUGS ARE OK AND SO IS JESUS is usually slowly scanning things between flashbacks. But wait a moment. Trader Joe’s is the yuppie eager to flaunt his hippie roots. Look guys, just because I sold out doesn’t mean organic horseradish isn’t still our secret weapon against the imperialist swine...So now I’m standing in what looks like my great-grandfather’s barn, justifying the price of these Pink Lady apples by saying “Well I already drove here.” When I still drank, I loved Trader Joe’s for their Two Buck Chuck (based on the original selling point of $1.99 per bottle). Right before I got sober, I did that. It now cost three or four dollars for a bottle of Two Buck Chuck. Somehow that was just perfect.

Also, I read Trader Joe’s claimed to invent a roll of sausage wrapped in puff. They called it a Puff Dog. Turns out sausage rolls are a traditional British snack. Something like 2.5 million are sold weekly at some British markets. On second thought, Trader Joe’s is the kid who volunteered to take names when teacher left the classroom. Fuck that kid.

What would be your dream job?

BV: Mentoring at-risk youth always called to me. Kid living on the streets, already in or near entering the juvenile criminal system, uninterested in school, and actively addicted or drinking. I figured I dressed and talked just like them so it would be a major advantage over some of the squares you find in county facilities. Maybe they would hear me. Unfortunately, I haven’t removed myself entirely from those cycles; not enough to call myself a “former” anything. The skill set I assembled doesn’t always stay forgotten in some drawer with rosaries and business cards. I’ve been poor under every president, and sometimes I still do what is necessary. Last fall I couldn’t afford to eat on a regular basis. What could I do? I robbed grocery stores blind. Filled the basket with sundries and food and casually skipped the check stands. See, I’m gonna make sure I always eat. I’m gonna make sure my bloodline has food on their plates. I can’t shepherd these youth if I’m not walking the walk. It would eat me alive at night. 

What’s going on with your writing these days?

BV: I scrapped a third of my novel DIE WITH YOUR BOOTS ON. I thought I knew precisely the direction I wanted this story to flow, yet suddenly I had manufactured all these excess plot twists and characters, and loved them each in their own ways so much I kept cramming them into the novel. And while I still believe they have homes in other stories, they simply did not drive the plot. I refurbished the opening pages and deleted the remains. On that note, Jordan Krall at Dynatox Ministries Publishing has been so amazing throughout. I’m proud to be working with such a remarkable guy.

This summer I started writing poetry again. I sifted through everything I’d written since high school. The batch from college disappointed me; it was heavily influenced by Nine Inch Nails and Nirvana. Somehow, I remembered them as electric piano wires, all raw energy. Instead they are shitty facsimiles of much more talented songwriters/lyricists. I am fond of several poems written after a devastating break-up in 2016. Those appeared straight from my soul. A magnificent cathartic re-centering occurred. Anguished, heartbroken words are residual carbon copies of a catastrophic event. Being an English major in school, a poetry class was required. Our first assignment was to write a “shitty poem.” I scoffed. I’m the Abe Froman of shitty poetry. It resulted in a lean love letter to Oakland. In January, I submitted a poetry collection to a small publishing house.

***UPDATE*** I lost entire longhand chapters of DWYBO, as well as a bunch of sketches and character notes. Timid shrug. Now I can begin again, minus a character based on someone no longer in my life. I get to create a whole new character to replace the dearly departed (name redacted b/c I like them again).

Is the Pacific Northwest a racist place to be? I’ve heard it’s beautiful, but not sure I would live there, even though Indiana is not a shining beacon of racial inclusion. I mean, we’re like the Georgia of the north. And the Klan is/was big in Elwood.

BV: I’m sorry you share real estate with those assholes. I thought that was a Hollywood joke like when Elwood Blues expressed his hatred for Illinois Nazis. Now that I’ve broken my grandmother’s heart by directly avoiding a question, it’s probably going to cost me another few centuries in Purgatory. So, I have that going for me.

Racism definitely has a fixed culture in the Pacific Northwest. It never surprises me when I encounter it here though. White and red laces and nylon bomber jackets and shaved heads used to be common in Oregon. Northern California is lousy with Peckerwoods  and the AB (Aryan Brotherhood). Parts of southern Washington are pure white pride trash, While I don’t think the Pacific Northwest is a racist place to be, there is a gross sort of casual racism permeating here. Like it is totally socially acceptable to bash on minorities because “it’s who they are.” Their parents are probably the same trash people chanting “Build the Wall” that day at Safeway. I still see a lot of Confederate flags around. These banners often are found in league with American flags. Personally, I find them nearly synonymous. To be fair, I should mention a group of skinheads called SHARP (Skin Heads Against Racial Prejudice) who did/do their part because fuck racism. I recall lots of boots and knuckles. Real ground war shit sorted. 

Mano-a-mano shit. On that note, I’m encouraged by the post-Millennials; they seem to have this collective understanding about some interesting values. Our generation just wanted a Nintendo; Generation Z is actually doing something about social issues.

How do you think the Trump presidency will turn out? My Facebook feed is full of “his days in office are numbered,” “Mueller’s going to get him,” etc., and I personally think he’ll continue being the most hilariously inept, harmful president this country has ever seen, and then he’ll get re-elected. 

BV: Speaking of racism, public disgrace and official world stage laughing stock Donald John Trump is my least favorite topic, so I Googled the repugnant centurion and learned his name. John is his middle name. That’s imaginative. His name is Don John Trump, probably because Don Johnson had already been claimed, [the name] conjures up wheat fields and chopping down your own goddamn cherry trees and some vague whiff of colonial entitlement. I digress. The real problem with Johnny Trump is that he is a Gemini. No one even likes Geminis, asshole twins. They’re all rats. They are bi-polar Sour Patch Kids. Natural born politicians and gifted sociopaths. 

My prediction is re-election. It will be the season of reaping. As we’ve witnessed, his staff and entourage will suffer his sins. Soon limo drivers and Senate Pages and White House aides who should have interned at Chipotle will be the single biggest contribution to catastrophic prison overpopulation. Everyone who is not John John Trump is chum. These poor damned souls are those dudes who hold your pistol so you don’t go to jail. Our Cantaloupe-in-Chief might have to send a human sacrifice when the Congressional hearings begin. His popularity will finally drop. He will declare bankruptcy with claims that “the country was like this when I found it,” I expect him to provoke wars among nations. I do not expect him to be impeached, indicted, or educated. And who cares because the dumb sonofabitch got Man of the Year his first five minutes on Pennsylvania Avenue.

Also, the majority of Spain’s population dislikes him. He does not share or understand European values. Already established racist propaganda against Mexico [as] a war cry. In his first term he vilified immigrants (heavy emphasis on Hispanics, mind you). He characterized these people as killers and human traffickers. Then his goddamn Southern Border Wall demands all day every day. Not to mention a complete lack of empathy, compassion, or humanitarianism for Puerto Rico in [her] time of need. His solution for the Mediterranean migration crisis in Spain? He suggested the Spanish government build a wall across the Sahara Desert. Because walls fucking keep out the riff-raff. In my opinion, Trump declared war on us like a kid overthrowing a birthday party. I hope the seeds he sowed reap a revolution. Until then, refuse and resist.

Your relationships seem to go great guns, then a short time later, the breakup. What keeps you motivated through these experiences?

BV: My pink clouds will one day be the death of me. I discovered an addiction to the Honeymoon Phase. I want more endorphins. A thousand is never too many, and one is not enough. Those sweet chemicals become the new drug I chase. Only capturing and face-fucking happiness will tame the dragon. There were periods of time I would start relationships on a lark, get my fix for ninety days or so, and exit stage right when the good times ran out. It is how the broken gauge love. If you are unhappy, you must not have found the right person (because most addicts believe their happiness is dependent upon others) this time. No time to waste being lonely. The next happiness fix is just around the corner. But you’re chasing vapors. You’ll never match the intensity of that first good hit again. It is an empty, frightening feeling. It is failure and rejection and wondering if you’ll die lonesome and unloved. 

For public record, I can be a tough partner. I am bi-polar; I’m an Aquarius. Pick your 

bad sign. I’m forgetful, I snore, and I can’t ever remember your mother’s name. Anxiety twists me up daily. Sometimes I spend an entire day crying and certain that I am a total piece of shit because depression craves my attention. But Goddammit, I am an exclusive limited-edition keepsake. Call now and we’ll throw in this commemorative resentment; each comes hand-drawn and signed.

I had a ridiculous grasp of love to begin with. Our home had some loving moments growing up. But remember that children take their cues from adults. Bullying, screaming matches, threats, packing and moving away several times per month, and the emotional battery must just be extreme manifestations of loving someone intensely. My questions were usually ignored. When I asked Roseanne (the woman who adopted Brandon) about sex, she bought me an illustrated book about puberty. It had this glossary of slang words. Not only did a poorly illustrated book teach me absolutely nothing useful, but I suspect it may have caused damage. I grew up thinking I loved every person I slept with. Love through sex validated self-worth. Look, someone loves me. And love is all that matters because it conquers all. I was so busy seeking love that I forget to love me first.

Hope is powerful. It is likely all the dinosaurs had as the tar pits absorbed them. Spiritual leaders encourage it. Hell, the Bible demands it. And without it, we would never leave our recliners. Hope lights unseen paths. When things dissolve, my hopes suit up. Hope for that person I cannot live without. Hope that I love myself for the right reasons. Hope that future stages are being dressed for amazing things I cannot imagine. 

I’m in an open relationship right now. My girlfriend has another boyfriend. I see other people. It’s nice to be free, and allow the one I love to likewise enjoy her freedom. I trust her. We talk every day, mostly because I might die if we did not. But there is no ownership, no jealousy, no expectation, and thus far no drama. We spend time together when we can, and it is amazing. For me it is not only about sex. I’m loved and safe here. She is supportive and sweet. She motivates me. She loves me for who I am.  I love you, (name redacted).

***HILARIOUS, IRONIC UPDATE***

Before I knew it, I invested far too much of myself into this open relationship. I loved her too much. And she and what made her happiest became first chair. I carelessly sacrificed my own mental health. I put myself last. Not just because of that emotional force. For me it was a polyamorous Thunderdome. In the end, my ego and heart were rat-fucking the mind. We got into it about some stupid shit, and I reacted with fury. I broke up with her. I cried a lot. She talked from her bathroom; I kept picturing her in a bubble bath with her hair up drinking something amber from a flute like [glass] rolling her eyes. She thanked me for trying. It was one of the most crushing things I’d ever been told in a breakup. I felt like a losing game show contestant going home with no appliances no jet skis and no bus money.

***BUT WAIT, THERE’S MORE***

Seven months later, I met my missing piece. I found my fucking Marla Singer. My Shangri-La. I hadn’t held anyone so lovingly since I was in short pants. I haven’t talked to someone so honestly in years. I fell in love with a transitioning woman. I fell in love with her present and future. Man or woman, my heart doesn't know the difference. She made me feel safe. Our demons are old acquaintances. Our souls were dancing a thousand lifetimes past. We are cut from the same cloth. Both of us are intimate with The Game, and both have paid similar costs for that intimacy. I let her hold my burner; I didn’t even take out the shells. I only wanted to exist in the same moment as her forever. Trouble is sometimes those beautiful moments are like the monkey’s paw. My wishes turned to shit. I walked her to the train station two weeks ago. She left to grind in Olympia. It is a permanent move. I knew I’d been living on borrowed time. I didn’t care because I’d pay any cost for more time with her. We kissed as her train arrived; Then we kissed again. We’ve hardly talked since. Sometimes life is like that game Seven Minutes in Heaven. Eventually that seven minutes ends. What matters is how you spent those seven minutes. 

Be well loves. 

You’re still sober, right? How is that going? 

BV: October marked six years sober for me. Sobriety has been difficult. Last summer I relapsed on dope. At that point I was severely depressed. My oldest son went to prison, and I felt guilty because I was a terrible father. I couldn’t save him from that life. A girl I’d been dating died from a hot dose of heroin. I felt guilty for not being able to save her. Another person I was seeing went into the mental ward. I promised to visit her, but never did. So, I felt guilty for being trash. I made a conscious decision to destroy myself. But as per usual, dope is a scary adventure. After a few sketchy scenes too many, I cleaned up.

I had a falling out with my sponsor, shortly after firing him. I’d been working a program to please him, rather than to enrich myself. I wanted to seek a new sponsor. I’d reached the Fourth Step, and could not handle that particular archaeological dig. Working that step is like being electrocuted, and then remembering every awful thing you’ve ever buried in Technicolor. Some corpses resurface you never wanted to see again. Sometimes corpses float past from places you forgot existed. It’s intense. I decided I wanted to start my steps over again with a new sponsor.

Once I whined to my friend Mindy (a monument to recovery) no one would go to AA meetings with me. She told me I had to chase my sobriety the way I used to chase my drugs. Great lengths. Recovery is one of those things I have to talk myself into some days. Like any job, the hardest part is getting started. I now hold the Salem meeting schedule. I’m going to try and hit each one at least once. Not like ninety in ninety days. Just like trying out all the hot dog joints in town. I want my Home Meeting to be those Nathan’s dogs down the wharf behind Pike’s Place in Seattle.

Were you quitting smoking too? How do you like vaping, if you do that?

BV: I quit smoking for roughly ninety days. That’s a personal record. But I mean, I like my nicotine. I like smoking cigarettes. Several people since told me I was inspiring them. That always stings. At the same time, I’ve never told anyone to do what I do. In fact, I’ve encouraged them to do the opposite.

Vaping is not for me. Those guys look like they’re taking breathalyzer tests. They look like they’re smoking cologne. Is it toxic masculinity to insist on cigarettes? Just give me a Marlboro.  And stop stealing my lighters.

I’m making another run at giving up the cancer sticks. Right now, I just don’t wanna cough up the six bucks. But Goddamn, tonight was my Gethsemane. I have the money. There is a Murder Mart up the way. I’ll just wait until daylight and I WILL wait. Tell me if you can feel this heavy SIGGGGHHHHHHHH

What movies have you seen this year?

BV: I default to the Shotgun Method in times of list. Here are the films I’ve seen this year that really got me excited. Like leaning forward in my chair and throwing popcorn excited.

HEREDITARY is the last film I caught in a theater. Spooked me proper in the dark. It slow-rolls the viewer like really good old school creeper weed. Milly Shapiro is the true star of this film. 

HARDCORE HENRY is a first-person action flick that never bothers taking a breath. Sharlto Copley (District 9, Free Fire) plays several different personalities.

THE RAID: REDEMPTION is wall to wall uncut cocaine Indonesian martial arts ballet that tales place entirely within an apartment building. All of the film’s action sequences are Pencak Silat. It is considered one of the world’s deadliest martial arts. Southeastern Asian countries favor the art. There are over one thousand different styles.

THE RITUAL is fantastic. I’ve seen it several times, and always enjoy showing it to others. It’s a sleeper following a group of friends in the nether regions of Sweden. The whole bag is flawless folk horror, kissing cousins with the original 1973 The Wicker Man. Paganism, Nordic folklore, and survivor’s guilt make for strange bedfellows. Also, the film won Fangoria magazine’s prestigious Chainsaw Award for Best Creature FX.

TAG is my dirty little secret film crush. It is surprisingly funny. It shouldn’t work. The cast are all safe, familiar comedians playing safe, familiar roles. Worse, it is actually based on the Goddamn “Tag” game we played at recess. Then again, I caught it on Amazon Prime. It cost 28 million to make TAG and it grossed like 80 million at the box office. 80 million dollars. I paid exactly nothing and laughed my ass off.

CAN YOU EVER FORGIVE ME? Is based on writer Lee Israel’s lucrative literary forgeries. She found a hustle and cornered the market. She would have got away with it too had it not been for those meddling federal agents. That’s the meat and potatoes right there. Melissa McCarthy continues to be amazing and multi-talented; you won’t see this one coming. Keep some Kleenex handy. My eyes were watering almost the entire time.

What books have you read this year?

BV: I’d like to begin with an apology. For almost three years I’ve been “reading” The Descent. I am a lazy sod sometimes, and every time I buy a new book this one gets kicked to the curb. This is not an indictment; it is a fantastic novel. So, to that Skurvy Ink guy: I’m sorry I kept your book so long that you told me to keep it and still haven't finished it. 

Go forth and sin no more.

I read Sonny Barger’s Freedom” Credos from the Road, The Subtle Art of Not Giving a Fuck, Russel Brand’s Recovery, and Hunter Thompson’s Hey Rube.

The Road, Fuck Feelings, and Frankenstein are on my TBR pile. Beneath The Descent of course.

Are you still talking to your mom? I remember you mentioning on Facebook that relationship had crumbled.

BV: Currently there is no communication between us. She is human, and humans do things sometimes. What are you gonna do? My hope is that we can reach out again. I’m sorting out my shit right now. Until that day, all is quiet on the Western front.

Your granddaughter seems to have you wrapped around your finger. What is it about grandchildren that makes them so powerful?

BV: There is something about the ultimate clean slate. She represents a generation that will be running the jewels in twenty years. I’m pretty certain that means she is from the future. I don’t know if she’s going to start killing Sarah Conner or maybe to help me fix the Goddamn Flux Capacitor already. She is a Spanish female at a time when those things are still considered strikes against her. At the same time, Alexandria Ocasio-Cortez is showing the new way. Grandchildren are like absolution. They remind us that the guard has in fact changed. It’s my son’s turn to be a parent. I get to be a silly old man and spoil her rotten. Vyolet thinks I’m fucking funny. My goofy dances are her Rosebud. Up yours, Roseanne...

What are your goals for this year?

BV: To spend a grotesque amount of time with my oldest son. I want to lead by example, as a father and as a citizen. I want to spend holidays and special occasions with loved ones for a change. I plan to start jogging again, finish DIE WITH YOUR BOOTS ON, permanently stop smoking, and write a collection of flash fiction in tribute to Harry Chapin, I’m getting a new passport and scheming on a trip to Spain. I may not return. What better place to lay low than the Motherland?

Post-Script... Remember: no one likes a tattletale. Learn your love languages. Learn how to handle a firearm. No badge matters. Everyone knows all of your stories are made up, but we still love you. Stop hating water and drink that shit. Everyone looks at porn. And if you’re going to die be sure to DIE WITH YOUR BOOTS ON!!

~End transmission~

Brandon M. Vaughan