Poetry: Selections from Garret Schuelke

Memory Brought About by Trump Being Found Liable for Sexual Abuse and Defamation

The day before

the 2016 Election,

both Clinton and

Trump held their

final campaign rallies

in Grand Rapids -

Clinton at Grand

Valley State University,

and Trump at

DeVos Place.

 

I went over

to the Clinton

rally after work,

and didn't get

in - I stood

in line until

I got fed

up, and left.

Nothing particularly notable

happened, though there

was one dude

holding a sign

claiming that he

was a Gulf

War vet that

Clinton, using her

Illuminati surgical training,

had personally implanted

a microchip into

his brain before

he was shipped

out.

He was there

demanding that she,

in front of

everyone, remove the

chip “...THIS INSTANT!”

 

I'm still positive,

to this day,

that if she

had actually done

that, she would

have easily won

the election, being

seen as both

a redemptive move,

and a severing

of her obvious

SATANIC connections, and

just the fact

that it would

be a FUCKING

RAD thing to

see played out.

 

***

 

I went to

the Trump rally

later that night.

The line was

tremendously longer, but

I tried anyway.

The woman in

front of me

began flirting, and

I gave her

half-baked white

lies so that

she would lose

interest in me,

but wouldn't suspect

I wasn't a

Trump loyalist, which

possibly could have

led to me

getting jumped there

and then.

I gave up

after 30 minutes.

 

As I walked

down Monroe Avenue,

there was a

small group of

protesters making the

rounds.

Most of their

signs referenced Trump's

"...Grab 'em by the pussy"

remarks.

One of Trumpers,

a slick-haired,

polo wearing frat

bro, stepped forward

and yelled at

the protesters,

"YEAH, WELL BILL'S A BIGGER RAPIST!"

He laughed, and

hi fived his

fellow frat bro.

I kept walking,

and wondering what

he was referring

to.

 

I reached Rosa

Parks Circle, and

I realized what

he was saying:

 

The frat bro was essentially saying that Bill Clinton's rape allegations, compared to Trump's rape allegations, apparently aren't as bad, and that pointing this out was an epic lib owned moment. He also not only acknowledges that he supports a rapist, but is reveling in it.

 

Instead of just

simply being shocked

by the callousness

and stupidity of

it all, I

calmly took out

my phone, and

hit up my

co-worker, Chad,

with a barrage

of late night,

angry texts - leaving

him confused, and

telling me to

calm down - as

I made my

way to Menna's

Joint for a

depression-fueled gut bomb.

 

***

 

On Election night,

I got drunk

and ate grilled

cheese sandwiches as

the rapist got

elected (Michigan going

for him hit

the hardest).

Days later, a

cartoon was

published, depicting the

Statue of Liberty

crying as a

grinning Trump groped

her breast.

 

I imagined those

frat bros, along

with every other

fascist, chud, reactionary,

and piece of

human garbage imaginable,

having the time

of their lives,

giving each other

hi five, laughing

at the cartoon.

 

Now I was

properly getting disillusioned

with how much

shittier this timeline

has gotten.

The Restricted

Many controversial changes

were announced for

the next job

bid taking place

half a year

from now, all

part of management's

eternal war on

off standard jobs:

 

—No more Mondays off.

—Eight hour shifts have been completely and utterly annihilated.

—New rules and scheduling for the custodian positions, all inherently off standard, which were obviously put in place in an attempt to dissuade team members from bidding on them.

—All team members with restrictions are not only no longer allowed to work eight hour shifts, but will effectively ALL be placed, together, on a second shift schedule of their very own.

 

Cue the freak outs,

the vapid conversations,

the WTF's,

and the elation

from myself, Chad,

and every other

worker who has

gotten screwed out

of their job

placement by one

of these dipshits

who constantly screech

about their "rEsTrIcTiOnS!

 

***

 

Before you go

ahead and claim

that we're prejudiced,

or hateful,

or engaging in

discrimination, take into

consideration two things:

 

—These are the first accusations that management throws out in order to intimidate and embarrass us, and to dismiss our complaints and grievance filings, when someone with a restriction—who often times is also below us in seniority—takes one of our jobs.

—90 percent of the team members with restrictions are full of shit, and are obviously physically capable of doing the same back-breaking labor we all get assigned each day.

 

I've worked with

folks at previous

jobs, and this

warehouse gig that

I've been at

for over ten

long years now,

whose bodies, minds,

and souls were

so thoroughly broken

that I was

often surprised they

didn't shatter

like glassware when

they bumped into

something, or tripped

and fell.

 

I've worked with

people who were

so big that

they walked like

Danny DeVito when

he played the

Penguin in BATMAN

RETURNS.

I've worked with

people whose posture

resembled Gollum when

he was chowing

down on a

fish.

 

I've worked with

people whose arms,

hands, and sometimes

bodies shook

so often and

violently that I

wouldn't have been

surprised if it

was revealed that

they were encased

in an invincible

ice cube.

 

I've worked with

people whose brains

only produced nightmares

and demons, or

put them in

completely delusional states

of detachment

ALL

DAY

LONG.

 

I've worked with

people who should

have long retired,

be in a

care home, or

be forced, for

their own good,

into a mental

healthcare facility.

 

But none of

them had restrictions—

either they never

sought it, or

they were denied,

and had to

endure in order

to survive in

our society.

 

 

***

 

Less than a

handful of the

folks with restrictions

here truly deserve

them.

 

Reek gets around

and works just

fine, annoying us

all with his

Joker laugh and

constant stench.

I guess his

emotional fragility, which

translates to him

running off into

a dark corner,

curling up into

a ball, and crying

when he gets

yelled at, is

enough that he

is rarely required

to make rate.

 

Mugsy is tall,

lanky, and somewhat

slow, but according

to management, is

physically incapable of

driving a mid rider.

As soon as

we are told

this, Mugsy starts

to tell us

about the tennis

tournament he is

taking part in

next weekend.

 

Suck Up is the

worst of the

bunch, because her

restriction claim is

clearly just another

part of her

constant schemes to

get ahead—and

bulldoze anyone she

hates.

Count her restriction

in with being

a managers favorite,

and being married

to a union

steward, and you

have an awful

piece of shit

who's nearly untouchable.

 

Her restriction claim:

she's incapable of

driving mid riders

due to her

hip surgery and,

the most laughable

claim of them

all, she fears

she will "...have

a seizure" if

she's forced to

work in an

area she previously

worked in for

years with no

sign of problems.

 

 

***

 

I'm working in

G on my

day off, because

the five people

below me who

are in the

Mods have restrictions.

As I'm trying

to set up

a coffin box

that's been nearly

ripped in half,

I see one

of the "restricted"

workers casually walk

by, looking physically

capable as everyone

else.

 

I'm positive a

restriction is somewhere

in my future,

20-30 years

down the line.

This job has

given me months-long

foot pain, a

currently docile hemorrhoid,

and I've been

on high blood

pressure meds for

over a year

now.

I can easily 

see myself hitting 

middle age—

or being near

elderly—and becoming

everything I've described:

 

LIMPED

CROOKED

SCARRED

BROKEN

 

 

Scratch part of

that—I'll still

have to make

rate, will still

have to work

in high-paced,

backbreaking work areas,

and still be

told I have

to work faster.

 

 

And there will

still be some

jerk off with a

restriction, passing me

by as I

struggle to keep

my job, not

a care in

the world.

It's Never Worth It

The extra $200

you get for

working overtime on

your day off 

is never worth

it.

 

It's never worth

missing out on

all you could

have done the

night before:

 

Finishing up that

short story you've

been sweating over.

 

Watching that silent

horror film.

 

Making up that

weekly pasta dinner

with mushrooms and

parmesan, and seeing 

who's available on

your hookup app 

at two in 

the morning.

 

It's never worth

sleeping through your

three alarms, waking 

up at 5:35 a.m.,

and having to 

go nearly 80

on the interstate

in order to

clock in at

6 a.m.

 

It's never worth

seeing yourself be

dumped into G, 

having to demand 

that you be 

put into your 

second preference 

because there are 

five people below 

you in there, 

and having the 

supervisor on duty 

that day run

his mouth, and

basically tell you 

to fuck off.

 

It's never worth

begging the union

steward to help,

only for

them to say

there's nothing they

can do, since

the people below

you in your

second preference all

have "restrictions."

 

It's never worth

having to tape

together weak, ripped,

and filthy coffin

boxes for your

twenty-page pick, 

and seeing one

of the shitheads

with a restriction

stroll on by

into your preferred

work area, knowing

they're making $200

extra that day

as well,

but that they'll 

never be held 

to the same

standards as you 

and every other 

schmuck working on

your day off.

 

It's never worth

sitting on the

toilet in the

middle of a

pick that you

know you'll never

make rate on,

even if you

sincerely tried, hoping

that the time

flies straight to

first break, 

then lunch, 

then second break,

then finally to

the end of

the day, cause 

disassociating the entire

shift is both 

dangerous and doesn't

make time go

by faster.

 

Still don't believe me?

 

Then check your

rate the next 

morning, and see

that your 98%

for the week

got knocked down

to 85%, which

means you get 

to spend Thursday

and Friday trying 

to get it 

back up to

at least 95%,

or you'll get

a warning, which

leads to a

write up, which

leads to more

of the same

bullshit until they

shitcan you.

 

All for just a measily 200 fucking dollars.

Garret Schuelke is a writer, podcaster, and musician that currently resides in Grand Rapids, Michigan. He is the author of the GODAN series (Bakunin Incorporated), Anamakee (Riot Forge Studios, 2016), Whup Jamboree: Stories (Elmblad Media Group, 2017), and three ebooks. He is also the host of The Garret Schuelke Podcast, The Cheeseburger Blues: An Exploration into Dad Blues Rock, and A Riot Of My Own. He makes music under the moniker Neobeatglory.