#dane art | Explore Tumblr Posts and Blogs

ottiliere · 2 years

Note

have you mentioned where you think wageslave hospital dirk would work? because I think he'd work at home depot or something like that and the only reason why he doesnt get fired is because hes forklift certified. whenever customers ask him where something is he looks at them weird and walks away. he was hired for millworks but switched over to being a loader when everyone realized he sucks at customer service. (OR. i just thought. perhaps hed be one of the ppl at walmart that collects the stuff for online orders)

hello dear anon from jun 22. the thing about dirk is that I think he often bounces between jobs due to a combination of many different factors, including but not limited to: poor attitude, awful work ethic, no collaborative spirit, arrives late, leaves early, steals odds and ends that he feels he can be making better use of...more than staring and walking away I think he’d get outright aggressive with customers! he's hostile, he's pent up, and he does not like being around anyone. he's best avoided, and people probably try to for the most part. so it’s possible that he worked a job like this before, and then got fired for his attitude or walked out. he does not have the fortitude for staying at one place doing the same thing over and over again for an extended chunk of the calendar year. he gets restless.

anyway here's an awesome fic my dear friend dane @davestriderdeathcult4568 wrote of dirk committing job abandonment after he starts to involuntarily regress at one of his many nightstocker positions.

dane notes directly for once instead of throwing paragraphs into a blender with lucys -> to someone outside of his own perspective, he isn't empathetic or cool or anything like that. he isn't even really properly tragic. he's your asshole coworker who sits in the back and barely finishes his portion of the work, if that. he's starting shit with you constantly for no reason, taking the most bizarre shit way too personal, saying weird things with the obvious specific intention to be making everyone in the room deeply uncomfortable....he sucks and it's a nicer place to be when he's gone.

the big screaming problem being exemplified here of course is that it doesnt matter how much sense shit makes in your head or how justified (by merit of humor pain whatEVA) you feel in saying or doing anything; people will be out here making their own calls on you for it. desire to communicate and interact with the world around you becomes overgrown and tumorous when the ability to meet people on their own terms never fully forms. theres just something wrong with him i guess.

It's 4 am, you're in the freezer, and you're past giving a shit. Beyond it. Beyond beyond it.

On good nights, you realize you're fed up at some point in the middle of the night. On most nights, you're at a breaking point before you clock in.

Lately, you've taken to ducking out before you're even finished putting up your tags. This location is short staffed, so everyone else is obliged to put up with that much more of whatever shit you can hand them before they stop putting you on the schedule. You've got it down to a science at this point; you're not in the habit of sacrificing any more time or energy to these people than you absolutely need to.

Tonight, though, they're doing inventory, and the other overnight guy hasn't shown up yet. You're stuck here, unavoidably, for your entire shift, and it's not a good night. You've been grinding your teeth for at least the last hour and a half and you're starting to feel it.

You considered leaving anyway, but you've only been here a few weeks and they'd almost definitely fire you for it. That doesn't bother you on principle, but you spent the last month and a half between jobs and you've about had your fill of it.

It's cold enough back here to warrant a jacket, but you left yours in the car. Or maybe it's at your apartment? Who knows. You're not going out for that shit. You wouldn't go back for that shit if they had you working in the freezer all night. And maybe you will be. Maybe you'll stay back here. Fuck 'em. Fuck literally everyone in this building.

The bare minimum. That's all. The bare minimum, and then home. Your hands are on your elbows, you're bent forward a little, and it's the sound of your own choppy breathing that brings you back out of your head. Embarrassing, embarrassing, sitting in the dark back of the store bitching and hunching over like some whiny chick, hugging yourself. When you exhale you do it forcefully through your nose, straightening yourself out and turning on your heel sharply, with the conviction you typically exert.

You almost slam into your coworker; he hadn't said anything as he'd entered the room, probably only a second or two ago. Almost twice your size, definitely at least twice your weight. He's looking down at you and he's going to say something; your forehead was only a few inches from colliding with his collarbone.

How hard would it actually be, right now, to claw this asshole's throat out. Like, it can't be that big a deal, right? It can't be. It fucking can't be. You're wound up right now like something you've never seen, coiled back like a snake set to spring like a trap it is literally only a few scant percentages of centimeters preventing you from reaching up releasing all that pressure -

Really, it's not even funny how your night's been going. The lights are buzzing and it's just you and him back here. Big fucking deal. It's nothing. This is nothing. He's nothing. Who gives a shit. You sidestep him before he can get a word out, carrying the motion of your stride in your shoulders, it's nothing, this is nothing, you're beyond giving a shit, and then you hear him make a derisive little noise through his teeth and you don't even think about turning around, it just happens.

"What the fuck do you want from me fucking walking up behind me asshole you're the one fucking sneaking around showing up late bitching about me?! You want shit from me!?"

He's looking down at you with genuine surprise that you are equally genuinely incapable of detecting at the moment. You're drooling.

"You're fucking stupid, fucking actually retarded if you think I'm going to run around fucking whining apologizing to you you're a fucking, fucking, complete asshole, you've got no idea what the hell you're even fucking talking t-about, I -"

Out of breath, not out of steam. You inhale quickly, shallowly, lips pulled back over your gums.

"Fucking shut UP!"

Your shoulders are raised and your fists are balled up, nails digging into your palms as you turn again, quickly, on your heel, and tear out of the freezer.

You only remember to breathe again when you're in the considerably more open area of the main store, and it's about that time that you realize the true extent of just how little you want to be here anymore.

Fuck it. Fuck it. Fuck 'em.

Out the main doors and into the parking lot, you don't even bother to clock out when you go. You're going to punch the dashboard of your car so hard the plastic fucking cracks.

Across the parking lot and up to your car, you fumble with your keys for a second before you get in. You don't even turn the car on when you shut the door. You just sit there.

Your hands, both of them, fly absently to the top of your head, burying your nails in your skin and tugging against it. You're working your jaw against itself still, glasses knocked crooked when you got in the car, when you turned to leave, when you bumped into him; it doesn't matter, really. You feel almost covered by something, some intangible force compressing you into a different shape.

It goes without saying that you're not crying, but you're breathing like you're crying. Shoulders drawn up again, hunched forward, the muscle fibers in your chest and your stomach twitching without your permission, drawing you together like the strings inside a hollow doll. Face pulled back, contorted, you're still showing your teeth as if it's an expression that means anything.

Tilting your body to the side, you can only manage to draw one of your legs around the steering wheel far enough to hold it to your chest. It's instinctive, and it doesn't make you feel any better. You're lightheaded now, wheezing audibly, clear saliva bubbling on your lips, enough of it to drip visibly down onto your shirt as you stare straight ahead, no longer fully capable of making sense of what's in front of you. You're still not crying.

It's so much more quiet out here than in the store, and so much warmer. Hotter, even, hot, even now in the middle of the night. The sun has been down for hours and it's still hot. You've spent so much time packed into hot cars, and if you were only a little less aware of yourself you might be able to mistake that familiarity for some kind of comfort. You can't, though.

You settle without realizing it into the position you're in, closing your mouth and sniffling to clear your nose, wiping it on the bare skin of your forearm when that isn't enough. Staring ahead, you register neither the dark parking lot nor the dashboard in front of you.

Being here is as bad as being anywhere else, but the idea of leaving is something you can't seem to scrape together right now. You dropped your keys when you got in, on the passenger seat next to you they're sitting reflecting headachey orange-tinted parking lot lights. They may as well not be here at all, though; the concept of driving a car is, right now, too foreign to conceptualize as an option. Even getting out of the car, walking back to the store, to the sidewalk, anywhere...all more terrifying, more definitively punishable in the long run than it is to sit here, alone in the cramped heat.

And it will only get hotter. You can feel yourself sweating; it's dripping down your back, your forehead, your hands are shaking still, no longer from the cold. You're waiting for something, you can feel it, you can feel it, you can hear the heel-toe crunching of boots against gravel, can hear voices, that great oppressive, invisible force keeping you still in your seat, keeping you quiet, keeping you still...

They're getting closer. Dirt driveway stepped on in rhythm, one set of footsteps or more, no definitely more, you're priming yourself now to jump out, run around to the backseat before you're even told to, palms sweating as much as the rest of you is, unable to remember if you're even supposed to be in the front seat right now, unable to remember why you're here, the voices of approaching men getting closer, men more than twice your size, more than twice your weight, more, so much more than you...

You hear the doorhandle open and your whole body twitches reflexively to leap out, but there's nowhere to go. The door isn't open; the men outside on the sidewalk pass by your car without so much as a glance. You watch them go by, shaking. Staring out the window, some great tension returns to you, and you grit your teeth again, wiping the slobber away from your mouth and reaching out for your keys in the passenger seat.

Starting the car, you're rewarded with hot air in your face, a nearly two-decade old air conditioning unit fighting another awful sweaty summer. It'll cool down when you get on the road. Not that you care. You're getting out of here.

The headlights come on and you shift gears, step on the gas, stare ahead at the pavement. Fuck 'em. What a waste of time.

#he sucks and it's a nicer place to be when he's gone. dirk slogan #ask #hospital dirk #dirk strider #dane art #O.o #word count: 1.5k #dirk is absolutely not capable of coolguy anger ever. it is more ineffectual and pathetic than anything else #one of his charm points... that he is a walking juxtaposition of thinking hes super badass and cool and unbothered by life #while actually just being this severely traumatized man who reverts back to childlike brain when distressed

93 notes · View notes

honeysuckle-venom · 10 months

Text

The Shofar Breaks Your Heart

by Dane Kuttler

When you give a girl a shofar – no, not a proper instrument of G-d, but a rough-cut horn with no real mouthpiece her aunt brings back from a trip to Jerusalem, don’t make it easy.

Put it up on the shelf in the living room where its curled promise of a shout will tempt her until she can reach it on tiptoe.

Tell her no one has ever found its voice, that she will only make it grunt, bray and sputter like the animal it came from.

Then give her a few years.

Give her an empty garage and a neighborhood Jewish enough to understand what it’s hearing so she can practice until tiny tekiot burst forth from the scrap of ram.

She will be the only one who can ever shape its sounds, can bend the call to tekiah, round off nine drops of t’ruah wailing, fling the anguished cry of a sh’varim from its mouth.

Let her brag about this. Remember that children are not humble creatures, that the simple act of being heard is their great triumph. Let her be heard.

Bring her to Hebrew school. Teach her the story of the rabbi who told his students that he would put the words of Torah on their hearts; that the words would only find their way in when the students’ hearts broke. Let her sit with that tale for as long as it takes for her own heart to shatter, for torah and poetry and forgiveness find their way inside,

play her Leonard Cohen. Let him croon about the cracks in everything, that’s how the light gets in, let her begin searching for light, ask her where she thinks the cracks come from, give her Auschwitz, give her Torquemada, give her pogrom and quota and blacklist, the ashes of all her burnt bridges, give her avinu malkenu, ashamnu, ashamnu, ashamnu,

watch her break her heart with her fist.

Give her the shofar. Let the horn steal her breath, let her begin to understand that she’s not holding a dead piece of animal, but a living prayer.

Teach her: after every blast you can hear the echo of the still small voice.

If you listen for it, you can hear the calls for the wild cries they are; salute them with a straight back when they yank you from your amidah; and should you hear a shofar blower struggle and gasp and strain for each call, imagine yourself a trapped animal, desperate to be heard.

When it’s over, Close your eyes.

Be. Broken. Here. Before G-d and your people. Be. Cracked.

feel the light and the words come in.

#they read this at shul tonight and it was so powerful and i thought i'd share it #jumblr #judaism #poem #poetry #shofar #rosh hashanah #high holidays #elul #jewish art #dane kuttler #yom kippur

1K notes · View notes