Two Headed Boy: I Officially Have 12 Fingers

Two of my fingers are split down the middle, leaving gaping gouges that simulate the appearance of two digits in one.

I wish I could say my strange wounds came from a knife fight or something with a slight whiff of bad ass. Instead, I’m the victim of Merino-wool sweaters, brightly colored Cardigans and jackets relentlessly tattooed with sequins.

This is the life of a retail rookie in the winter.

I used to be a college student, and then I graduated last May. I used to play bass in a rock band, and then our drummer took off to Prague – the bastard.

So now I work in a clothing store in a mall somewhere west of Chicago. I’m the guy who takes the unwanted clothes from doomed fitting room sessions back to their rightful homes on racks and shelves.

In order to protect my anonymity – and not offend my boss — the clothing store will remain nameless. Better yet, I’ll call it The Clothing Store. Well, it worked for The Container Store.

The name doesn’t really matter – we could be talking about any store, Anywhere, USA. Okay, not anywhere. Somewhere cold. I mean, really cold, so the store is skin-cracking dry and no matter how much moisturizer I apply to my hands – handling garments is agony.

If palm readers were to look at my hands, they would tell me I perished from dysentery in 1855.

The good news is that the holidays have finally ended and with it went the store’s seasonal soundtrack. I can deal with your typical faceless, mid-90s, pseudo-club-funk-disco-elevator music perpetually playing in the background. But I can’t take the toothless R&B or rap – with holiday-themed lyrics slathered on top – playing over and over again.

I hate to blame Run-D.M.C, but their certifiably awesome 1987 track, Christmas in Hollis, started the snowball rolling. For two months, I heard it every day.

This song survives because they turned the holiday cliches upside down. Santa comes to Queens to deliver fat gold chains and new Adidas, while mom’s in the kitchen cooking chicken and collard greens.

Other tracks aren’t as creative. The songs piping into the fitting room are too predictable – it’s pain/paint by numbers, folks.

“Me” rhymes with “tree” – just so easily. I’ve heard that rhyme in at least three different songs.

Destiny Child’s 8 Days of Christmas was playing at least once every half hour on the store’s perpetual loop. Whenever I heard Beyonce mention that CD she got for Christmas, I feel like testing the Frisbee capabilities of the CD in the store stereo.

At least we’re done with all that. We’re back to the standard issue, disco-funk shipped straight out of the C&C Music Factory.

Music can keep you sane and drive you insane at the same time. Sometimes during  slow times at work I picture Joe Strummer fighting Kenny G inside my head for my immortal soul — sparks emanating every time the Telecaster and Soprano Sax strike each other.

Jimi Hendrix once said:  “That’s what it’s all about – filling up the chest cavities and empty kneecaps and elbows.” Good music can be the salve for the soul, but awful music isn’t always its poison.

I’ll be touching on it all here at The Third City — the anomalies and cacophonies, low lights and highlights, that are swimming in the bizarre pool of music — past and present.

If you need me, I’ll be in the fitting room.

by Two-Headed Boy