Ray Keating

President & CEO

LubePro’s International

1740 S Bell School Road

Cherry Valley, IL 61016

Dear Mr. Keating:

I write you today to inform you of the most appalling example of customer service and professionalism at your company’s location in Rockford, Illinois at 1701 E Riverside Blvd. Before I do, allow me to provide some background on my vehicle and me.

I purchased my 1999 Chevrolet Malibu used, with 35,000 miles on the odometer. In the years I’ve owned it, my oil change and minor maintenance needs have been met by various LubePro’s facilities in and around the Rockford area. With very few exceptions, LubePro’s have been my only provider of oil and lube services. I’m certain a quick scan of your records under my license plate number (redacted) will confirm this. Today, my vehicle has over 184,000 miles. In the near-decade I’ve owned my car, I’ve spent thousands of dollars with your company.

On Saturday, 28 August 2010 I was prepared to spend more money with your company. The serpentine belt on the aforementioned Malibu had slipped. Remembering serpentine belts are one of the items LubePro’s services, I called the location nearest my home to verify they could do the work. I was told only some vehicles could be serviced. Desperate to have my car working before my 70-mile commute on Monday, I gave the make, model and year for my car and was reassured that my vehicle could be serviced by LubePro’s. I then contacted my auto club to arrange to have my car towed.

Upon arrival at the LubePro’s on Riverside, one of the technicians climbed on the tow truck’s bed to look under the Malibu’s hood. After an examination that lasted less than thirty seconds, he returned to tell me that LubePro’s would not be able to replace the belt after all. I was irritated. I questioned the technician, telling him that I had called a half hour earlier to see if the work could be done. He gave the pre-packaged line “we can only service some vehicles.” I confronted the technician, now rather upset, with the fact that I had provided the year, make and model of my car and was told it wouldn’t be a problem to work on. His response was flippant and uninterested. I had, by this time, decided that LubePro’s obviously didn’t care to retain me as a customer, and I told the tech the company would lose my business. His response was a dismissive wave and the word “Peace.” The only person in a white shirt (the manager-on-duty, I presume) was well within earshot of our exchange.

While your employee’s callous disregard for me as a customer was frustrating and disappointing, it was routine lack of professionalism. What happened next, however, went beyond poor customer service by degrees I can’t even measure.

I was fortunate a general mechanic with a shop in the same strip mall as your LubePro’s facility happened to be working that Saturday. As I arranged to have the work done on my car by this other mechanic, my wife waited in her car nearby. I finalized the arrangements and my wife and I prepared to leave. It was then she informed me the technician from before had cast menacing glares at us from within the LubePro’s building while he worked. My wife told me she didn’t feel comfortable with my car so close to your company’s facility and the hostile employees therein. I reassured her that everything would be fine.

We left the strip mall and were stopped at the intersection of Alpine Road and Riverside Boulevard, heading northbound, a short distance away from the LubePro’s location. My wife glanced over and saw the same technician outside the building, still in uniform, apparently on a cigarette break. He noticed us too, and clearly raised his middle finger at us.

I was, and still am, shocked and appalled. This employee’s callous disregard for my wife and me, not only as customers, but as human beings, is astounding. Words fail to express how offended, stupefied and angry I am over this incident. Furthermore, this technician’s conduct calls into question the quality and safety of LubePro’s previous work on my vehicle. The lack of intercession by the manager-on-duty is an indictment of the organization as a whole. I would have returned to confront the employee and manager in question, except I truly felt doing so would have put my safety in jeopardy. The hateful look and behavior of the technician lead me to believe he was a person not above resorting to violence when confronted.

Not once was I offered a satisfactory explanation as to why I was given incorrect information over the phone, if indeed I was. I suspect, based on the behavior of the LubePro’s employees, that they simply did not wish to perform the requested service on my vehicle. Not once was I offered an apology by management for the rude and discourteous treatment I received from the technician who “examined” my car. I wish I could provide you with the names of the employees in question, but I cannot. I can tell you the incident occurred around 2:30 PM.

Your website says, “We are well known for our professional, well-trained, friendly staff, and our efficient operation. Customers appreciate our professionalism, which is why they keep coming back for our renowned 10-minute oil change and our thorough 21-point inspection.” I do appreciate professionalism and that is one of the reasons I have been a repeat customer of your company over the years. However, this incident has made me question if LubePro’s truly believes in professional, courteous service.

If I am mistaken, you are free to contact me via postal or electronic mail; I’ve included my addresses below. Thank you for your time. Sincerely,

Darius McCaskey

redacted 

CC: Better Business Bureau

CC: Insider Pages

CC: Yelp

CC: Facebook

CC: Twitter

CC: Blog

Early Tuesday Morning

The moon
hung in the sky,
round and pale,
under cover
of some wispy clouds.

The Raven

Raven;
Joy in the shade of space.
Fear of the unseen enemy.
The battle is fought,
the dark is won.
Nightshade triumphant!

In all seriousness, Judge Vaughn Walker’s decision should be celebrated by all Americans. As the judge noted, the Constitution of the United States of America indicates

No State shall make or enforce any law which shall abridge the privileges or immunities of citizens of the United States; nor shall any State deprive any person of life, liberty, or property, without due process of law; nor deny to any person within its jurisdiction the equal protection of the laws.

I’m no lawyer or scholar of Constitutional law, but I’m pretty sure that means that if one group of people has a right to do something, all groups of people have that same right.

Social conservatives may not like it, but gay Americans are still Americans, and are thus entitled to equal protection. It doesn’t matter if homosexuality is a choice or biologically preordained. It doesn’t matter if one’s religion views it as abhorrent or not. It doesn’t even matter if it’s called marriage or civil union.

What matters is that a tyranny of the majority was struck down. The Federalist papers foresaw something like this happening over two-hundred years ago and railed against it. Yet today Maggie Gallagher, chairwoman of the National Organization for Marriage, thinks “our Founding Fathers… would be shocked by courts that imagine they have the right to put gay marriage in our Constitution.” Really, Maggie? First, California’s Supreme Court ruled that the original ban on same-sex marriage violated California’sConstitution. Second, because Prop 8 revoked a right homosexuals already had, it became a federal matter under the proviso of Amendment XIV. I think the Founders would have been thrilled to see the system they cobbled together work exactly the way it was supposed to. You forget, Mags; the Framers were notorious libertarians and state’s-righters.

I had to laugh this morning when a spokesperson for the Proposition 8 supporters encouraged people to read the Constitution, where they would find nothing about same-sex marriage rights. Interestingly enough, there’s also nothing in there about hetero marriage either, probably because it’s not the federal government’s fucking [pun intended] problem.

I applaud the Governator for not sending California’s Attorney General to defend Prop 8 in court. You know you’re on the wrong side of history when a conservative, lame-duck, Republican governor with nothing to lose won’t back you up on banning marriage between consenting adults.

Remember, kiddies, it’s supposed to be by, of, and for the people. Especially the “for” part. Here’s to one little victory.

This poem, “Genocide City Zone,” was originally published in the Voices literary magazine of Rock Valley College. In fact, it was written specifically for inclusion in that journal. I reprinted “Genocide City Zone” in my chapbook, Angst & Wrath.

The name “Genocide City Zone” was rejected as a level name in one of the original Sonic the Hedgehog games on the Sega Genesis. When I read about the name being cut from the game, it stuck with me. Several months later, this poem was produced. The title and theme is very reminiscent of a Rush song (Red Sector A, anyone?).

So, without further ado, I present you “Genocide City Zone.”
 

Genocide City Zone

Welcome to the genocide city zone

I’m sure you’ll enjoy your stay

We’ve been killing folks here

All the live-long day

If you want to join us

You’ll have to pay the price

Your soul’s the cost, so ante up

C’mon and shoot the dice

 
Welcome to the genocide city zone

Everyone’s dying to get in

Ignore your guilty conscience

Though Jesus says it’s sin

If you do not join us

You’ll have to pay the price

Sacrifice your life tonight

To our deadly new device

 
Welcome to the genocide city zone

Check out time is soon

We only stop once a day

To eat our lunch at noon

If you want to join them

We’re happy to grant your request

Just remember this one thing:

We kill ‘em with the best

- Rush, “Nocturne”

Last night I had a nightmare. I realized I was dreaming and forced myself back to consciousness.

As I began to slide back to wakefulness, the dream-demon tried to swallow my mind. Refusing to let me awaken without a fight, he attacked me with a claw of burnt midnight sky. His ebon hands fumbled about my head and face. I fled his ferocious assault.

Blackened flesh and sooty sinew melted away and the demon’s hands became rivers of inky darkness. The Shadow tried to drown me beneath waves of undulating, liquid hate. I tried to paddle away, but the crests were too high, and I’m a poor swimmer. Icy, coal-black water began pouring down my throat and ears. As my lungs filled, I began to panic. The terror of drowning erased rationality and sense, my most prized possessions. Perhaps the dream-demon would finally have me.

I coughed and spat as the waves crashed about my head. Suddenly, I caught sight of a tiny island – barely big enough for a single person to stand on – nearby. I struggled to reach it before the waters of demonic rage could claim me.

Spending the last of my strength on reaching the island, I collapsed on the white sands of the miniscule beach. I became aware of a thin, sharp sound in the distance. It grew stronger with each wave lapping against my knees. I turned to see a tsunami of unearthly proportions rushing toward me.

Seconds before I was to be consumed completely by the hateful sea, a face appeared in the colossal tide. The demon’s face – my face – laughed a loathsome, taunting laugh at me. Then the wave crashed down, and I was enveloped in the frigid, numbing waters.

I awoke with a start, clutching my black-and-grey blanket to my face.

I’m not gay or into BDSM (much), but like a lot of people, I did some experimenting in college. Shortly after I started school at Illinois College in the autumn of 1998, I met a guy who would change my life.

Before I go any further, I should take a moment to explain that I was only seventeen (insert Winger reference here) when I started college, due to my September birthday. I had always preferred the world of books and games, which can teach you many things, but are not a substitute for the real world. I was also a virgin, at least in the Bill Clinton sense. Copious amounts of Internet porn, a few handies, and some hummers, but never the “real deal.” I was naive.

I’m sure my naivité made me the perfect target for this chickenhawk. He showed up in my dorm about two weeks after class had started. I never learned his real name; he only introduced himself as “Master.” His name sounded ominous and thrilling at the same time, but he was genial enough. He told me he was from Providian (that’s in Rhode Island, right?) and he wanted to hang out and have fun with me.

I was suspicious at first. Why would an older guy like Master be interested in me? What could he possibly want from me? What could I possibly have to offer him? Master told me not to worry: whatever I liked, he was interested in. He wanted me to share all of my interests with him. He said he knew I would be cool to be with because I was going to an expensive private college. He told me that he’d been hanging out with some of the upperclassmen for a while.

I started hanging out with Master a little bit at first. We’d walk up to the gas station to get a pack of cigarettes, or order Jimmy John’s every once in a while. Each time we did something together, Master was so courteous, sending me a note thanking me for sharing my interests with him.

Soon, Master and I were hanging out all the time. We’d rent movies, do dinner, or go shopping for my girlfriend. Master didn’t mind being the third wheel: he said as long as I shared my interests with him, we could do whatever I wanted. By this time, Master and I had become such good friends that he would call, usually once a week, to let me know how much he valued our relationship. He still sent me notes too, decorating them with red lettering.

I started developing strong feelings for this guy, Master. They were feelings I hadn’t felt since I’d been with my first serious girlfriend. Even the girl I was dating at the time didn’t make me feel like Master did. When we touched, I felt a little jolt, a shock, sometimes. I was confused that I could feel this way about Master, but I couldn’t deny the truth; I was in love with him.

I thought that Master loved me too. He did so many nice things for me, I thought he must feel about me the way I felt about him. He threw me a party when I turned eighteen alone, away from home and family and friends. When I lost my virginity to my girlfriend, it was Master who bought the Trojans from the pharmacy for me. He gave my roommate a ride home when he felt homesick. When I wanted to drive for hours to see my girlfriend, it was Master who made it possible.

Suddenly, however, everything changed.

I dropped out of college shortly before midterms in my first semester. There were serious family issues I had to deal with, immediately. I was confident I could get through it with the help of Master. He had always helped me out before, so I knew he would be there when I needed him most. But I was wrong.

Master turned on me and revealed what he really wanted. He didn’t care so much about my interests now; he wanted reparations. He told me that it was high time I repaid him for his kindness. He said kids like me were always to be his serfs, if he even deigned to grace them with his presence. I was aghast.

Master then appeared to me as he truly was. He was not the suave, sophisticated older man who opened doors for me and showed me a good time. He was not the debonair gentleman I thought he was. No, Master was the fiercest of whip-crackers. He was a dominator, a violator. His zipper-head mask was adorned with silver rings, and I smelled the co-mingling of my Grey Flannel cologne and my girlfriend’s Sunflowers perfume. This bastard had been fucking me, even as I was fucking her!

As he shoved me to my knees and forced the ball gag into my mouth, I knew that I had no one to blame but myself. I had allowed Master to take over my life. I surrendered my self-respect to him in a vain attempt to live above my station. With each passing moment, I made myself more his slave. The sting of his riding crop on my ass was nowhere near as painful as the stinging, burning feeling radiating from my ego.

Master’s abuse of me lasted a long time, but eventually (with the help of Tiffanie, who’s now my wife) I turned the tables on Master. He’s no longer in control of my life. I decide when and what I do. When I first met him, I was but a student; now, I am the Master.

In high school, I earned an award from the American Association of Teachers of French when I participated in Le Grand Concours. I tested into a French Lit (taught in French, all assignments to be completed in French) class in college after only two years of study in high school. My point is, I used to kick ass at French. I don’t anymore.

I would like to regain some of what I have lost, but I need help to do it. So, dear readers, I’m begging you: if you can read/ write/ speak français, drop me a line. I need practice to gain back my skills. Send me an email, tweet, or Facebook message en français, s’il te plait. Merci!

• Battlepixies! Battlepixies! is a pencil-and-paper role-playing game I’ve been tinkering with for about five years now. It’s a role-playing game of fey combat. Battlepixies! is a very silly game, meant to be a light-hearted game to run between serious RPG campaigns. I’d like to get it finished by the end of next year at the latest.
• Double-secret Project #1 I hate to pull a Wheaton, but I’m sworn to secrecy on this really cool project I’m working on. I’ll post more details as soon as I can. Trust me: it’s awesome!
• Serve Yourself My zombie short story that’s quickly becoming a zombie novella. I’m hoping to trim the final word count enough to submit it to the First Time Dead anthology from May December Publications.
• Cold Sun My pencil-and-paper role-playing game set in the aftermath of catastrophic hubris. Take one part alternate history, one part science fiction, one part global climate change debate, equal parts human arrogance and ignorance, toss in a dash of psychic powers and genetic mutation, plus something… else, and you have the recipe for the game. Coming in 2011 or 2012, most likely.
• A Novel It’s a novel with a controversial topic that I’d prefer not to talk about until it’s done. I’m sort of ashamed that this story came from my brain, but I suppose I can blame it on the Muse… or be burned at the stake. Arg.
• Exercises in Exorcism I’m working on poems to be included in my second chapbook as inspiration strikes. I hope to have enough new material by year’s end, but it may not be until the middle of next year. I’ve been spending on lot of time lately on prose, and the ars poetica fail me right now.

So, that’s what I’m working on currently. Artists, photographers, fellow poets and writers: what are you doing? Please, leave a comment about your WIP list (or lack thereof). I want to know what my comrades-in-art are up to!

If you’re interested in being a “beta reader” or playtester for any of my upcoming stuff, get in touch with me. Email, Twitter, or Facebook are all acceptable forms of communication. Thanks!

My biological father, David Allen Duncan, has never been a part of my life. He left my mother and me before I was even a year old, so I have absolutely no memory of him. From what I understand, that’s probably for the best: most stories that I’ve heard about him paint a picture of an abusive, manipulative piece of shit. I don’t judge Mr. Duncan based on those stories, however. I judge him based on the things that I’ve experienced, the injustices he’s visited upon me personally.

Witness, wherefore, that this cocksucker never paid even the pittance of child support he was ordered to pay by the court in 1980. Behold, this asshole fled to Tennessee to escape his meager obligations as a father. Consider, upon returning to Tennessee, this douchebag sired another child, who bears his name (Not that I’d want to be a Duncan: I much prefer being associated with Micks than Krauts. I also happen to love my first name. Being a Dave would be so blasé.)

Obviously, my actual father was not a source of happiness and love on Father’s Day. My erstwhile step-father was not much better.

My mother’s ex-husband, Erico Santiago, was, in some ways, a worse influence on my life than my absentee father. Whereas Allen was not present to love me and nurture me, Eric was available physically, but completely stonewalled emotionally. He came into my life when I was about five years old.

As a child, I tried every way I knew to make Rico love me. I was rewarded with indifference for my efforts. When I behaved in ways expected of me, I was met with silence. When I misbehaved, I was rewarded with physical abuse and neglect. I could fill an entire post with the blatant and subtle ways in which this man hated me, but there’d be no point to it over than to play upon your sympathies in a self-serving attempt at garnering your pity.

In time, I gave up trying with Eric. He had taught me, along with the absence of my actual father, that seeking validation from without was as pointless as seeking rain in the desert. I learned that the only sustainable sense of worth came from within.

On the other hand, my grandfather, Ed McCaskey, was one of the few men who showed me unconditional love and compassion when I was younger. His deep, booming voice comforted me when I needed it and corrected me when I needed that too. He made me understand that despite my flaws and errors, I was worthy of love and forgiveness.

My grandpa is also directly responsible for my enduring love of sci-fi. One of my earliest movie memories is watching the copy of the Star Wars trilogy he taped from TNT or TBS. My grandpa is also a Trekker from back in the day, and while I prefer the Next Generation, there is a certain fondness in my heart for Kirk, Bones, Spock, Scotty, Uhura, Sulu, Checkov et. al.

In a charming bit of serepidity, I became an ice hockey fan as a teenager; my grandfather is also a huge hockey fan. (He’s got season tickets to his local team, in fact.) As a kid, I never knew of his love for the sport, though it doesn’t surprise me. He’s from South Dakota. There’s not much to do there in the winter except for hockey. I only mention this to illustrate two points: 1) I regret that I didn’t spend more time with my grandpa before he moved to California, and 2) I may be more like my grandpa than I previously knew. That would make me very happy.

Being like my father-in-law, Gary Osterberg, would also make me very happy. We may not always see eye-to-eye, but I respect the hell out of Gary. He has helped me more than I could ever repay. Gary has sacrificed and struggled his whole life to make sure the people he loves don’t have to. He’s worked his fingers ’til they bleed – literally – so that his family could be comfortable.

I currently live in the Osterberg house because of my own failings financially. When my wife and I knew we were in over our heads, about to file bankruptcy and enter foreclosure, Gary opened his doors to us. If there was ever a moment’s hesitation on his part, he never let on.

Both Gary and my Grandpa McCaskey have taught me that hard work is eventually rewarded. I’ve learned from them that one must stand up for what they believe in and that one cannot simply run away from one’s problems: they must be confronted and overcome. They’ve taught me that one can be better than one’s past says they should be.

So yesterday’s Father’s Day was filled with joy in place of bitterness. Thinking about the father figures in my life, I reflected on the lessons I’ve learned from them. I hope to take what my past has taught me and raise my daughter to be strong, compassionate, hard-working, peaceful, geeky, persistent, and considerate.

I hope that when my daughter reflects on her childhood, she’s happy that I was her daddy.