The Great Escape
Have I mentioned that we have cats?
I love my little buddies. They are almost two years old now. The smallest, Stevie Ray Wonder-Nix, is about ten pounds. The biggest (Waffle) is about twenty. He’s “beef-noodle hearty.” Dot looks like a little white panther, with big grey dots on his torso. He’s the Ambassador. First out of Mama cat, he’s the one that leads the way when other species are involved. They are all males.
Hallow is our female “kitten,” along with Trixie, the old bat of a cat. (She’s about 17 now…) Hallow is solid black, with grey tufts along her claws. (Two tufts come out of her ears as well, giving her a Grandpa Munster look.) She channels the spirit of Mama the most, and we worry about her and Luna the dog going at it. And not in a good way…
So imagine my surprise when, as I sit in my room making my morning edibles and shaking off the cobwebs, I look down and see a fluffy black cat staring up at me. My first thought is “What’s the neighborhood tom cat that fathered half our kittens doing in my bedroom?” Then I notice Luna, our big black Labrador/boxer combo, staring down into Hallow’s eyes.
Oh… Shit…
My first reaction was not to react. Luna could take her out with one snap, but it’d be more like a hand saw fighting a chainsaw. If nothing spooks them, maybe we can get through this unscathed.
I called for Sister. Nobody was responding, probably thinking I wanted to show them something on TV. When my niece saw the cat walk out of my room, she said, “What the…?” When the dog followed, it was “Oh gawd…”
Hallow, with her poofy tail and mutton-legs, marched out to the living room and jumped up on the bed, where Luna holds court. We got ahold of Luna’s collar before she could snap, but she remained calm. Her tail was wagging, and she seemed excited to meet a new friend.
With Luna locked in a back bedroom, the usual procedure for feeding time, we got all the cats corralled and back where they belonged. We’ve been meaning to introduce them, but fear of violence or mayhem has kept us from doing so. Every introduction has gone well, but it only takes one car backfire to set off a depth charge and freak everyone out.
How did she get out? Through the mouse hole…
The Dad Voice
It’s ten o’clock at night, and I’m alone again. The latest hiree, a rehire actually, has been a drunken no-show for about a week. So I get to be cashier, security, and bottle drop counter. I can do all three jobs at once, but I cannot be everywhere at once.
I’m serving one of the local street dudes, a dredded, gold-toothed roller with a taste for Black & Milds. (Stinky-ass ninety-nine cent single cigars. The Jazz ones smell like a camel dump.) I reach for his dollar, but he says, “Let me give you some change instead.” He’s holding a fistful of bills in every denomination, but he dumps out 71 pennies onto the counter. “Let me go to the car and get a quarter.” And he leaves us standing there, blinking. I can cancel and undo everything, but it’d be just in time for him to return, so we wait…
I noticed a guy shopping the beers. He’d been over there a couple hours before, and had walked out, muttering something about how we didn’t have his brand. This time he took a Pub beer of the 24 oz variety and stuffed it into his jacket pocket. He picked up a Mike’s Hardon Lemonade and started walking toward the back of the store, presumably to conceal that one as well.
“We’re not gonna play that game,” I yelled across the store. “Put that can down, take the other one out of your pocket, and get out of the store.”
He pretended not to notice, so I yelled it in my Dad Voice. “PUT THE FUCKING BEER DOWN AND GET OUT OF THE STORE!”
I now had the attention of everyone, including the pimp-daddy trying to fund his cigar habit with ashtray change. “I didn’t do nothin’,” he said in a defensive tone.
“I wasn’t talking to you.” I slid the cigar to him and took the quarter. “Thank you.”
Back to business. “Are you gonna put that beer down and leave, or are we gonna have to do the cop thing? Put it down, get out.” All business had stopped, and everyone was staring hard at our perp; a rather large young man with long, curly black hair. A baby-faced Hagrid, if you will.
“I’m gonna buy it.” Smug, smirking.
“No. You’re not. If you don’t leave now you’ll be arrested. Just put the drink down and leave.” Calm, but firm. They love it when you get excited. Calm, pissed off and ready to shoot you? I have that vibe in me, and it comes out easy and often.
By now he’d put the Mike’s down. (It was stolen later on by someone else in the melee.) As he walked by the register, and the five people he’d been delaying, he said, “That’s okay, I’ll just go down the street…”
Return of the Dad Voice. “Yeah, go steal from them, you cheap-ass piece of shit!” Someone in line applauded.
He stopped and turned to look at me. “I know where you stay, motherfucker.”
I was around the counter at a pace that surprised even me. “And if you come to my house, I will put a bullet in your fucking head! And feed you to my dog!”
He was a good half-block down the sidewalk by the time I got outside. I could only talk him to death anyway, so I took a deep breath and went back inside. To a bunch of wide-eyed customers.
Of course, my next customer is this cranky old bastard that plays Keno for hours at a time, and he’s got all these complicated requests I’m listening to while watching another fellow at the soda fountain. The Piss Factory, as I call it sometimes, is one of my smallest concerns. Sodas make great bribes, it’s a small financial loss if they steal it, and most importantly, it’s right in front of me. Something easy to monitor… Unlike the $5 cookies on the rack behind the post…
This fellow must have just came from a ’70s themed rave. Dressed in a matching salmon/purple silk shirt and Capri pants, with a mop-top hairdo and Fu-Manchu moustache. He had a double-cup he’d filled, and was chugging as fast as he could. He’d probably drank a third when he saw me staring at him. He threw up his hands in a Let’s go! motion.
“You got money for that?” Firm, polite, no-nonsense.
“Huh?”
Stoopid always plays so well with me. “If you don’t have money, put it down and get out.”
“Oh, I have money. Here!” He presented 41 cents, in a grime-covered palm.
“Get the fuck out.” Firm, polite, no-nonsense.
He did. And back to the line.Those who enjoyed the show thanked me. I usually make a couple bucks in tips from the line-dwellers, and the girls are often impressed. I explain how bipolar it can be when you go from sweet-as=pie to GTFO back to “How you doin’?” in the span of three minutes.
As I’m chatting and flirting, I notice ’70s guy has snuck back in, and is filling up another soda. He’s capping this one, and looking for a straw. “Hey!” I am not amused.
“I have money!” He holds up a fiver; I may get paid yet. He’s got another soda cup and a candy bar. “I need a Backwoods too.”
He’s not getting the cigar, and he *might* get the candy bar if he cooperates. “Okay, just set everything down so I can ring it up.” He hesitates. He’s not as stupid as he looks.
He tosses the five on the counter. “I need the cigar.”
“Two sodas and the candy bar is $5.28. Give me the five and we’ll call it good.”
“But I need a cigar.”
“Then put the candy bar back, put the soda down, and get out.”
“No.”
I’m boiling over at this point. He put the soda on the counter, and I grabbed it by the lid. I wadded up his filthy five-dollar bill and threw it at his face. “You GET THE FUCK out of here before I beat your ass bloody!” As I came around the corner of the sales counter, I popped the lid off the 44 -ounce drink and threw it at the fountain drain. The smell of thrown-up peaches told me where that can of Mike’s Hardon, mango flavored, had disappeared to.
I cussed him up one side and down the other, then reassumed the position. I burned through the line, and locked the door for a couple minutes.
I mopped up the Mike’s. Took a hit on the pen. Spent a minute in the bathroom doing nothing.
Back to the front. Three people with bags of cans are waiting for me…
Ginger Sunrise
Sometimes our smallest friends make the biggest impact.
We had to say goodbye to Ginger yesterday. In a span of about four days, he went from rowdy, rambunctious kitty to couch potato to poor miserable little guy. We thought it was constipation, but it turned out to be much worse.
We noticed he stopped running out of the cat room a few days ago; moved slowly, kinda wide in the belly. After the usual cat routines we put them to bed for the day. The next day, same thing but moving slower, no longer interested in food. (He’s first to the bowl and a big eater, despite being 4th in size.) He was bigger, and obviously uncomfortable.
Day before yesterday, Sister kept him out of the cat room for observation. He was moving around a little more, but we were still waiting on a poop delivery. She set him up with his own box for monitoring. (The other cats would use it when we let them out.) We’re also detecting notes of jealousy from the cats who think THEY should be able to hang out with the adults. Hallow (female fixed)Â is hissing a lot, and they all sniff Ginger’s butt in a “Sorry dude” kinda way. They seemed to commiserate.
The next morning, he was still backed up, mostly sitting still, but he’d managed to pass a ping-pong ball sized nugget. He didn’t seem as tight, and less uncomfortable. From what I’d read, time will take care of it eventually, unless it’s very serious. He seemed to be stable, if not improving.
As the day wore on, he became lethargic. Quit getting up for water, or anything else. Bro-In-Law, who is not the softest touch, was telling us that money is no object, and to take his credit cards and take him to the vet.
When I awoke, Sister was gone with a note. I decided to run an errand instead of just sitting around waiting. When i got home, Sister was already home.
“Well, what’s the word?” I asked.
She puddled up. “He’s gone over the rainbow…”
It appeared to be cancer, either stomach or bladder. The vet told us that we could spend thousands on treatments and tests, but he probably wouldn’t survive the first round of tests. Instead, they gave him an IV, a big shot of dope, and a few minutes of happy time with Sister before they gave him the last shot. It took 2-3 seconds.
I’d prepped for this on my bus ride. I’d also prepped for a happier ending, with stories of enemas and a happy, perky kitty just like old times. Not this time. We all met for a big group hug; even the dog was in the middle. We let the kitties out. They took turns saying goodbye. Hallow, who had never hissed in my presence, was hissing at everything but the humans. Her normal “aloof-feminist” demeanor melted away with me, but she took it out on a cardboard box. Rest in pieces, box.
And you too, Gin-Gin. With your kinky tail and bony butt. We all look for you, including your brothers and sister. Maybe we’ll see you again someday.
Old Home Week
James, the bouncer at Portland’s finest strip club, clapped me on the shoulder and slipped me a $5 as I was leaving work. “Where you been? It’s not the same at 2:30 without you sneaking me to the front of the line.”
I gave him a half-hug as I pocketed the five. James is one of many who push the limits of the OLCC’s time restrictions. (But one’s liver doesn’t care what time it is, and he’s tipped me enough to buy a big-screen TV.) “Thank you sir! I miss the generosity. But I don’t miss graveyard. I love staying up all night. Just not with them…” I nodded toward the crowd of blue-heads just outside the door. “I get outta here about the time their drugs reaally kick in.”
James will be seeing even less of me. Starting next week, I’m going back to my old schedule.
It’s been a while since I’ve been here. I write in my head all the time, but after a while it seemed to be the same old stuff. How many ways can I bitch about working with the public? “Well, if you don’t like your job… maybe you should find a new job…” (Say it in a nasally whine for full effect.) That usually sets me off.
“I like my job just fine. In fact, I love my job. WHAT I DON’T LIKE is some shit-covered crackhead giving me career advice at 4 AM! Now get the fuck outta here before I lock the goddamn store. Again.”
There’s been a lot of improvement in regards to the homeless/fetty/POS bum problem near the store. We get actual cops coming in to say hello. Clean and Safe comes without our calling, and some of the homeless will beat the asses of other homeless because “you don’t fuck with the store.” I get quite a kick out of seeing kids (now grown) I’ve 86ed for theft now chasing off shitbirds on my behalf. Sometimes growing up takes a while.
Staffing has been an issue. Lack of staffing, more like it. After Mrs Brady bailed for the good life at Freddy’s bakery, we’ve been razor-thin in the people dept. TRex, a parolee with 24 mugshots on file, is our newish day person. He’s training a guy who looks like Slash’s skeleton. Southie is back, and works a lot of nights with me. Giggles is around, but we don’t interact much. Our best communications are the unspoken ones.
So where do I fit in? Mister “I’ll work anywhere, any time…?” Cue up the Maxine Nightengale, cuz we’re gonna get right back to where we started from… I will be the Wednesday through Saturday swing shift. My week starts just past halftime, and ends Saturday at midnight. Yes! I can watch all the football, and no more fucking Sunday night.
Why you so down on Sunday night, they ask? Seems great, nobody out, just a few security guards and the folks watching football and gambling at the bars nearby. Oh, did I mention that we’re about the only thing open anymore?
Target got the fuck out in a big way. Rite Aid is bankrupt. (Wonder if it had anything to do with all the armloads of unpaid-for shit people hauled out…?) 7-Eleven closed both its stores before the pandemic was over. Plaid Pantry closes before Safeway does. CVS, after being burned out during the riots, is still open by Pioneer Square, but the one time I went in there, I did not see a sales associate for three minutes, so I just left. I realize good help is hard to find, but non-existent? A lot of people offer to work, but then the drugs kick in and they are useless again.
The shiny penny in all this? I get to go back to a more normal crowd. God bless Portland for its weirdness, but can we get some goddamned “normals” around here to counterbalance the stupidity? Trust me, it will make the weird a lot more palatable…
I Just Want…
Finally, I get everyone out of the store. As I approach the door with the key out, one of the foil-heads runs up to the door.
“Sorry, I have to close for a minute.”
“Huh?” Slack jaw, droopy eyes.
“I have to close for a minute, and I can’t do that with people in the store.’
“But I just want a soda.”
“I will be right back.”
“Huh?”
“Is that rhetorical, or can you really not hear me?”
“Huh?”
“I’LL BE RIGHT BACK!”
“Well, you don’t have to yell.”
“Well, apparently I fucking do, because you keep saying,”Huh?”
I try to be patient. But this is how it is, nine straight hours of dealing with fully-grown four-year-olds. If I am working alone? It’s impossible to remain upbeat. I catch a shoplifter every five minutes, and maybe actually stop one once an hour. Help…?
Fortunately, Southie, a former manager and, as one foil-head described him, is a brawler, and loves chasing shoplifters. He taught me how to break a guy’s finger, legally, and best of all, he’s there almost the whole night. We are absolutely giving lessons in, as the kids like to say, fuck around and find out.
So, feel free to drop by for some gummys. Just be sure to stop by and pay on your way out…
Something Nice To Say
I’ve been away for a while. (From here, the blog, that is.) I still write in my head, and spend a lot of time smart-assing on that format lusted after by Elongated Musket, but I haven’t had the time or inclination for extended bloviation. Simply put, I’ve had very little nice to say about the things I used to talk about so much.
Work turned into an ordeal. Between the pandemic and the protests/riots, my fun, casual way to pay smallish bills turned into a psychological nightmare. It’s no secret downtown has been on a downturn, and I’ve been there to witness and attest. My little piece of heaven is about the only thing open, besides bars and food carts, and the light brings the bugs.
Recently, the city revoked Master P’s food stamp authorization. Since then work has been better. WAY BETTER.
Because we took food stamps, everyone with an Oregon Trail card had a reason to hang around the store. They’d wander in for gummies, 99-cent sodas and the occasional actual meal. While they stood around outside, eating and socializing, the fentanyl dealers would pull up to the curb, do some business, and drive away. People died. (I saw three brought back to life via Narcan this summer.) We asked people to move away from the store. If I called police, they would come and people would move, but police have a lot on their plate these days, and the previous version of Clean and Safe was great, but they went home at 11 PM. The party would just be getting started…
We followed all the rules, religiously. Our registers are set up to filter out ANYTHING food stamp ineligible. Master P himself sat with every employee and watched the training video, (great discussion) and made sure without any doubt we knew the rules. The issue was not us, but I can see how it might seem suspicious. We started making a LOT of money on the food stamp program.
Because we are basically the only thing open, we sell a lot of everything to a very poverty-stricken crowd. They could walk to Safeway, but that’s a half-mile up hill. “Fuck it, let’s get some Little Debbie’s and an $8 frozen cheeseburger that takes five minutes to cook.” Once it’s paid for, straight to the line in front of the microwave.
This leaves a trail of trash, from the counter out the door and if I’m lucky to the corner where a garbage can sits. (It’s usually torn open, contents strewn about.) At 3 AM, I go out with a hose and push broom. I take as long as I want. It’s my only break. People wander up; if they are a normal customer I will unlock and let them shop. If it’s their fifteenth trip through, “You can come back at 7 AM.” They don’t need another fucking soda that bad.
I love the early hours, when there isn’t a pack of shits lining the wall by the sidewalk. I watch the rats run out and grab goodies from the trash bins down the street. The crows serenade me, off key. If the crowd is distasteful, I will go inside and lock up to mop, clean and stock. Work is perfect if there aren’t any asshole cussed-dumbers to interrupt ones train of thought. About sunrise, the deliveries begin, the garbage trucks start buzzing by. The Normals come out for coffee, and Mrs Brady shows up to set me free.
Without a food stamp buffer, most of the street people have no reason to be in the store. They pretend to read labels, but we remember who spends money and we tend to run the happy wanderers off quickly. Some come in, grab an armload like they are shopping, and just walk out. We recognize a lot of them, and are not shy about asking masked people to show their face. “You can put your mask back on. I just like seeing who I’m dealing with.”
If they say no?
“Funny how you’re only worried about fucking COVID when you’re in here…”
After about a month, the curb-dwellers and dirt-urchins have found different places to loiter. There are actual minutes between customers at night, which hasn’t been the case in at least two years. I find myself laughing and joking again. (It’s hard to have fun when you’re yelling at people every ten minutes.) But… just when you think it’s cool, you see someone’s eyes peering over the corner of a cooler bank, looking like they’re taking a leak in the doorway.
“WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?”
The eyes twinkled, and Festus stepped out to be seen. “What are you all worked up about?”
“Dude, some guy tried to take a shit there this morning.” (Inside the store.)
“I guess I better get busy,” tugging at his belt. I introduced him to my newest coworker, and violence was averted.
Giggles is on vacation, so I am on a nine-day work fun-run.
Front door key? Check.
Hose? Check.
Patience?
That’s worn thin, but I have more than last week. See you when the sun rises.
Fang
I hated that tooth when I was a kid.
It was rectangular and cockeyed, sitting kinda sideways. It stuck up a couple millimeters higher than the neighboring tooth, and went deep into my lip more than once. I eventually came to appreciate this lone weird tooth, and realized it might be what identified me in a plane crash or earthquake. I was glad it was of the remaining nine saved during the great dental excavation a half-decade ago.
A cracking sound in my jawline sent the original warning. It went from being able to move the tooth to being able to “do the compass points” to what amounted to a joystick with no spring left. Just a wobbly knob that felt like a nail in the gumline every time I bit wrong.
I’d been through this before. I started wiggling Ol’ Wobbly back and forth, side to side. The mask/bandana came in most handy; I could have my fingers in my mouth without being TOO gross. I made the most of bus rides and TV time. Night before last I almost had it. But if I was too forceful, I’d be in extreme pain and there’d be no sleeping.
I started in first thing yesterday morning, and I could almost pull the tooth down to a horizontal spot. Like a diving board for spittle! I was getting wonky from the constant low-grade pain, and regretting the thought of work.
As I wiggled from side to side, i started using a screwing motion, and felt a pop. I pushed forward with my tongue, and felt more give. Index finger on tip of tooth blade, I pulled forward. A final pop, and look what we have here!
Queasy looks from family members as I held out my hand saying, “See me smile!” I went from grumpy ol’ beastard to near-giddiness. I hadn’t realized how irritating that tooth was.
I rinsed the tooth, and my holey mouth, then texted Mister Felix. “I have something for you! I pulled my thing tool tooth (isn’t auto-correct funny?) this morning, and it’s coming your way.”
My buddy back east will turn my flat-blade screwdriver of a tooth into some form of jewelry.
I always knew I had a New York smile.
A Happy Ending
Happy Papillon Turner July 28, 2009-April 12, 2022
It is with heavy heart that I announce the passing of Happy, longtime companion of Dr T and Sunday Girl. He was 12 years old.
Happy had a long and checkered past leading up to his retirement at the T’s. Not much is known about his early years, but his later days were filled with love and companionship. (Anyone who doubts Happy’s ability to love should just watch him with his bed. ‘Nuff said.)
Happy is survived by Dr T and Sunday Girl, as well as the pitbulls and derelicts Happy protected them from on their nightly walks. He will be missed dearly.
Say It, Don’t Spray It
I’ve always been about the atmosphere. Late nights have always appealed to me; I couldn’t understand why more people weren’t night owls. Perspective: A lot of people are afraid of the dark. For some reason I am drawn to it.
I’m cautious, but not paranoid. I have a lot of years of good luck in my pocket, but that can be erased in a hot moment. Every time I leave the house, I wonder if it will be my last. It’s a brief flash, but it happens every time I head off to do the graveyard shift.
I walk toward the freeway overpass. A line of zombie RVs are under the overpass, camped there since last winter. Creepy looking from a distance, the feeling is enhanced by the rattle and hum of generators. Remember when they show up at the farm in the original Texas Chainsaw Massacre? Yep.
The dogs like me, the humans avoid eye contact unless they are drunk, then they offer me beer and barbecue. I politely decline and make for the bike trail, where at 10:30 PM there are no wanderers. Thankfully. There are fewer places in the world where I can find a moment of quiet solitude. I take each one as I find them. Like the back corner of the bus, where I hunker down for the 14-mile commute…
I started doing the graveyard shift out of necessity. Giggles won’t work seven days a week, and NOBODY really wants to work it, but when folks don’t show, guess who gets to work graveyard?
“Can you work until 7 AM, and we’ll find you a replacement for tomorrow?”
That usually turns into “Can you work another graveyard?” So I do the two shifts Giggles doesn’t, plus my trademark Friday and Saturday swing shifts. I love the nightlife, I got to boogie, and working it instead of paying for it has been my bread and butter.
BUT… Graveyard isn’t the easy-peasy, busy-until-2:30/dead-until-sunrise shift it used to be. That national c-store chain I used to work for closed both downtown stores, and the Plaid closes at 10 PM. (Safeway stays open later. For shame, c-store pussies!) That has brought the beacon of light shining down upon our little store, about the only thing open after 7 PM. We now have all the riff-raff that used to live in the Occupy parks, as well as the tent dwellers and those who just drop their pants and shit wherever. A lovely crowd, I tell ya.
When it happens, I have a helper until 4 or 5 AM. Most times they call in sick, or don’t show at all. I have Bruno on the weekends. Bruno is great; he looks like an offensive guard for the Chicago Bears, is fun-loving as hell, and not afraid to confront ne’er-do-wells. But Bruno had an “incident” the night before, and I had concerns.
“Will I have the pleasure of the company of your rosy cheeks and bright red eyes this evening?” (Note: Bruno is not a partier.)
“Yup,” he texted back. “I’m a tough cookie.”
Thank god.
Read the rest of this entry »Welcome to L’il Pepe’s!
Once upon a time I worked for a small chain of downtown newsstands. Evolving with the times, those four newsstands have turned into one small, mighty busy Quik-E-Mart. Until recently it was one of the few open businesses in the pandemic/protest ravaged city core. As life returns to normal, I forge on, trying to enjoy that which pays for my existence.
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Dingleberry Gazette 