Bridezilla and the Pussy Posse

July 6, 2007 at 1:10 pm (Cussed Dumbers, Drunk and disorderly)

This is about baby talk, rappers, wrappers and why I like my job.

Baby talk? Yeah, that’s right. On the midnight bus, I had to endure a quarter-hour of maternity chat.

“How old is yours?”

“When did she start walking?”

“Ten pounds, twelve ounces! Jesus!”

“She was two centimeters, within an hour it was ten centimeters, and then she came out like a screaming bowling ball…”

What makes this novel? It was a couple of twenty-something tattooed tough-guy types. Gang allegiance on the neck, pissed off expression, etc… But they sure were excited about their kids, and they were wearing shirts from Fred Meyer and Subway. I went from “Eww, ick” to thinking how nice it is that they are talking about diaper sizes and nap time instead of drive-bys and ho’s. And working at real jobs, instead of dealing and stealing. The youth of today leave me cautiously optimistic.

Okay, Romper Room is over. Let’s talk about grown-up stuff…

There are parts of my job that make it all worthwhile. Most people come to a convenience store looking for a specific item or items.

Some more specific than others. One of my personal favorites? The bachelorette party, and the scavenger hunt that goes with it.

Over the years, I have worked near or adjacent to places that do a big business in these. In the mid-90s, I worked up the road from The Viewpoint, which featured an all-male review. The only men allowed on the premises were the dancers and bartenders. The dancers often looked like celebrities. (I used to drink with ‘Fabio’ at Steamer’s. He made good tips.) On their way to the bar, the limo would stop at my Nationally Recognized Chain store to buy disposable cameras and wine coolers for the trip ten blocks away.

My first, um, exposure to the bachelorette scavenger hunt happened there. I was working with Rusty, a middle-aged cranky pit-bull with a not-so-soft spot for nubile young things. A group of five or six came in, obviously after more than one or two drinks, and bought several disposable cameras. The spokeswoman for the group asked me, “Do you have pickles?”

“Uh, yeah. What kind?” We have ice cream, too…

“I need a picture of a man holding his pickle. Do you have a jar of them? We can snap it, then I don’t have to buy them.”

“I can do better than that!” I went to the deli area, and got one of our single wrapped, super-sized dills. I held it up, Carol Merrill-style, and she got the picture.

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Well, we also need a picture of us flashing someone. Do you think your friend would mind?”

“RUSTY!” He rushed up front, thinking he was gonna get to bite a shoplifter on the leg or something. I explained what was going on. He said, “I hate having my picture taken, but I’ll take the picture while you flash him.” Meaning me.

It’s a rough job, but I’m up for it…

Rusty stood behind the line of them, snapping over their shoulders to get my expression. I’m sure it was a good one. Five hotties, ten boobs all pointed right at me. I gave the appropriate bug-eyed, drooly expression. As they readjusted their tops, I said, “maybe we should take one more. Just to be sure…”

They bought it! “Okay.” They flashed me again. Rusty gave me a sardonic smirk. It was all he talked about for weeks.

One time, I helped take pictures of a more innocent adventure. It was a group of ladies at the Upscale Mall, and they were with their daughters. Each mother and daughter were dressed identical, and until I saw them all together, I’d thought maybe all those psychedelics from the fabulous ’70s were coming back to visit. (“Damn, those girls got old quick…”) After taking their pictures, I snapped one with my camera. “You’re not going to post that on the internet, are you?” one matronly type asked.

“Baby, I’m gonna make you a star!” The look of fear in her eye was priceless.

At my current location, the club next door has lots of these parties. One night a stretch Hummer (yes, they make them) pulled up, and a gal rushed in, looking for, yup, disposable cameras. She had a necklace made of little tiny candy penises, and said I could nibble one off of her neck for ten bucks. I pled poverty, but asked if I could have one for later. She gave me one, and I stashed it on my register. I followed her out front to the Hummer-limo, and watched her climb, wearing a denim mini-skirt, into the back, yelling out a woohoo!

Her friends busted me staring at her white cotton panties. “Holly! The grocery guy is staring at your ass!”

“Holly doesn’t mind!” Holly reached around, pulled her panties to the side, and clenched her cheeks together a couple of times. (I swear, her butthole winked at me…) “Have a nice day, Mister Grocery Guy!”

Bums were starting to gather, and the Porno Queen was coming out of the bathroom. “What’s going on?”

I took her back inside. “Come here. I’ve got something to show you. Do you trust me?”

PQ eyed me suspiciously, but said she did.

“Okay, close your eyes and hold out your hand.” Her eyebrows furrowed a notch more. “It’s okay. It won’t hurt.”

I dropped my newly acquired bit of candy onto her palm. “I have a tiny penis, and I wanted to show you. It’s in your hand.”

She opened her eyes, shrieking and giggling simultaneously. She tapped it with a fingernail. “Ooh. It’s hard…”

“You can put it in your mouth…”

“Not tonight, I have a headache.”

I’ve still got that tiny penis, in a baggie around here somewhere. I hope the kids are much older before that turns up.

Last evening, several young ladies came in. I don’t often see groups of African American secretaries strolling the dirty boulevard, packing clipboards and taking notes. One took my picture on her cell phone.

Oh shit! Health department? OLCC? I put on my best Politenessman act. “May I help you?”

The woman taking the point asked, “Do you have condoms?”

Didn’t see that one coming. “Yes, what kind would you like?” I pointed to the multicolored display. “We have ribbed, flavored, warming sensation, control-issue types that numb-”

“Actually, I just need one.”

“They come in boxes of three. Sorry.”

“Do you have one of your own?” she asked.

“Um..” I was being stared down by the Divine Sisterhood, and no doubt blushing furiously. “Maybe… Why?”

“I just need a picture of one, unless you have one I could keep…” She batted her eyes at me.

“Let me see…” I pulled out my backpack, went to the medical supplies part, and fished out the little cigar tin that held my stash. I popped it open, and there were five or six of various types.

“Ooh! How cute!” They all took pictures with their cell phone cameras. “Can I have one?” Again with the batting eyelashes.

“Here. Take this one.” It was a non-lubricated Trojan. “Check it if you use it. It’s probably expired.”

“Oh, I’m sorry honey…” She patted my hand. Her friends all looked properly sympathetic. (I didn’t bother to explain that I hadn’t needed to use rubbers the last couple of years, thanks to that whole committed-relationship thing.) Never one to shoot down an angle, I said nothing. I’m not above playing the sympathy card.

They thanked me profusely, and were on their way. Another satisfied customer!

So, if you are having a bachelorette party, and need cameras, pictures taken, dirty old men nibbling obscenely-shaped Pez out of your cleavage, or just feel like flashing, come see me. I’m an old pro, and have experience.

The best part? I get paid to do it…

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