“Are You Ready?”

February 17, 2010 at 1:55 pm (Cussed Dumbers, Drunk and disorderly)

“It’s that most wonderful time of the year…”

Why was I singing that in February? Because yesterday was my favorite holiday. It started with me humming the above seasonal song, and ended with Frank Zappa blasting through my brain. “Titties and beer. Titties and beer. Titties and beer, titties and beer…”

Yes, another Fat Tuesday has come and gone, and this year it was quality over quantitty…

After last year’s dud of a Fat Tuesday, I had small hopes for this one. Last year I worked the Mothership. With guards, security cameras and a MAX platform full of knuckleheads, I saw nary a fleshy mound. My bead stash is old enough to be weaned! I e-mailed a request to Master P several weeks ago, begging him not to mess with my schedule. “Sir, I’ve worked all three stores, and feel mine has the best, um, view.”

He wrote back, “If you think that view is nice, you should try New Orleans!” He junkets down frequently a few days before Fat Tuesday, lives it up on the cheap and leaves just before Fat Tuesday. Got to mind the store, because Fat Tuesday has become a quiet tradition in weird old Portland.

Okay, maybe not so quiet.

Since the nightclubs around the store have gone bust or been shuttered by the city, it’s been more Crack Alley than Nightclub District. I worried that we’d have no business, much less lubricated young ladies brazen enough to bounce their boobies in my general direction. I’ve been doing this for years, and am getting the motion down.

Grinder saw my stash of beads hanging off the radio. (I know you want to smash my radio, Grinder. Hands off!) He laughed and said, “Go get ’em, tiger.”

Cool. Like I wasn’t going to?

I’ve learned that putting the beads on too early looks desperate. So does using a camera. I leave the camera put away. Like my world-traveling older brother who rarely photographs the places he visits: “Sometimes the memories are more beautiful than photographic evidence.”

I like the idea of having boob imprints on my brain.

I tried to coax Clairissa into coming downtown. “I’d love to, but the GF is going to need a lot of arm-twisting.” She never did make it. I could have put her in the window, flashing people. Master P’s alcohol sales would have gone through the roof.

Since this is about titties and beer, let’s start with the beer.

People come downtown to get drunk on Fat Tuesday. People come downtown to get drunk every night, but Fat Tuesday is like New Year’s Eve or St Paddy’s Day. It’s “Let’s get balls-out drunk and really act the fool! Woohoo!” Drunken time. Folks who don’t know the rules of downtown are often shocked at my Principal Skinner act. Simply put, if I think you are going to drink on the street, I can’t sell you alcohol. Losing the liquor license would kill Master P’s business, and it’s one thing he’s very strict about. He called each of the stores and reminded every employee, some going on twenty years, to card everyone and be careful.

Normal people understand this. Folks who “come in from the country” have a hard time hearing the word “No.” I helped them adjust.

Around 11 PM, a group of white kids dressed like Li’l Jon congregated outside the store. A kid with a red sideways ballcap and pants-on-the-ground came into the store. “Where your Four Locos at? Shut up you fucking cunt! I’ll leave yo’ ass here! Where your Fo-”

“Across the street. We’re not allowed to sell it.” Four Locos is like an ‘energy drink’ cross-pollinated with MD 20/20. It’s as obnoxious as you’d imagine.

“That guy’s an asshole. He wouldn’t sell us anything.”

“Well, unless you have downtown ID or a hotel key, I can’t sell it to you either.”

“I HATE THIS FUCKING TOWN!” He went outside, and in came the woman he wanted to leave behind.

“Hey, I’m fuckin’ twenty-one years old. You have to sell me booze!”

“Um, no I don’t.”

Her lower lip pouted out, but her eyes were filled with rage. “Yes you do! I’m from Sandy, Oregon, I’m twenty-one years old and I can buy alcohol anywhere I want!”

I gave her my most evil grin. “Yeah? Good luck with that…”

“You… motherfucker! Fucking asshole blah blah blah” I kicked her and her hillbilly friends out. I take that back. Calling them hillbillies is an insult to hillbillies.

I watched them cross the street to the competition. They were smarter this time. One member of the group tried buying, and was denied. HAW-haw. Sideways Hat left Fucking Cunt outside and went in, coming out with a black bag containing what I assume was the lovely elixir Four Locos. He popped open a can, took a swig and was immediately swept upon by cops on ATVs.

I repeat: HAW haw.

I watched another group of teenagers get arrested in the parking garage. Cops and residents have figured out that the stairways of the garages are great for fucking, pooping, dealing and drinking, so they patrol them constantly. It was poetry in motion, watching the cops educate people. Yes, we have seen this before. No, drinking it from a cup does not make it legal. You gonna clean that up?

But enough of that. Let’s get to the enjoyable part of the evening: Indecent exposure!

Now, I’ve worked at this store for almost five years, and every Fat Tuesday has been an eyeful. (Except last year’s miserable failure.) I average 15-20 flashes, and most are enjoyable. One year I got a lot of middle-aged views, and though gravity was an issue, it was still fun to look at. I am always polite. Never look a gift hooter in the mouth, to mix a metaphor.

As 7 PM rolled around, my break person/lunch idiot arrived. As I prepared to step off the till for a while, a lovely in her early thirties requested a pack of cigarettes. “Six dollars! Can I get a discount if I flash you?”

“Sorry, I can’t give away the store, but I can give away beads.” It was time. I put the party strands around my neck. Let the festivities begin!

“Well, you’re no fun.”

I sold her the cigarettes, and handed her some matches. “Have some fire, hot stuff.”

She smiled. “Are you ready?” She lifted her shirt, pulled down the cup of her black bra and showed me a very nice, mature nipple. She ran a fingertip around the aureola, and her nipple wasn’t the only thing that perked. I leaned forward and let her choose her strand of beads, and flipped her a porno DVD. “For your boyfriend.”

I went for a short walk to get some air, and returned to resume work. Art East had stopped by for a visit. As he did minor computer maintenance, a couple walked in. The man bought a couple beers, and the girl wanted scratch-offs. As she leaned over the lottery display, she glanced up at me and noticed the beads. “Oh my god. Is it Fat Tuesday?”

“Why yes, yes it is,” I said, in my best Don Pardo voice.

“Ha! I just flashed a dude in the crosswalk, and I had no idea. Should I go chase the motherfucker down and ask for my beads?’

“Sounds like a lot of work,” I said.

“If I flash you, can I have some beads?”

“Of course!” I was trying to sound casual, but this gal looked like Kate Hudson.

“Are you ready?” (I love how the girls now warn you before *the girls* come out.) She lifted her shirt and showed us her teacup sized breasts. Her nipples were perky visions of loveliness.

“Wow, like two thimbles made of bacon.” I stuck the tip of my tongue out the corner of my mouth for emphasis.

“Why thank you!” She bought her tickets, I gave a porno to her only-slightly-agitated boyfriend, and they were off. But not before she stopped and flashed us one more time for the road. Yes! Art and I agreed that the visual would be sticking around for a while. Wank bank!

Alas, that was the end of the nudity for the night.

But not the action.

As I watched the fun on the sidewalk between customers, waiting for Sipowicz to arrive for the graveyard shift, I heard a commotion. A tiny, early twenties fembot too full of Four Locos slapped his girlfriend and a Skaterpunk tried to intervene. (Always a bad idea. Let the loving couple kill each other.) Skaterpunk swung his skateboard, missed, had it taken away from him by the Fembot and used on his own sorry head. The Fembot got him on the ground and hit him in the head about twenty times. Crowds formed. Eventually somebody pulled Fembot off Skaterpunk and they took off. As Skaterpunk stumbled off, looking positively ass-whupped, the cops arrived like the cavalry. Fifteen cars converged upon the intersection, and only the Skaterpunk got arrested. I saw his mug shot online, and he was already head-swollen. He’s going to look like a ripe plum today.

Midnight is the perfect time to get off on holidays like this. People switch from fun-loving to drunk-ugly. I beat feet for the bus, and my new favorite driver was all alone. “It’s so dead tonight.”

“Au contraire.”
I told her of my adventures, and even slipped a strand of beads over her head. “You don’t have to tell anyone how you got them. Except maybe your husband.”

“Ha, I’m an imaginary slut!”

And so another Fat Tuesday has come and gone. Work isn’t going to be so much fun tonight, but it is my Friday, and I still have porno to give away. It’s going to take a lot more talking to get them out of their shirts without a sanctioned holiday to blame it on.

“Are you ready?”

Why yes, yes I am…

1 Comment

  1. ArtEast said,


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