Rosy Times at the Mothership

June 7, 2011 at 9:22 am (Cussed Dumbers)

When I saw the schedule, I cringed. Work until midnight, commute home, then return by 11 AM to work a ten-hour shift at the busiest store? The look I gave Grinder must have been withering. He handed me the schedule and asked, “See anything you like better?”

I didn’t, until I noticed Saturday night. Working until 3 AM with Dr T at the Waterfront Store?

I could do that…

This is Master P’s busiest time of year; parades, blues festivals, beer busts in Pioneer Square and the park. They bring a lot of fresh faces (and money) to downtown. While I prefer the easy life of the early week, where I babysit crackheads and feed what’s left of the downtown workforce, I am okay with stepping out of the comfort zone and assuming the position on the front line.

The texting started about Thursday. Elmo found out he was working with Saucy Alfredo and Triple H. His exact words were “Oh hell no.” The hints that he wanted to trade were megaphone-subtle. When Grinder suggested that he was going to switch me, I grumbled. “I only agreed to come in on my day off so I could hang with Dr T and get paid for it. No thanks…”

Elmo can give Aretha Franklin a run for her money in the diva department, so I wasn’t surprised when the phone rang Saturday afternoon. I let it go to voicemail. It was Master P himself. “There have been some changes made to the schedule. You’ll be working at The Mothership tonight. I’m moving Elmo to The Waterfront.”

Ssssss…… That’s the sound of the air deflating from my enthusiasm.

I cruised past the Nightclub Store, my home base, to pick up a work shirt and consume the fruit and nut diabeetus-prevention snack. The gang was all there; Tilly the Hon was almost finished, the Tasmanian Pitbull was holding court at the cash register. Alfredo, who had requested the night off for religious reasons, was loitering about, doing menial chores for the co-workers who smoke. (“I’ll stock your ice and cups for a cigarette?”) I guess it’s not work if you don’t get paid for it, and while I’d not known Saturday night dances at gay bars to be religious in nature, we all need something to believe in. Can I get a hallelujah? On your knees and repent, Alfredo!

Master P is hands-on during big events. He greeted me, asked if I’d gotten his message? “Yes sir, I’m heading up there in a bit.” He seemed relieved that I didn’t pitch a fit. “So, if Alfredo has the night off, am I just working with Triple H?”

“No, he has the night off as well. It’ll be just you and Grinder all night. Think you can handle it?”

No whiny bitches or giggly masturbating fools? (On my side of the counter, anyway.) I can do that!

Dannyboy was the day person at the Mothership. ‘Oh good, you’re here early. Elmo and I had agreed he’d come in early so I could beat the crowd. Do you mind?”

It’s not like I had anything better to do, so I started a half-hour early. I hustled Dannyboy out the door before Grinder could find some last-minute chore to tag him with. Grinder’s greeting was cautious, testing the waters. He counted in at a speed usually reserved for late-shifters chasing buses. Or poontang…

And we’re off… Let the 2011 Rose Festival Flight of the Mothership commence!

“Got a bathroom?”

“You take EBT?”

“Is there a real store around here?”

I answer these questions dozens of times over the course of a shift. What goes in must come out, so we refer folks to the nearest brigade of Honey Buckets. (We only send folks to nearby bars if it looks like they might buy a drink while taking a potty break.) If folks complain about prices, I tell them that WalMart is across the river.

While the crowds were in good spirits and we saw only the occasional belligerent drunken lout, there were surprises. A small squadron of cops entered the store and approached a middle-aged white guy escorting three Asian boys under the age of ten. “Can we talk to you?” they asked the man. Another officer took the boys behind the counter. The officer used a milk crate to get down to the kids’ level.

“How do you know the man you are with? Is he a friend of your parents? Where did you meet him? Has he asked you to do anything that makes you uncomfortable?”

Hell, the questions were making me uncomfortable. I eavesdropped as I rang people. The kids came downtown with friends, “Dave” took them to show them around. A phone call to the kids’ mom provided no answers. She’d let her husband take them for the night.

An hour later, after soda treats and a police escort through the parking garage to the bathroom, the kids were taken home by squad car. “Dave,” their newfound friend, also got a ride in a squad car. I don’t think he was going home.

People got drunker and more persistent as the night went on. A persistent drunk is no match for the stubbornness of Grinder, who would ask people clever questions to find out if they were heading home or back to the parade. Still at the parade? “Come back when you’re headed home.” Can I have a cup with my six-pack? “Can’t sell you a cup and a beer. Which do you want?” No one took the empty cup.

One batch of hairy fellas (with adult sippy-cups) were downright insistent as to their right to purchase and consume alcohol. Grinder’s response? “Yes, you do. And I have the right to refuse service to anyone. Go forth and exercise your rights up the street!” Applause!

I had one hillbilly, a 60-ish white guy with a string tie and cowboy boots. He paid for a tall bottle of Heineken. (We don’t sell big containers of Coors Light.) I bagged it, and he said, “Can you pop the top on that for me, pardner?”

I took it out of the bag and set it behind the counter.

“Hey! I paid for that!”

“Yup,” I said. “And now you’re getting a refund for it.” Grinder beamed with pride as I handed John Wayne Jr his $3.80 back.

Post-parade, after the crowds thinned, I ran registers while Grinder did side-work. If a questionable alcohol sale arose, he would come to the front and take over. I didn’t mind. (It was kinda nice having someone else play resident asshole for a change.) He was kindly, until it was time not to be kindly anymore. I was slightly nervous when two baby-dykes approached the counter with a six-pack of PBR.

“Hello, ladies! IDs, please?”

“Yes, sir!” They handed over the documents. Grinder glanced and dismissed the first gal, obviously old enough. He stared hard at the second ID.

“Hey, you’re not quite old enough,” he said, scrutinizing.

“Uh-HUH! Look at the clock!” It was 1:17 AM. She’d turned 21 at midnight.

“Oh, well then!” Grinder exclaimed. “Allow me to have the first dance?” He came from behind the counter, sang a show tune and waltzed her around in front of the register. He spun her. “Hang on!” He dipped her to the floor, and brought her back up without dropping her or rupturing a vertebrae. I began singing Waltzing Matilda.

“Thank you, sir!” The cute little gal with the tee shirt that looked like a Coca Cola logo (but really read “I Love Vagina!”) was completely charmed. Grinder told her of his first kiss at work, to a handsome Spanish maitre’d one long lonely night, many moons ago.

“You’re gay?” she asked. “High five!”

I chimed in: “I’m slackjawed with disbelief! I was gonna ask if he’d ever danced with a woman in here before? You may be the first…”

Grinder winked at me. The girls thanked him, waved at me, and wandered off hand-in-hand into the night.

Ain’t love grand…

The work night ended with a whimper. Grinder went through the store, returning items out of place, restocking what was left. The store was virtually sold out of chips and bottled water, and there were gaping spaces in the coolers. A cursory glance at the stack of money brought in reassured that Master P would have no trouble making payroll this week. I foresee a few happy vendors as well.

Grinder and I locked up the Mothership. I called the Waterfront store to offer Dr T a ride home, but he wasn’t answering. We stopped by the Nightclub store long enough for me to deposit my work shirt and violate the porcelain. Roscoe grinned when he saw me at 3 AM, an ‘Oh, you naughty boy!’ grin. Then he asked, “Are you coming to work with me?”

“Sorry bud, you’re on your own tonight. I’ve done my time.”

The freeway was busy for that time of the morning. We looped through the neighborhood and pulled up in front of my house. Django and his mother were sitting on the sidewalk, eyes glowing in the dark. Mom scurried back to her house. Django hopped onto the hood and stared at us. “Where have you been?” his look seemed to say. Who says critters can’t tell time? Django comes home from his adventures every morning between 3:30 and 3:40. How dare I keep him waiting?

Grinder rolled down his window. “Thanks for working tonight. I know you had different plans, but I was so sick of all the dramatic bullshit between Elmo and Alfredo and that other braying jackass, and after facilitating Whitney’s retirement I just feel like the biggest piece of shit in the world. I told the boss I’d work, but I wanted to work with someone good…”

I patted him on the shoulder. “I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again. Someone has to be the hatchet man, and if fear is the motivator, then you’re Tony fucking Robbins. The thing with Whitney had to be done, and Whitney is cool with it. You should be too.”

Grinder is not given to softer emotions, but his smile showed that it was what he needed to hear. I told him, “You’re a good man and a good friend. Now go home and get some sleep. We’ve got another parade next week!”

“That’s good advice, and I’m going to take it,” he said. “Right after I stop by the adult video store…” The wistful smile had been replaced with a sinister grin.

You can’t keep a good man down.