Good Old-Fashioned Discipline (part one)

July 10, 2011 at 12:18 pm (On the road again..., Sweet sticky things)

What a glorious weekend! Although truncated by work dilemmas, I managed to squeeze three days worth of fun into about 36 hours.

Can I Give You A Hand With That?

Mizelle made it to town, with Lily in tow. The original plan was for them to camp in my back yard, so I purchased a tent. With only one sleeping bag at our house, and little clothing along, Mizelle requested a trip to the Goodwill. While she looked for bargains, I perused the sharp objects drawer. I’ve been looking for a good Chucky knife. No Chucky knives, but I found an even more awesome meat cleaver!

Lily looked at me with big eyes as I waved it around…

Mizelle rolled in about noon Friday, looking like a one-woman gypsy caravan. Backpack in front, bigger backpack full of child on back. Lily was cautious and wide-eyed until the hugs were completed. My dog gave her pause, (there’s your unintentional pun for today, Mizelle) growling and looking hungry. The family caught up with her while I showered. It was time for the first of many of our traditions: Indian buffet.

Back in the day, when I was miserably single and Mizelle was being, um, adventurous, we would sit over Indian buffet and she’d regale me with tales of tail. This time it was my turn. I told her of my hot/cold relationship with Rain, the drinking bout with Meg, but mostly I spoke of the good times I’ve been having with Clairissa. Stories of bra-brownies, nipple-clamping. While I shared the dirt in low tones over a mango lassi, Lily played. My phone buzzed. “Can you come over?” It was Clairissa.

I apologized to Mizelle, stating that I didn’t want to “be the guy that plays with his phone all through a date.” Then proceeded to make a date for my first day off. Woohoo! What followed was a sequence of dirty texting that had me LOLing and squirming at once. I shared with Mizelle, and showed her a picture on my camera.

“Damn, I’m gonna have to get the husband stateside if you keep talking like this…”

We ventured from buffet to the bus for the journey downtown. It was payday, all my co-workers would be congregating at the office. On the way, I stopped to retrieve Dr T’s turbo fan. Uncle Cliffy was still at work. It’s 4 PM. He’s scheduled until 4:30, but always leaves at 3:30.


“The Tasmanian Pitbull called in sick. I can’t get ahold of anyone to work. You want some extra hours?”

I pointed to Mizelle. “No. I already worked yesterday, my friend is here from France, and I have plans. However, I will send anyone willing your way when I get to the office.”


Dr T was sitting on the stoop, smoking a Camel and looking a bit tired. “You must be the lovely and much-spoken-of Mizelle,” he said, saving me the need for an official introduction. They chatted about France while I fetched my check and filled out a deposit slip.

Alfredo was there. “Want any extra hours? Uncle Cliffy is stuck at the Nightclub Store and wants off. Overtime?”

“No thank you,” he giggled. “I have plans. I will work Dr T’s four hours that he’s working for you, though…”

“That’s thoughtful of you Alfredo. I’m sure he’ll appreciate it.” (He did.)

I asked a couple other employees. It was 5 PM on a Friday night, and paychecks had just landed. Guess Uncle Cliffy’s out of luck. I went to the final option, Dr T. “You want more hours?”

He looked me square in the eye. “Fuck him. He’s never pulled a double. He’s the manager, he wants to be the manager, well guess the fuck what? That’s what managers have to do sometimes.”

An extra nine hours on his feet might give Uncle Cliffy some time to think about all the denied bathroom breaks and refusals to cover shifts in his past. Hello karma, you motherfucker…

It was from there that Mizelle, Lily and I went to Goodwill. Every bus we rode was driven by an operator I was on a first name basis with, and this one made a special stop in front of the store.

After shopping, we walked down Burnside to the MAX. Along the way, we stopped by Rain’s window and I told her of my many visits. Some good, some far from good. I pulled out the meat cleaver. Probably a good thing I didn’t have this along last time, huh?”

Mizelle smirked. “Honey, you couldn’t kill a Cornish game hen with that thing.”

“It’s not the size, it’s how you use it.”

“I’d be surprised if you could decapitate a Vienna sausage with that!”

A challenge?


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