Sit On It, Potsie

May 26, 2013 at 11:00 am (Cussed Dumbers)

My average workday lasts nine hours, most of it on my feet. I keep moving, wandering around stocking, checking the sidewalk to make sure it hasn’t gone anywhere, but it gets TIRING, standing all day.

So we cheat.

Master P and his overlords are of the belief that if there’s not a customer in the store needing to be watched, the worker bees should be running amok, sweeping floors, dusting lightbulbs and stocking shelves already full. (Full disclosure: Master P will leave you alone if you’re productive most of the time. Grinder will make shit up for you to do so he can feel like he’s doing his job.)

A chair? HA! Grinder has an office chair, in his office. Someone was once caught sitting in it behind the register. The throbbing vein in Grinder’s forehead was most prominent when he found out.

So what do we do? We of the nine-toed, busted-knee, hip-out-of-joint variety? We use the Master P Barcolounger!

Two milk crates flipped upside down and locked in place are the perfect height. I can spring from them with ease, not having to come from a squat. If they were any higher, I’d feel like my feet were dangling off the dock, or like a little kid using the big people’s toilet. Milk crate equals perfection.

Of course, Grinder will have no sitting around on his watch, so I went to the doctor and asked for a medical release allowing me to rest my knee during slow times. That got the water boiling. Suddenly milk crates were being picked up and stored “at an undisclosed location in Gresham.” WTF? I complained to Master P, and the milk crates stopped disappearing. But then began the parade of “checkerboard ass” comments, and the silly job assignments that would come whenever Grinder saw me taking a break.

Nowadays, Grinder leaves me alone. The milk crates stay where I leave them, and now that a certain thieving twat with a bad attitude that used to throw all my shit away got fired I can leave my seat pad behind.

What is my seat pad, you ask?

When I first used the milk crate system, and began getting the checkerboard ass jokes from Grinder, I began using my Oregonian brought from home. Grinder saw this and asked me to use a Portland Mercury I refused. “It’s my newspaper and it fits the seat. Why do you care?”

“Because customers don’t want to see your ass sitting on their newspaper!”

“It’s not their newspaper. It’s my fucking newspaper!”

So I made sure there would be no confusion. I found the classified section, the one in big bold letters, CLASSIFIED, and always made sure that sat on top. Then everybody started asking me if I was looking for another job?

“No comment.” My smile put them at ease. I ain’t jumpin’ ship.

Now that the newspapers are getting read and put back on the shelf, I need a new seat pad, because customers don’t want to see my ass sitting on their newspaper. Merc and Willy Week are just a bit too big, but we have this other publication geared toward the gay community. They always deliver 200 copies, about 25 of which get taken and read. The rest sit there, great for when people are moving and need to wrap glassware, etc…

bear seatcushionSo I fold up a couple of those, and set them atop the milk crates. It’s surprisingly comfortable, but not so much I want to stay there more than five minutes. But now, someone’s been throwing away my seat cushion. Since it’s a freebie and no hassle to replace I don’t really care, but I wonder why now? Rumpole is a tolerant guy, as far as it goes.

I wonder why this cover would bother him?

It’s busy season and the stores are short-handed, so I’m getting killer hours. I get to work a swing-shift at the Mothership tomorrow, my usual day off. There will be milk crates, or there will be blood. Grinder will probably even leave my seat pad alone. If I don’t find him in his office, reading it.

At least I know where to find a good rolling office chair…

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