Early Birds and Night Angels

September 1, 2013 at 3:35 pm (Cussed Dumbers, One Particular Angel)

Management knows I’m a night-owl. When I saw myself scheduled at 10 AM on a Tuesday, for a four-hour shift, I smelled some sort of payback for an unknown transgression. What did I do to deserve this? I pointed out to both Uncle Cliffy and Grinder that it was akin to scheduling them from 1 AM to 5 AM on a Sunday. “So, when I show up, hair all fucked up, scowling and needing coffee, that’ll be why.” I don’t do mornings. I hate sales reps, and office workers are often cranky. Give me happy crackheads and wandering lost souls any day.

My first lost soul lost out on breakfast. I took away his pilfered candy bar and harangued him out the door. Uncle Cliffy belly-bumped him to the sidewalk. Two co-workers looked on and took turns shouting him down while I “called the police.” I went inside, put on my work shirt, took a deep breath and went back outside. “I called the ‘real’ police. Fuck Clean & Safe.”

Lost Soul started walking. The Real Police could mess up his day.

Uncle Cliffy commented, “You’re awfully chipper considering the hour?”

“Meth is a hell of a drug,” I muttered. “Just kidding!” I said as I saw his brow furrow. “My nose has been powder-free since 1996.”

His brow had only begun to furrow, because just as calm was restoring, in walked Angel. The bosses have yet to figure out that we only behave when unsupervised. The two of us, with authority figures present and co-workers to witness?

Holy poop on a stick…

“All right, where the black tape at?” I usually see Angel late in the evening, after we’ve both been medicated. Early in the morning, work mode? There is too much pent-up mischief to have us that close together. She gave me that smile, the one where her nose puckers up and her eyes dance.

She was in a mood.

She dug through a drawer and found a giant unopened roll of Gorilla Tape. “This’ll do.” She opened it, cut off an inch or so, and put it back. She was mending the cast that occupied her left forearm. She has a broken thumb.

Uncle Cliffy, having so many employees present, figured he’d better exude some authori-tie. “Hey! Are using store supplies for personal use?”

Angel responded in staccato voice, “Yep! What the fuck it look like I’m doin’?” Matter-of-fact, honest.

Uncle Cliffy is choosing his battles. He doesn’t do well with borderline insolence.

Boobonic Plague

Boobonic Plague

Angel returned the gaffing tape to its spot, and saw something else. “What the FUCK?” She’d noticed a wall-dispenser bag of hand sanitizer. “SOMEBODY LOST A BOOBIE!”

She picked up the bag, maneuvered it under her shirt to create a falsie. “Who gonna grope me? C’mon now!”

Of course, I had to be Hero of the Day. “I will grope your fake boobie, Ma’am!” I latched on and worked it like Grandpa Munster after a jail term. “Here, let me adjust your output-controlled nipple.”

I put the dispenser nozzle in front, for a more anatomically correct appearance. Angel went into orgaz-mode, wailing and panting. “Oh yes. YES!”

I looked over at Uncle Cliffy. Anger rising, face reddening.

But it wasn’t as red as mine. I looked at my two co-workers (and the shorty customer I ‘didn’t’ see) and their gaping maws, and felt the color rise. I looked at Angel, who pulled the bag out of her shirt. “Ooh, look at you, Mister Red Man! You be BLUSHIN’…”

“Well, duh. So are you. It’s no easy trick to make a black girl blush.”

“You seem to know how to.” We composed ourselves, and Uncle Cliffy turned and walked back to his office. Without another word.

Later, I got a text from Angel. “Did you see the look on Uncle Cliffy’s face? I think he wanted to fire us both on the spot!”

I replied, “Yeah, but then he’d have to replace us both tomorrow night.”

* * *

Wednesday night has been my favorite night of the work week. Angel gives me lunch. I will sit right there and talk to her for my whole lunch hour. If I can create a valid reason for working? So much the better.

Angel is most proficient at customer-control, but five minutes into my lunch hour a batch of street-thug types arrived. Instead of sitting next to Angel for an hour and getting into potentially more trouble, I chose to be productive and hose off the sidewalk.

Dispersal of Dirt Urchins complete, I went back inside. While no one was looking, I reached around behind to scratch a private area. Oh! It’s a thread that’s tickling me. And there’s a giant hole that’s connected to the thread. I looked at Angel. “I am SO sorry.”

“What?”

“You mean I haven’t mooned you by now?” I told her of the hole.

“Let me see.”

I looked at her, shrugged, and bent over in front of the porno. “I think of all that stocking I did yesterday. Everytime I reach for Kool cigarettes. Oh, shit. I been drinking out of the Benson Bubblers on Broadway! Mass mooning!”

“I don’t see anything.” Then she reached down, tugged at some fabric, and said, “Your shirt covers it. You’d have to dig for it.”

“Figures. That’s what I was doing when I discovered it! I don’t usually itch there.

“I’ll sew it up for ya if you want.”

I looked at Angel. She was serious.

Devil and Angel.

I *could* take off my pants and go sit butt-naked in the office. It was slow enough that I could probably bend over the counter and she could take care of it right there. (That would be my choice.) But… No.

“That’d be all we need, for Grinder or Cliffy to walk in. Explain that at the Unemployment Office. ‘She was sewing my butthole shut.'”

Angel laughed. “I would do it, you know.”

“This is why I love you,” I told her.

* * *

Come Friday it’s payday for us, and Angel’s other job as well. A flash-flood of employees cover the area around pay-time, as we have about one hour to get the check deposited if we want money for the weekend. I took a break from Tilly and the till to go fetch our checks. As I passed the tables at the sidewalk bar, I see Angel and her many hot friends. “Hey you!”

She motioned me over, and I whispered something flattering into her ear, followed by, “I’m going to get checks. Want me to bring yours? Be here in twenty minutes?”

“Well, aren’t you just the gentleman?”

“Not really. Should I?”

“That would be lovely.” She used her Queen’s voice that time.

I hurried back, snuck through the ropes to the picnic table where Angel sat with three friends. An old goat that I can’t stand was sitting at the next table; her and Angel were throwing low-volume insults at each other.

“There you are,” Angel announced. I slipped her the envelope, and she took my hand. In a quieter voice, “You deserve a reward, good sir.” She slipped my hand inside her shirt. “Like that better than the fake one?”

I was flustered, tongue-tied and about to pop out of my pants. I went past the bra and gently cupped her, running my thumb over her nipple. “Mmm,” was about all I could muster. Verbally anyway.

I kissed her on the cheek and neck and scurried back to work. I texted her, “That was awesome. I will dream of you tonight. Thanks again for offering to sew up by butt-hole. Most girls don’t do that.”

“U no I wood.” I love her texts.

The last I’d seen, a waitress was showing up at the table of four with about twenty shot-glasses. I knew Angel was drinking Crown Royal straight, this said Malibu Rum. Oh boy, and Angel has to work in the morning…

* * *

She was feeling poorly when I texted her the next day. I saw the Tasmanian Pitbull working for her, so I wrote, “Christ woman, how much did you drink? You’ve managed to drink yourself scrawny, wrinkly and white!”

I’ve noticed next week someone different is giving night lunches. I hope it’s a one-off thing; we get a lot of work done while we be fuckin’ around, and my morale has never been higher. That’ll jinx it right there.

I can move on, content with my life, knowing that out there is at least one woman who is brave enough to sew my butt-hole shut.

U no she wood.

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