Hoodwinked, Bamboozled, Hornswoggled I Tell Ya!

November 9, 2016 at 10:40 am (Cussed Dumbers)

Thoughts and Prayers

Thoughts and Prayers

Election Day, 2016. I thought it would never get here. I am so sick of politics. (I said that yesterday, didn’t I?) I decided to get out of the house, and out of my head. I sparked up my usual morning doobie, and took a train ride. I decided I would drop by and see if Eva liked the swanky leather waste basket I’d scavenged from Sister’s hotel. As I rode, my phone buzzed.

It was Southie, texting. “Hey, you want some extra hours closing the West End Store tonight?”

Ack! A whole night of drunken, entitled uber-liberals telling me how we’re all gonna die if Trump wins? No thank you.

“I can’t, I have plans later.” Then I called him, and told him what I always do: “If you can’t find anyone, call me and I’ll see what I can do.”

A little while later, he buzzed back. “How about 5:45-9:45?”

I pondered. I had just enough taffy in me to make that an entertaining night, and I’d have the majority of my usual late night. Why not?

“Sure, I can do that.”

I whistled while I walked, nodding hi to everyone, top o’ the mornin’, etc… I cruised into the Nightclub Store. “Ah, that’s why I’m closing the West End. They’ve got you down here!”

Cooter, a transplant from the new store, was in my spot on my usual day off. He replied, “No, I’m closing the West End. You’re at the Mothership six to ten.”

“No way, I’d never agree to that. It says right here, ‘5:45 to 9:45 at the Mothersh-‘ SHIT! No fuckin’ way!” I’d been reading without my glasses, and overlooked this little detail.

I typed furiously to Southie. “I thought I was agreeing to work the West End, your store. This is fucked up!”

“What difference does it make?”

“The Mothership is hot and nasty, and not in a good way!”

“You got me there.”

A minute passed, and he typed, “I’ll see what I can do.”

“Don’t bother, I’ll do it. But you owe me!”

“Hoodie.” Quickly followed with, “Eastcoast Bail Bonds?” I’d salvaged one of his hoodies from the dumpster. It was a birthday present from his daughter, and I’ve been wearing it a lot.

“I’ll bring it back! Washed!”

“You’re right, I owe you.”

I looked at Eva, who was alternating between slack-jawed and hysterics. “Charlie Brown, I think I just had an orgqaz-z-zmmm. I have never seen you get mad before. Pardon me while I savor this moment.”

“I’m only mad because I didn’t read the message properly. It’s my own goddamned fault.”

“Well, I’m still savoring, Charlie Brown.”

I rode home long enough to pick up my work shirt and vapor pens. I’m phoning it in, and having as much fun as possible.

It sounded good in theory, but the Mothership kept me hopping up to the moment Antknee appeared, suavely dragging on a menthol cigarette and organizing his bitch-face. We’re both used to the laid-back stores; a dad-voice is helpful. Unfortunately for Antknee, he looks like a bookish version of Shaggy from Scooby Doo. He looks anything but intimidating, but he takes no shit from the denizens of the night. I respect him for that.

As I rode home, depressed texts from Dr T, gloating texts from Festus. I popped in on the phoneless Rain, long enough to kiss her good night and remind her to go to court in the morning. She hasn’t been booked, so I guess she made it.

And I am back to work, holding court at the Waterfront Store. Master P, a diehard Limbaugh-loving Trump supporter, will be drunk with power. I must keep an optimistic thought.

So should we all.


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