Erectile Dysfunction

April 29, 2017 at 12:20 pm (Cosmic Encounters, Cussed Dumbers, Sweet sticky things)

Lunch Buddy

I’ve been keeping a low profile, trying to work as much as possible without burning out, and trying to stay upbeat in dark times. Talk about easier said than done.

Eva Braun has been treating me well, schedulewise. I did a full week’s residency at the Nightclub Store, much to the chagrin of the thievin’ locals who come by, peek in the window, see it’s not someone who treats the job like they’re being paid to play games on their phone for eight hours, slump their shoulders and move on. I let them in if they behave, unless they are infamous or I have had specific issues with them. I am a motherfuckin’ elephant when it’s a personal transgression. “I can hold my breath for a long time.”

If they’re just annoying? I am as tolerant as possible. Carol Jr comes by, and I’ve told her that “my boss says you can’t be in here or I get in trouble.” She usually wanders around talking to herself for a minute, I give her a cigarette and a stale muffin and she goes away. I was out of patience and cigarettes, Master P was in the crow’s nest, and Carol Jr walked in. Master P watched her for a minute, then leaned over the rail of his office overlooking the store, and said, “Charles, would you invite the young lady to leave? We don’t need her scaring off the customers.”

I looked at Carol Jr, and shrugged. “You got a cigarette?” she asked.

I was tired of being a dispenser. “No, you got to go, hon.”

She went outside, let loose with a filthy tirade that I’m sure woke Dizzy. I could see Naomi’s pointy ears watching the train platform. When she sees me, she locks on visually. I didn’t have time to let her see me. Master P was calling.

“She was tweaking or something.” Master P is so cute when he tries to talk street.

“Actually, she’s schizophrenic. There’s about five people living in there. If you call her by name she snaps out of it.”

“Well, she’s scaring the customers.”

“This worked out well. I told her I’d get in trouble if she didn’t go, so when you said something she realized it wasn’t me and she left with minimal distress. You should hear her cuss when Grinder kicks her out. Like a drunken cockfight.”

He chuckled, “Very well then.” He comes in, sees my long hair, shudders and gives me a ‘goddamn hippie’ look, but after about five minutes of watching me with customers he remembers why he keeps me around. He knows I know my crowds.

He’s been spending some money on the stores. We got a fancy new red carpet for the Nightclub Store, and a fancy new red vacuum cleaner to keep it fancy. Tired of sweeping the rugs with a raggedy broom, I rolled out the new machine, plugged it in, and tried to release the handle. It was stuck in the bolt upright position. I messed with it for fifteen minutes, trying to move the release button. (It said handle release on it, so I know that’s what it was for.) I moved it, or tried to. It looked like a solid piece.

Fortunately, tech genius and mechanical wizard Art East walked by, and I enlisted him to try. He messed with it and messed with it, and somehow got the handle released. When I asked what he did, he said something to the effect of “I don’t fuckin’ know” so I left it reclined as I waited on customers during vacuuming. I would ask Uncle Cliffy in the morning.

As soon as I arrived, I brought the vacuum out and explained my dilemma. Uncle Cliffy knows everything, more so than Southie to hear it told. (Stories vary by the teller, though.) I decided to test his genius.

He looked at it. “I suppose you use the handle release. I’ve never actually used the vacuum…” He shrugged, and attempted to use the release.

I watched for a minute, and said, “I’m going to count in. If you get it, for Chrissakes remember what you did.”

I counted in, and returned about ten minutes later. In a move of frustration he tried forcing it. It snapped, and the handle came loose. “The handle release is a place to put your foot while you force the handle back. There is no actual release button. If you put your foot on the front of the vacuum it works better.”

“So we basically almost break it every time we vacuum? I give the machine a month.”

“It appears so. Oh well.” That was about as excited as Uncle Cliffy gets about work any more.

Eva returned from a week off, dental surgery. She called me aside with a twinkle in her eye, “Don’t say anything or you’ll spoil the surprise. Next week during Cinco de Mayo, I have Uncle Cliffy scheduled for three days at three to midnight. He’s gonna shit, but if he hears about it ahead of time he’ll figure a way out of it. It’s only fair. All the other managers have to work parades and festivals. Look how he complained about Dr T! He’s worse! At least Dr T tried. Cliffy doesn’t lift anything heavier than his book.”

This is why I stay on Eva’s good side. She wields a mean pen when it comes to scheduling someone in the doghouse. Downside? I have to work a Sunday night with him. I’ll bet I can get away with sending him home. After all, he’s the manager. His decision would override mine. For god’s sake man, go home and get some sleep. And get out of my hair.

I guess we’ll find out if *he* reads the schedule as closely as he tells everyone to. I can see it now. He gets his Monday morning early-day prep work done, coffee made, and finally sits down to read, the scheduled morning-shift person will roll in, crack her gum, axe him what the fuck he’s doin’? Then pull out her phone and read for six hours.

I’m having so much fun visualizing this. It’s like buying a lottery ticket so you can spend it in your head. I’m getting my money’s worth on this one.

I have one more night this week before a break. I’ll be at the Nightclub Store until midnight. I’ll probably sneak over to Dizzy’s at lunch for a cat scan by Naomi. Been spending more time over there lately. Sanctuary.

But I still have to get through tonight. Deep breaths, calm thoughts. Thinking lucky…

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