Pillaged!

May 11, 2017 at 11:11 am (Cussed Dumbers, That's not funny...)

I’ve gone on about storing my stuff at work. I have a dressy shirt I wear while on shift, its pockets hold my phone and spare store key. (It’s nice to be able to lock up at a second’s notice, without my key being locked in the office, or having to go to my jacket pocket across the room.) A big enough shirt it takes up most of the room in my travel bag, plus a hoodie, reading material, and various other necessities to get through the night, and I’d be weighed down like a bag lady. So I find a non-obtrusive spot to hide my pile of work-junk.

I’ve told the story of how Grinder wanted to throw my stuff away. I’ve gone on about Eva Braun insisting I move my storage area to another store. I’ve been cooperative, done what asked, and complied with all their various requests. Uncle Cliffy, manager of the Waterfront Store, has no issue with me using a closet-sized spot in the very-back of the office. It’s like it was made for me. It was nicknamed the Wilson Water Closet, because a former employee used to leave Big Gulps of pee back there, instead of locking up and going to the bathroom. The peeing has stopped, (no evidence anyway 🙂 ) No more pee-cups, it’s a storage area for brown bags and cash register tape.

When I came in to drop off my work shirt, and found my area completely empty? As the kids say, I about lost my shit…

Dr T was manning the front at the Waterfront Store, and Hippiechick was getting ready to leave. I greeted everyone, grabbed the back room keys like I do dozens of times a week, and went to drop off my shirt and newspaper stash. I reached absent-mindedly, then startled awake. Where was everything? An area roughly the size of a refrigerator that had been full of hoodies, newspapers, canes, umbrellas, winter wear (and a picture of my sister when she was 260 pounds, still missing) were gone. I felt the anger rise, but assumed there would be a logical explanation.

I returned up front, trying not to hyperventilate. “Um, where’s my stuff?”

Dr T looked up. “What stuff?”

“All my clothes, papers, all my STUFF that was in back?”

“I know nothing. Hippiechick said she was gonna clean back there. I thought she meant the sink.”

Hippiechick returned from the bathroom. “What’s the matter?”

“Did you do something with my stuff in the back room?”

“I cleaned up that mess in the back, if that’s what you mean.”

“That ‘mess’ was all my work stuff. Did you see written on the bags, ‘Property of Chas W, LEAVE THIS ALONE’?” I marched to the back, pointed to the sign made from a Charleston Chew that said Chas W, and gave her an incredulous look.

“SOR-ry,” she said in a sarcastic tone that did nothing to help my mood.

I began pulling stuff from the trash. On top was a stack of Portland Mercurys, which contained Valentines from the past three years. I found other newspapers I hadn’t read yet. Library books were missing, but Dr T may have returned them. That I can find out online. Picture of Sister? Not so easy.

I spent an extra fifteen minutes looking around. Hippiechick slipped out the door, and returned a couple minutes later with a cloth bag full of my stuff. She’d put it out with a FREE sign.

Stomping and raging, I put things back together. Once I calmed down a little, I texted Eva, who texted back sympathy but probably had a good laugh first. (The irony of the Hippiechick trying to do something productive, and this happens.) I found most things. My main work shirt had been with me, otherwise, if I hadn’t been dropping it off, all my stuff would have been gone.

There were a couple things still missing. $15 worth of cigarette coupons, later found in a puddle in the bottom of the trash. My hoodie, the one with a Maryland flag on the front and Eastcoast Bail Bonds on the cut-off sleeve, was nowhere to be found. THAT pissed me off the most.

Over the days my temper subsided, but I still missed my hoodie. Although I can buy clothes just about anywhere, when I find something comfortable that fits and is perfectly functional, I will wear it until it’s a rag. I had a couple more years easily with my Maryland hoodie.

Now what will happen when I see some homeless scumbag walking down the street wearing my trademark gear? Will it be some flaming butthole that I can’t stand, or who hates me? Will it be some pitiful fuck and that’s his best piece of clothing? Why couldn’t Hippiechick have just left stuff alone?

As I looked across my bedroom, a flash of brilliance! Last week, before the first heatwave of the year, I had moved home an amplifier and microphone given to me by Steel Rod. Since it was mid-60s at midnight, I hadn’t worn my hoodie. I put it in the trashbag with the amp, and stashed the amp (in the trashbag) when I got home. Could it be?

Happy days and hallelujah! On top of the amp was my beloved hoodie, a gift from Southie’s daughter in Baltimore that I’d rescued from the trash.

Twice, now.

A few days later, I came in to relieve Hippiechick. “You’re off the hook, I found my hoodie.”

“Praise the heavens! I knew it would work out. The karmic forces were on your side. People better get their karma in order, because when the apocalypse arrives, and it will soon, those with karmic debt will be left behind to pay, and perish.” She rambled some more cosmic gibberish, which I tuned out. I smiled and nodded. It’s easiest to let the wingnuts have their say.

Well, time to get busy paying my karmic debt, and my mortgage debt, and my credit card debt…

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