A Nice Howaya Punch

February 11, 2019 at 11:11 am (Cussed Dumbers, Drunk and disorderly)

“Aaaand stay out…”

Over the years I’ve worked at Master P’s, I’ve bragged that I’ve been punched/punched-at by no less than four different people, and have yet to swing back. I am proud of my restraint. (Also, I know enough about fighting that a misplaced move can leave you open to even more damage, so I am strategic about my attacks.) I’ve experienced minimal damage, come off like a cool cucumber, and still walk the night with minimal fear. It’s my world.

I am now the longest-tenured cashier, and behind only Grinder and the bookkeeper in longest-employed. Expected to lead the new hires by example, I have been given fewer trainees to baptize. However, some of the managers may need a Zen Refresher Course. Lately, shit and fan have been colliding, and managers are involved. Time to show them how to navigate these choppy emotional waters…

People complain about downtown, but in my humble opinion it’s WAY more livable that it used to be. Sure, there are panhandlers everywhere. Meth-heads wandering the night, crazy-eyed and stinky, raving at anything that flickers past their field of vision. They yell and scream at the demons in their head, snapping back to the moment when a voice breaks their psychotic reverie. Most return to the moment with minimal agitation.

Some need a bit more patience.

Eva Braun managed the Mothership its last few years, keeping a festering boil from popping like a zit all over downtown. (Okay, that’s dramatic, but it was, as police described it, a “shit-magnet.”) The druggies love the library, and with a mini-Target near the MAX stop, it was the closest thing to New Amsterdam, except maybe the bus station. If the library gets a better class of druggie, it’s because Eva Braun ran the bastards off her block. She’s used to scumbags, in other words.

So when the scraggly tweaker-woman came into the store, marched to the soda fountain and began rinsing her hands and travel mug, Eva told her to knock it off.

“I don’t know why you care. This soda fountain is filthy and disgusting.” People with weeds sticking out of their hair can be so judgmental.

Eva, a first-degree clean freak, retorted, “You’re the disgusting one. Get out!”

“I’m not going anywhere. Call a cop.” It’s the new ‘Fuck you.’ Scumbag Lady took a handful of ice cubes and threw them into Eva’s face.

“Now you gonna get it, bitch.” Eva came around the counter and chased the woman out the door, smacking her on the back of the head as the woman ran away. “And stay out, you skanky bitch!”

Festus was walking by as things unraveled. “You okay?” he asked Eva.

“Fucking dirtbag cunt stole a soda!” Eva’s eloquence, accentuated with thick German accent, was on full display.

“No problem,” said Festus. He casually sidled up to the woman, and with a swift uppercut knocked the 44-oz cup of soda about three feet above her head and creating a rainfall of soda AND curse words. “Drink up, bitch.”

Eva laughed, and caught her breath. Things were calm for a few minutes, Festus left. Mid-morning, there were several neighbors on the sidewalk, enjoying the street theater of The Avenue.

A few minutes later, a homeless-looking fellow enters the store, looking for Eva. He wants to press charges for her hitting his girlfriend. She told him to get lost. He persisted. Eva explained that he had nothing to do with the altercation, and unless HE wanted to be arrested for trespassing, he should go get his girlfriend and find a new store to shop. She marched him to the door and outside, stopping just shy of the threshold. It’s a small distinction, but it looks better than following them outside.

Eva returned inside, but The Boyfriend stood outside the store, yelling about civic injustices. Eva put up with it for a few more minutes, then went to the door to tell him to get lost. Again.

He ran up to her like he was going to hit her. She reflexed back into the store. Every time she would attempt to step outside, The Boyfriend would make a threatening lunge at her.

It was at that moment the Guardian Angel appeared.

Occasionally, when in the course of dad-voicing an undesirable-behaving shitbird, a random, otherwise normal customer will interject some fast-acting street justice into our world. As Eva stood by the door, watching this fellow bully her, a customer from the coffee shop across the street walked up to The Boyfriend, pulled out a can of bear mace, and gave The Boyfriend a facefull of capsicum and orange dye. “Leave the lady alone,” he said, and walked off.

Bless you, Guardian Angel!

Of course, now The Boyfriend is royally pissed. He wants to sue, he wants to press charges. The police won’t even respond to the call. Master P is out of town, so nobody knows anything. Heh.

The other day I walked into work, singing “Smack my bitch up…” as I passed Eva.

She laughed. “At least *I* didn’t do it like Southie…”

“What’d he do?” Southie, once a preteen numbers runner from South Boston, is known for loving to scrap, even at age 65.

She pointed to the Wall of Shame, and the scraggly looking fellow with the Bon Jovi mullet.”Did you hear what he did to Wheelchair Dude?” Wheelchair Dude is a one-legged doorway-dweller that drinks himself insufferable, then rolls in, steals a bunch of shit and rolls off down the MAX platform, gambling on the fact that we probably won’t give chase. Since the Waterfront store is usually single-operator, we lose a lot of product.

“Southie saw him roll in, and grab a couple full boxes of Little Debbie’s, and attempt to roll out. Southie told him to put the stuff down and get out. He told Southie to go get fucked, so Southie grabbed his wheelchair, wheeled him outside and dumped his dirty ass into the tree planter!”

“YES!” I hollered in a moment of jubilation. I high-fived Eva. “That’s AWESOME.” As an afterthought… “We can do that?”

“Oh fuck no! Do you know how bad it looked to the average person walking by, to see Southie plopping that poor cripple onto the sidewalk? It was the middle of the day. They’re not gonna know what kind of prick this guy is.”

“Damn it. I already had three wheelchair guys and a special mud puddle, ready to go…”

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.

%d bloggers like this: