There are a lot of new people at work. Last weekend I told people I wasn’t memorizing any new names until Monday. I saved three spaces in my lump of cranial Swiss cheese. One quit, one gave notice, and one has diarrhea.
One of the newbies has promise. He’s the former fiancé of another new hire, and more on the ball than usual. Yesterday he was called to work just as he arrived home from work. He did an about-face and worked until midnight. Then came back for day shift.
Lord Diarrhea called in again. Southie was running the operation, as Master P and Grinder were taking long weekends. After exhausting his options, he called the new guy and left a message: “Can you work three more hours?”
There was no answer. I told Southie, “The last thing I said was: “Don’t answer the phone. ”
Oh well. After fifteen -hour days a kid needs a nap. He was smart enough to let the call go to voicemail.
A few minutes later, after Southie had called or texted everyone possible, an alternative had been found. It cost Southie an extra twenty bucks cash, but the shift was covered. I texted Festus, who was in the cashier protection program. (Day off.) “You can come out now, it’s been taken care of. ”
Southie retreated to the office, and I patted myself on the back for resisting a more managerial position. It can be lonely at the top.
A few minutes later, as I was texting Festus the gossip, I noticed a blur in my line of vision. What’s this, a Big Mac?
Nope. When the new kid was finishing his long-ass day, I had shared a fair portion of my cinnamon roll with him. It was a free one that Weird Steven had dropped off. “Free is a very good price! ” as Tom Peterson used to say. The new kid agreed, and I told him of some of our roadkill victories, and especially where he could a good deal on cinnamon rolls. I thought no more about it until I saw the flash.That’s no Big Mac, though it probably has as many calories. What that is, is a $4 cinnamon roll that costs $2.50 after 3 PM. I share this only because if I don’t stop eating them I will once again weigh 528 pounds.
And now the night is in transition. It’s already dark, and the wine thieves are wandering like zombies.
I don’t care. Anything to keep my mind off that cinnamon roll. .
Ah, lovely Sunday morning. Spent most of the night curled up next to my lovely girlfriend. We went out for Saturday night dinner. I spared no expense, we dined IN at the Taco Bell on 50th & Powell, and I bought a 12-pack! I ordered incorrectly, so we didn’t get to try the Dorito-flavored tacos, which was my intention. Oh well. Rain was okay with that, and it was more of an event than usual for us on a Saturday night.
Saturday started with a four-hour work shift. I’d just finished my week, but folks quit, and it was payday, so we were short-staffed to the extreme. Southie was stuck working the day shift at the Nightclub Store. This cuts deep into his college football-watching time, and a crabby manager is less than optimal, so I offered to cover for a few hours. As long as the night guy shows up.
I was blessed with a four-day weekend, minus a four-hour lunch shift smack-dab in the middle. When the cats are away, the mice will play.
Southie went on a two-week vacation, leaving the inmates in charge of the asylum. There are usually enough veterans to keep the children (new hires) in line and behaving. But, that’s like dealing with six-year-olds. You have to be firm, persistent and loving.
Then there are the Dirt Urchins, who act like retarded four-year-olds. They need to be spanked like sorry-assed stepchildren.
This isn’t about a smart one…
I have a good rapport with most of the street crazies. (“Hi, Carol!”) They can have their internal conversations (and arguments) while getting a soda, and I don’t judge. If they seem extra agitated I may ask if they’re doing okay, but mostly it’s Live and Let Live. Honestly, there aren’t many places the mentally ill feel safe shopping. My store, with all its lunacy, is home for them.
There are exceptions. My biggest problems are with those who have self-inflicted retardation. Whether through drugs, drinking or stupidity, they are deficient enough to pass for crazy, and they abuse it. Which leads us to tonight’s cautionary tale…
It was a full moon, but we have those every month. It was the third day of the month, goofy check payday. Again, we have one every month. But it’s Rose Festival, and it’s the beginning of Summer. Stir it all together and whatdaya get?
I won’t share all the stupid shit that led to the first moment of my work day, but I was sorta-suffering from pulling my own tooth on the MAX the day before. (More on that later.) I had drank the last of my medicated vitamin water and popped a couple of Vicodin right before walking into work. I had Natasha as a co-worker until 6 PM, and Southie was getting ready to leave for the day. He was rattling off his laundry list of duties to be performed over the course of the evening.
I was organizing my cash register area when he walked in. Long gray hair pulled straight back into a ponytail, long Santa beard, maybe three front teeth, looked like he belonged on a bottle of vintage Mountain Dew. He carried a black garbage bag, talking and singing to himself.
I’d had problems with this guy numerous times. One night as I’d returned from lunch he fell in behind me and began cussing, talking shit. It was a rainy night, and as he diatribed, he hit a slick piece of sidewalk and landed with a crash. I turned and with a straight face said, “That’ll learn ya!” and kept walking. He hopped up in a hissing, spitting rage and cussed me all the way to the corner. Finally fed up, I locked eyes with him and began walking straight for him, like Jason does. He stopped talking and started walking. Cool. I took a right, and walked a block. Two blocks further, we crossed paths again. He startled, cussed me some more and began running. All the while cussing about Sarah Ferguson. I assumed he meant the royal one.
That was a couple years ago. I see him around, but we don’t hang in the same neighborhoods much. When he came into the store, I could have kicked him out, but I deferred to Southie. It probably won’t take this guy long to start acting up…
Hill-Billy addressed some nonsense toward Southie, who was giving instructions to Natasha. “He’s the clerk on duty,” Southie said, pointing at me. Goody. Southie went back to Natasha. Hill-Billy said something else nonsensical to Southie. Southie replied, “I’m sorry, I wasn’t listening.”
“You ‘saw my penis glistening?’WHAT KIND OF DISRESPECTFUL COCKSUCKER ARE YOU?” Hill-Billy was in a stomping rage.
“You need to leave,” said Natasha.
“SHUT UP, PUSSY!” said Hill-Billy.
“Clean up your act, asshole,” said Natasha, and threw a cup of water at him.
“Time to go,” I said, and began moving around the counter. Normally Southie would have taken the guy by the lapels and expelled him into the street, especially with a lady present. I guess he wanted to see me bounce the guy. Okay. I was visualizing Southie admiring Hill-Billy’s glistening golden penis and trying not to lawl. Straight face, straight face…
I saw why Southie didn’t want to touch him. A greenish white glob of snot covered most of his lower lip, and he was projecting spit three feet with every ‘p’. He stomped and ranted and raved, entering and leaving three times. “And another thing…” He got far enough outside that I pulled the door closed and locked him outside.
“Bye…” I said. Waved my fingers at him and pulled out my phone. He flipped me off and walked away. Then jaywalked across the street to the block’s other convenience store.
“Well done,” said Southie. Natasha was giddy at the chance to help a homeless guy take a bath.
It was the beginning of a long and irritating day, but I was no longer irritated by a loose tooth. That was yesterday. Yesterday’s medications were what was keeping everyone alive today…
“You’d think they would have stayed in school long enough to be able to read the instructions on their clothing labels. Hat placement befuddles, and he just can’t figure out WHERE THE PANTS ARE SUPPOSED TO GO!”
I was referring to the group of ne’er-do-wells rolling past the front of the Waterfront Store. My trainee giggled.”Aah, they must be The Biebers.”
“Can I have a cup of water?” She was 22. I would find out later when looking up her mugshot.
“No,” said Festus. He was the lunch person, and had been having a rough couple hours.
“I’ll show you my boobs for a cup of ice water.” She smiled at me.
“Go get a cup of water.” I shot a look at Festus that said, “I’ll handle this one…”
“Thank you!” She went to the soda fountain, asked which cup, etc… Festus went over in an attempt to be civil and pointed to the cups and water dispenser. She took the cup and went over by the door, talking to herself. She danced around, talking colorful nonsense. Customers came and went, giving her wary glances.
Festus left, and she smiled at me. “Can I have a muffin? I’ll show you my muffin for a muffin?” She leaned back against the Dasani cooler and lifted her shirt, pulled her sweats out, exposing a neatly trimmed bush. She pulled her vulva to and fro, covering up when a young woman entered the store.
There was a bag of Little Debbie’s donuts, expired by a month. I popped it open and bit into one. It was as fresh as brand new. (How do they do that?) “Would you like a donut?” I handed her the bag. She accepted, and it was gone in five minutes.
She made eyes with me, smiling, flirting. She explained how she arrived from California a few days ago, and her friends had ditched her in Gresham, and somehow she had ended up in downtown Portland without shoes. “Do you sell shoes? Socks?”
She removed the wet socks. Her sweatpants were wet to the knees, so she took those off as well, leaving a skirt-like garment that resembled the loincloth worn by Ron Ely’s Tarzan. She flitted and danced some more. I was drawing a crowd of homeless guys standing outside the store, watching through the window.
Eventually she put her pants on and got on the MAX. As she was leaving, she kissed me on the lips and thanked me for putting up with her, and for the donuts.
I tucked another $2 into her shirt pocket. “You still haven’t shown me your boobs,” I reminded her.
“Oh!” She unbuttoned her shirt, cupped one breast, then the other.
As she lifted her shirt, Little Buddy walked in. “Oh my heavens!” he exclaimed and turned to leave. “I see you’re busy.”
“Not any more,” I said as she ran to board the MAX. She blew kisses and smiles as the train pulled out and turned around the bend.
A $2 bag of Little Debbie’s donuts is one of the store’s best values. Some days more than others.
This week’s mantra: I love my job. I love my job…With the change of seasons and spring in the air, so comes the twists and turmoil of workplace blues. I think I will do a bit of ponderous bitching, so’s I don’t take it out on you, the customer.
Because these turmoils come from within.
Festus got rehired, fired, and rehired, all over the weekend. We did not get to that point without lots of drama and some hurt feelings. I am over being butt-hurt, but I haven’t stopped bitching yet…
I looked to the sky, watching hundreds of crows circle and group on the ledge of the building. (Note to self: Step back from edge of building.) The birds have been congregating near the waterfront, making news when 30-50 were found dead. Toxicology reports claimed pesticide. I think it was avian cirrhosis. Those fuckers find a patch of fermented plums or cherries and the party is on! You can hear them for days. It’s noisier than the smoking area of a Timbers’ bar after a win.
I watch the MAX platform between customers. “I like to see the trouble coming,” said one former co-worker. The problem is, you never see the trouble coming.
Officer Paul rolled up, “Your group of shitbirds was seen by the food carts, giving one of the Middle Eastern guys a hard time. The DA has said to make them a priority, we’re going for dis-con (disorderly conduct) and anything else we can tack on.”
One of the Clean & Safe kids walked up, said hello. “I saw your spotted owl in the park!”
“Which one? The one with wings, or the one with facial tattoos?”
Officer Paul laughed, “He has both…”