(Pulse Rifle note: By popular request - this story was written around this time last year, and is a much happier diversion than the last story I wrote. A work of complete fiction.)
Abe's Hardware Store did not seem to be the most welcoming place for Karen and her shiny friend Mr Sniffs that she carried under her arm. Filled with the smells of fresh lumber floating through the air, she walked with a deliberate purpose to the row of wheeled basket carts. Her three-and-a-half-foot frame barely allowed her to reach over the basket, but it did not deter her from using all of her strength to pull a cart from the row and orient it around so that it faced the aisles. Once the matter of the cart had been settled, she placed her friend in the smaller pocket near the handrail just as Mommy would place her while she shopped. “You stay right here, Mr Sniffs. Mommy's got some shopping to do!” she told her friend.
Mr Sniffs had no response. He just sat in the pocket of the cart, jiggling to himself with the sounds of his excitable belly rattling about as Karen pushed her way out of the opening of the store. To any average passerby, Mr Sniffs appeared to be a lavender ceramic pig bank with a playful disposition and floral patterns drawn on its abdomen and hind quarters. However, Mr Sniffs was much more than that to little Karen. He was her watchpig, her safety precaution. Who would want to hurt a girl holding somebody as imposing as Mr Sniffs? He was so heavy! If her brother Marshall's stories were any indication, nobody would ever want to mess with something so dense.
With as small a frame as Karen had, pushing the basket all by herself was harder work than it was for Mommy. She had her arms up as high as she could manage, managing to push herself along at a pace her legs didn't seem to cooperate with. Recalling something she had seen Mommy watch on TV when Karen should not have been watching, she decided to get a small running start with the cart and then jump on the rear axle brace and ride it like a bicycle without pedals. This pleased her greatly, as it did not take as much effort as pushing the cart had. Mr Sniffs enjoyed himself as well, rattling in joy.
“Wha-ooww,” Karen said to herself aloud as she scooted by the various plumbing and lighting aisles. They were much taller than she was, and filled with so much stuff she had never seen before! The chandelier displays were her favorite because they twinkled and made Mr Sniffs sparkle as they pressed by. Conversely, the plumbing section confused her a bit – there were all these pipes that seemed big enough to be noticed but she'd never seen them around her own house. Mommy had told her that hardware stores carried everything that helps fix their home, but what could be wrong with it that these pipes would fix? She shrugged her shoulders as she made her way down to the tools aisle.
“Well, I'll be,” said Roderick, his face opening wide to display a grin that made his beard change shape. His handyman's clothing and Abe's name tag affixed on his chest helped tell Karen that this man, while a stranger, was not someone Mommy taught her to fear. He laughed a hearty laugh that sounded like one of the strong men in the cartoons she watched at home. “Are you lost, young lady?” he asked.
“No, mister sir. I am shopping.” Karen's brow furrowed a little. She remembered that Mommy would always make the same sort of face whenever anybody at the grocery store asked her a question. She wanted to be honest with him, and that is why she laid her intentions bare.
“How old are you?” Roderick inquired again. Citing the only natural concern of a little girl on her own in a hardware store, he grasped at his radio that was attached to his belt.
With a heaved sigh, Karen rolled her eyes at the man as she waved four fingers at him, nails faced toward Roderick. “I'm THIS many.” Mommy always liked heaving sighs and rolling her eyes whenever men at stores asked her questions. She hadn't learned all of the reasons for Mommy's shopping patterns, but if they gave others the impression she was a grown-up she was not about to act any different. Paying no further attention toward the man, she continued to maneuver her cart as she had before.
As she wheeled herself around the aisles, Karen assembled a trove of items in her basket: a roll of duct tape, a hammer, a small package of nails, a package of twine, and a box of matchsticks. Some of these items did not find their way into her basket easily. The hammer, for example, required her to scale the shelves to obtain it while none of the attendants were looking so she wouldn't get in trouble. Mommy always told her climbing shelves wasn't polite, but it was so much fun to do while no one was looking!
With all of her necessities fulfilled, Karen approached the checkstand. As the woman behind the register looked on in wonder, Karen dove into the basket while balancing her weight on the lip, gathering all of the items and placing them on the conveyer. She retrieved Mr Sniffs from the basket, and slung him under her arm. “I will not need the basket, thank you!” she announced as she pushed the cart away from the checkstand – this was another trick Mommy taught her.
“That will be twenty twenty-eight. And what will we be paying with today?” the woman behind the register asked, slightly irritated with Karen's method of discarding the cart.
“Mr Sniffs will be paying. Duh.”
The woman laughed as Karen began to unhinge Mr Sniff's hind quarters to obtain money to pay for the things she bought. “Your parents never bought you a purse?”
Karen stopped fiddling with Mr Sniff's tummy to herald a response: “Mommy says that purses are for girls who paint their faces like the clowns do. I'm not that kind of girl!”
“Oh! Wow! Well, I'm sorry I asked! So, what are all of these things for that you're buying today?” The woman was genuinely curious, as it's not every day a four-year-old girl with indignation walks up to her checkstand with a Mr Sniffs.
“I need these to make Marshall be quiet,” Karen revealed quietly, her chin tucking into her chest after laying the required monies on the counter.
A wave of sympathy and panic washed across the cashier's face. Who was this Marshall character? How would a hammer, nails, twine, duct tape and matchsticks make someone be quiet? It seemed like a cartoon method of killing a small person, and she could not imagine that this little girl would have such malicious intentions. She thought to call her manager to take Karen into custody.
Karen continued. “Marshall says that if I buy him this stuff, he'll stop telling me scary stories. I hate scary stories, and they make me have the nightmares and wet my bed.” The cashier's lips pursed together, indicating she may have misjudged the little girl. “Oh! Mommy says not to make the duck face because it looks silly.”
With great care, the cashier tucked away the “duck face” she was making. “Why doesn't Marshall buy these things himself?”
“He says Mommy won't buy them for him, but that if I do, he won't tell me scary stories anymore. He said Mr Sniffs would help me.”
“Did he tell you what these are for?” the cashier pressed. These were such odd circumstances; she had to know.
“He didn't tell me. I'm guessing he just wants to break his toys again. They're not his friends, like Mr Sniffs. Mr Sniffs is great.”
The cashier giggled and said “Mr Sniffs is pretty great. He had enough money for you to buy these for you. Now, I put the receipt for these in the bag.” The cashier walked around and handed the bag to Karen. “Mind if I ask what your name is?”
Karen thrust the bag into the air as she made a triumphant fist. “I AM KAREN RUTTLESBY, AND I AM AWESOME!” With a delighted scamper, she ran out of the store with the bag and Mr Sniffs in tow.
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Wednesday, April 13, 2011
The Day I Was Too Lazy To Die
(Pulse Rifle note – the following is a story I wrote that is heavily based on a real event that occurred several years ago. I have changed the names of the location and the people out of respect for those I worked with and served.)
Twenty-three hundred hours. All of the computers at Mideo Video let me know it; the Timecard monitor gave me a second-by-second countdown of the final hour of business tonight. I stared at it for a moment before recognizing that I had to begin Operation: Make It Look Like We Did Something All Night. Sure, it would all be undone by the following midday, but it was my job as shift leader to at least put forth some effort to keep order and beauty in the store.
A shift leader. This is what's known as a manager-without-a-manager title, someone who can benefit from becoming leadership without being paid properly for it (and also somehow managing to be excluded from health benefits). Shift leaders work the same long hours as every other manager, deal with the same responsibilities and have roughly the same access privilege... but paid half and treated just like any other rank-and-file making minimum wage. I got this position almost by default – the last shift leader left because she refused to come in to cover for the store manager while suffering from the flu. I had to fight for this role amidst an atmosphere of not wanting to hire male management. I had to fight for a dollar raise and an abusive management structure.
I had to fight to be the guy who closed roughly every night of the week, designated the official VHS tape-rewinder, return bin fetcher and shelf-straightener. I had subordinates, sure, but I would never consider them below me. That wasn't the sort of role structure I agreed with. I had promised myself that when I was able to take on the role of shift leader I would lead by example, motivating others to provide slack coverage. By and large, this approach was successful. Take Curt for instance.
Curt was somewhere around 15 years my senior, working as a contractor for the local power company. Curt took the job here for the perks – he had a wife and toddler at home who could benefit from the free rentals we were entitled to, and the rest of his earnings went to fund frivolous expenditures. Did he ever object to me being his supervisor? Not at all – I never had to call out a distinction between our roles, and I certainly never wanted to make him feel that he was beneath me. He told me once that I was a great pick for shift leader because I boosted the morale of everyone that I worked alongside. Proof that someone could actually climb the ranks without fulfilling special favors, whatever those were.
I had just come back in from the drive-up return bin with a fresh load of returns to scan and rewind. Sitting on the counter was a pile of tapes and DVDs that looked like a refuse edition of Jenga probably given to kids in rural sections of forgotten towns in a post-apocalyptic hell. Just under the counter were four tape-rewinders – even when in full, relevant operation they felt like a relic of a bygone era. As I scanned each title, I kept meaning to put a tape in the rightmost rewinder but could not because it was still enduring the task of rewinding our copy of Fiddler. That's right, Fiddler. So goddamn long, it was two tapes worth. Tradition, indeed.
“Hey, bos--” Curt began as he walked up to the cashwrap counter. He remembered that I associated being called “Boss” with someone trying to sell me something, and stopped just short. “Hey, chief.” That's better. “Can you hand me the bathroom key? I gotta use it.”
“Oh, actually, you're gonna need to use my keys to get into the backroom one. We still haven't changed the light bulb in the guest bathroom.” I'll explain this in a minute.
“Great. Just great. I get to do my business while looking at boxes of popcorn and sacks of candy. You have no idea what this means to me!”
“You'll get over it by the time you smell the mop in there.” Earlier in the week, one of our esteemed customers informed us just upon leaving that their darling child had “spilled” in the back. Asked if it was water, I got a sideways “You know EXACTLY what my child did” stare that indicated I would have a stenchmop forevermore. Thanks, lady.
I heard the backroom door close just as the glass double-doors at the front of the store opened. Turning toward the doors, I shouted in my usual tone “Good evening!” while two-finger saluting from my temple. This was a greeting I had learned from our assistant manager, Louis, who greeted folks with “Howdy.” I wasn't about to go that route, instead electing for a fuller greeting that sounded less country. It was Russ and his ladyfriend of undetermined name. I liked Russ – he worked at a local Italian restaurant that my girlfriend and I would frequent, and would typically give us free pours of wine and discounted rates all around. In return, I saved him rentals behind the counter and occasionally let some late fees slide (this was on the up-and-up, as we were encouraged to let those sorts of things slide to repeat customers who spent lots of money... but he didn't know that, so he perked me in appreciation). Beyond all the favors and whatnot he was a joy to talk with, both him AND his father who would also frequent our store.
Just as they crossed the metal detection towers that adorned the front of our cashwrap, another person walked into our store. I had never seen him before, but just the same I gave him my best Good Evening. He was roughly six and a quarter feet tall, wearing a puffy, shiny silver jacket, dark denim jeans and white shoes. No eye contact, head turned away from me. He was black with his hair cut short, with a ruddy skin complexion if his cheek was any indication. He walked with a disturbing limp on his right leg that didn't appear to indicate an ailment, instead just looking as though he walked with a funk. This wasn't a “Humpty Dance” limp for limping's sake, but I could not understand what it benefited.
As he began to walk around the store, Russ and ladyfriend of undetermined name walk up to cashwrap with a sealed DVD copy of Kate and Leopold from our “previously viewed” merchandise table seven feet away. If Russ thought he could get away with just casually putting this on the counter and buying it, he was sorely mistaken. “A rom-com? I thought you guys were better than this.”
Russ smiled, and laughed confidently. “She put up with watching the Angels win the World Series. All seven games. I owe it to her.” Ladyfriend of undetermined name tugged at his arm, head on his shoulder. He's an Angels fan. This gets a pass.
I had to know, because I was tired of referring to her as “ladyfriend of undetermined name.” “I'm sorry to ask this, but what IS your name? I can't remember.” Looked her straight in the eyes.
“I'm Janet.”
I know she'd been here several times before (possibly with different men? I can't remember), but I never formally met her so I brought out old Hamfist for a formal shake. I don't care if you're a woman or a man, if you're going for a vertical shake, do NOT give me the Savannah Limpwrist Au-Chauntay. Guess what she gave me. That's right. Dammit, Janet.
I wrapped their DVD in a bag with their receipt and handed it to them on their way out. Russ gave me a firm handshake as they walked out the door that negated the disappointment caused by Janet's supreme failure. As I turned my head back to the store, I was met with the gaze of our limping friend whose shiny jacket glowed with distraction. I got eye contact this time, and yes, his complexion did suck. “Can I use your bathroom?”
I just realized I haven't explained what's going on with the guest bathroom. My sincerest apologies. You see, when you have a guest bathroom inside your store that is open for public use, there is an understanding that it will be used by the public. When used by a public that has little regard for human decency in regards to property that is not their own, guest bathrooms become havens of disturbance. Toilet paper astray. Soap in places soap should not be. Deuces that missed. Welcome to the public.
More than that, our guest bathroom had a history of being misused – one particular thief would take DVD boxes into the restroom, razor-blade the boxes, dump the shells in the commode while stashing the discs on his person. I still remember seeing the pictures of the aftermath at the other local video rental store – when the staff caught onto his ruse, they trapped him in the restroom until the police arrived to find the restroom covered in blood caused by his fruitless attempts at escape.
All of this can be avoided by simply being too damn lazy to change the light bulb. You remove the chance of a thief dumping product into the commode, and you prevent yourself from wasting precious time cleaning that godforsaken trap when you could be spending time watching Fiddler continue to clog our rewinder. You also reduce the sheer amount of bitching caused by having to assign someone guest bathroom cleaning duty. Everybody wins, in the end. I mean that. Anyway, back to our friend Shiny.
“I'm sorry, sir. Our bathroom is out of order.”
This greatly displeased him. He did a little limp-dance, like a small child needing to tinkle. “Aww, man! C'mon! I need to use it really bad.” I gave a small thought to Curt who, by all accounts, was still using our backroom toilet. I'm not sure why I thought about it. It's not as though I could actually let a customer use that restroom anyway – it was a blatant, flaming code violation as it was. Not to mention cramped, unsanitary, and potentially darker than the unlit restroom I was keeping him from in the first place.
“I can't, sir. I'm sorry. The grocery store across the way from us is open until Midnight – they'd probably let you use their restroom.”
“I don't be-LIEVE this!” Anger. Over a bathroom. What's up, eleventh hour? “You really can't let me into the bathroom?”
I shook my head. I gave him options. I made it clear. I pointed toward the grocery store. “I'm sorry. They're the best chance you've got, man.”
In a huff, Shiny limped his angry ass out of the store. I made sure he started walking toward the grocery store before turning my attention to the next pressing concern: shelf straightening. Yes, this is the task wherein I would wipe down the new release wall and re-face our product so that the boxes tilted upward slightly. This is also one of those “will be undone by midday” tasks, as our city appeared to have a population of brazen hooligan midgets who liked to poke our display boxes for fun while we weren't looking. Mischievous little bastards.
As I began the wipedown, I heard Curt come out from the backroom. I poked my head up above the rows of wooden shelving just before seeing him lob my keys at me. I make an attempt at a right-handed catch. I got a Schlage blade landing pointed into my palm. Don't throw keys. What's more, don't catch them, either. Just let them fall. “Oww. Thanks, Curt.”
“No problem! So, you want me to start straightening Games?”
“Sounds like a great idea. I'm making my way over to Kids, so I'll take care of this section.” I said this just as the phone rang. I race over to the phone to make sure I get it before the third ring (company policy), and made it just in time!
“Thank you for calling Mideo Video! What do you want to watch tonight?” Yes, that was our greeting. It's only marginally better than “Block-busta. Who dis?”
“Hi, what time do you close?” the voice of a young man on the other line asks. Before I answer that, I would like to point out that our hours are posted on our glass at eye level, not down at the kneecaps like everybody else. We tell our customers on every receipt we gave them that we are open until Midnight every single day of the year (even when that's not entirely true; they let us go an hour earlier on New Years, but we're still at the store by the time Dick Clark's balls drop). It's practically our bargain slogan that we could attach to our sign – open until Midnight.
“We close in about twenty minutes.”
“Is that Midnight?” Yes, jackass. It's Midnight.
“Correct, sir.”
“All right! Thanks!”
I hung up the phone, and raised my head to look out the window. Shiny's making his way back into the store, his limp unchanged. I still don't get it. He opens the door and turns his head away just like he did when he came in the first time.
I had already given him my standard greeting, so it was time to get personal. “Hey! Did they hook you up over there?”
“I pissed in your bushes.”
“Well, that's one way to solve the problem, I guess.” I'm not really sure if I ACTUALLY said this out loud, or if I thought it so hard it became audible. I have a history of doing that. Without further ado, I made my way back to the Kids section to begin cleaning. “Well, let me know when you're ready and I'll help you.”
No response. I reached the back of the store and began kneeling down to clean the bottom shelves. As much as I hope some of these kids snack on the dust bunnies down there, I should probably not have allowed it to look so unfortunate. I felt my shirt peel its way out from under my belt. I let this go – it was the end of the night, and any secret shopper coming in at next-to-Midnight can promptly suck it.
Ker-click!! I knew that sound anywhere, but I was still surprised to hear it! Fiddler finished rewinding! I popped onto my feet to go retrieve it, when I encountered something I did not expect.
Shiny, with what appeared to be a spasm of movement, grabbed over fifteen DVDs from our merchandise table, knocking it over in the process. “Sir?” I asked. “You okay?” With a violent purpose, he raced toward our front door, setting off the metal detectors. “SIR!?” I yelled at him. It was probably a moot point; I was never going to “get his attention” because he was blatantly disregarding me in favor of stealing from us. He charged shoulder-first through our double-doors, breaking into a hobbled run in the parking lot and into the darkness.
In a sudden fit of anger, I threw my keys at the door as it swung back to close. Don't throw keys. There's absolutely no point to throwing keys. You're not going to make any difference, and it doesn't even make you feel better. In the end, you're just a guy throwing keys at a door and looking stupid in the process.
“The hell just happened?” Curt patted the dirt off of his pants as he came walking over to me, my hand on the phone receiver about to call the police.
“We just got robbed, dude. Go stop the tape; here's my keys.” I'm not sure what the security camera will be able to tell us, but here was hoping that we got something the police could use.
I called the police at their standard number, not under the impression we were in any sort of emergency. I gave them all the information about the incident I could, and they told me they'd send an officer out to generate a report. They also informed me that I shouldn't be shy to call them using 911, as being robbed is serious enough business. Good to know.
As I put the phone down, the double-doors opened again. Teenage boy with his girlfriend in tow walked into the store with their hands clasped in one another's. “You guys still open?” The boy asked.
“We JUST got robbed. Get out.”
“Oh wow, sorry, man. You hurt?”
“Go. NOW!”
“Sorry, man! We're going! We're going!”
I locked the doors and killed the main lights. We might have had 15 minutes of business left in the night, but I was done. So very done. Even in my anger, I remembered that I should call Louis. He lived only 3 minutes away from the store, which was a convenient commute for an assistant manager to say the least.
“Hell-oh.” Louis answered the phone alert. I kept forgetting this guy's a night owl like everyone else.
“Louis, you gotta get down here. We got robbed.”
“Holy crap! I'm on my way. Did you already call the police?”
“They're on their way. Thanks, Louis.”
The next few moments were a bit of a blur. I attempted to regain my composure by counting down the cash drawer totals, and Curt continued his cleaning regiment. By all accounts we got everything squared away accurately by the end of the evening, but it sure felt as though we were both running on autopilot. Just as the endorphins started wearing off, I heard a loud rapping at the glass.
Knocking against our double-doors with a mag-lite was Officer Kender from the Police Department, an annoyed scowl affixed to her face. She stood about five-eight, with crimson red hair tied back in a meticulous french braid, and her uniform looked as though it was freshly-pressed. Kender had a presence I feared even without the knock.
I quickly opened the doors for her and let her inside. As I was about to close the doors behind her, Louis pulled up in his late-model Mitsubishi. He didn't bother parking in his normal space as he was so accustomed to doing on previous occasions – this was a late hour and serious business. He jumped out of his car, wearing a faded Pink Floyd t-shirt, shorts, and his beard was at the unkemptest I had ever seen him wear it; he continually scratched through it as he walked inside the store.
“Thank you both for coming. I had Curt stop the tape in the back so you can get a look at what happened.” I know I should've been calmer with the police here, but I wasn't. Kender's sheer presence had me shivering inside. I guess there was a part of me that was afraid I had made a mistake somewhere, something that would've foiled Shiny before his dramatic exit. I suppose I could explain that a little more.
Within everything that I do, there exists a strong sense of self-doubt. Call it the aftereffects of growing up with a judgmental and manipulative older brother. I do good, I mean well, and not a soul could ever challenge my work ethic (with the exception of myself, of course; I know where I stress and slack). However, I feel as though I go about my business repeatedly justifying my actions and positions as though I have somehow gone astray along the way. When I have The Law coming to my aid in a situation like this, I want to be confident that I did everything right. There's a good chance you feel the same way, but I just wanted to clear that up. Notice a pattern?
The four of us made our way back into the office. Kender asked for a full rundown on the events with Shiny with as much detail as I could provide. While still a bit frazzled by the whole exchange, I gave her the rough events. I even told her she might also want to check with the grocery store across the parking lot on the off-chance he lied to me about the bushes. She nodded, and wrote down on a pad the details I gave her. She turned to Curt, who had a much shorter story on account of his constipation (nice detail, Curt. Nice). She then asked to see the tape.
Curt had set up the security camera recording just as I had hoped he would. He mentioned having some trouble initially shutting it down and getting it to a reviewable state, but that he was able to rewind it to the point just before Shiny arrived in our store. As it played back, I watched the entire encounter over frame-by-frame (which was easy, as the tape recorded at 60 frames per minute. Stupid security cameras). Apparently Curt really DID have a problem with the tape recorder, as my small exchange with the couple after the phone call was also on the tape. Thankfully the cameras don't pick up sound.
“He cased the joint!” Louis exclaimed in a whispered breath. His brow furrowed, eyes concerned and mouth agape.
“Yeah, that's just what I was thinking!” replied Kender, writing down more notes. “So, you said he asked to use the restroom a number of times?”
“That's right. I couldn't let him use it, though – sorry, Louis. I know we were supposed to change the light in there, but--” My words were cut off at the insistence of Kender.
“Actually, you're lucky you did.” She laughed. First time of the night I heard her laugh. “If you made eye contact with this guy, and he went into the bathroom, it's likely he would've put on a mask and blown you both away. Look.”
A gun. He felt around for it when he walked to the back of the store. The video was grainy, but that was all the evidence Kender needed to know that we were one light bulb away from an armed robbery and a possible double-homicide. My homicide.
I could feel every single organ inside me turn itself out. The wind in my lungs was nowhere to be found as I nearly lost my foothold on the world. My mind raced. In just an instant, I had played that entire scenario over in my head countless times. Russ and his girlfriend Janet with the weak handshake. The kids who were coming into the store at the last possible minute that was just late enough to miss him. The moment earlier in the evening where I stared at the burnt-out light bulb and convinced myself I did not feel like changing it.
I imagined having changed the bulb. I envisioned giving Shiny the key to the restroom. I could see him flipping over the merchandise table while wielding a small handgun, no longer walking with that damn limp he had. I felt my face go cold as I imagined him pulling the trigger on me, even though I know in my heart of hearts that I would've done anything that man said as he held my life against his finger. In that instant, I felt my whole world had gone dark.
BAM! Curt slammed his hand against the wall with a thud. He banged his hand against it about four times. He had our attention.
“Oh, THAT is IT! I'm out of here. I quit. There's no way I'm working here.” Curt spoke so fast, slurring with anger. He looked squarely at Louis, rage in his eyes. You'd swear he had steam coming out of his pores. “I have a WIFE and CHILD, man! I just wanted to make a little money and get videos for my family! I don't even want to come near this place again. Not another day. No way.”
Louis held his hands up and shrugged. He shook his head. “I understand! I'll let the district manager know about it, but you might want to give us a call in a couple of days just to solidify it. So we can get your check ready. Curt, I'm really sorry about this, but I can't do anything but be here.”
Curt's rage lessened, as though the air from an inflated bounce house was disconnected. His face crumbled a bit as he tried to take it all in. No doubt he had the same flashes in his head that I did, but he was the first to lash out. He asked Kender if she needed any more testimony. When she declined, he walked out of the office and made his way to the double-doors. Without hesitation, Louis was close behind, helping him leave and locking behind him. When he returned to the office, I gave him the biggest “You didn't deserve that” puppy dog look I could muster. I'm not even sure how my face looked, if I even gave that impression. Nevertheless that's what I attempted to convey. He closed his eyes and nodded in apparent appreciation.
Louis and I finished giving our details to Kender. We were instructed to keep that tape separated from the others so that we would have record of the events in case the suspect was apprehended. After leading her out the door with our sincerest thanks, we both stopped talking and closed down the store for the night. While still inside that store, it didn't feel like it was even worth opening our mouths. We knew what we were going to say to each other, and just assumed that the conversation had taken place. Our money safe was locked, computers shut down, and everything in order (save for the Kids section). I set the alarm, and left the store.
As soon as I was outside, I could feel myself almost giving in to the emotion. It was as if my chest and face were a sponge that needed to be wrung out onto the sidewalk. I got on my knees and just froze. I had never had a moment in my life where I felt so close to death that I could not control. The circumstances behind the potential sparing of my life having to do with unabashed laziness on my part? Entirely too much for me to take.
Louis had not left. He wasn't sure what to do, so he sat on the curb and looked at the clouds in the night sky. “Well, that's not how I expected this night to end.”
“No?” I sniffled as I replied.
“Hah! No – my brother and I were watching UHF when you called me. I thought I was going to pass out before it was over, until you called.”
“I'm sorry for having to call you out here.” It went without saying that I called him because I didn't feel our manager would have actually made the drive out here for the incident report. He knew it. I knew it.
“I'm glad you called me. I've been in a similar place, but I got tied up at the end of mine. It's unsettling, isn't it?”
I got back to my feet, and felt around my pockets for my keys. I had dropped them on the ground in my fit. “Can't believe Curt blew up on you like that.” I quickly retrieved my keys from the cement.
“Ahhh, don't worry about him. He was entitled to say those things. I don't take it personally.”
“So, you working the morning shift tomorrow?” Realizing that it was about one-o'clock, I felt it in his best interest to wrap up and go home.
“Yup. Seven to four. Don't worry about coming in tomorrow night – I can have Rose cover your shift.”
It was in this moment that I actually started contemplating offering a shift-swap with Rose to make up for the hours I would lose to recuperation. Unbelievable. I stood to lose roughly fifty bucks by letting that shift go. Why on earth did I care so much about fifty bucks right at this instant?
“Tell her thank you for me, Louis.”
“Of course. Hey, you did good tonight, all things considered. I saw the receipts. You should be proud of yourself, as always.”
“I'm sorry about the light bulb.”
“So am I.” He shook my hand and got into his car. He gave me the two-fingered wave goodbye as he drove off.
--
I lose track of how many times I've told this story. Many years have passed since the incident. Most can't even recall off-hand what year the Angels won the World Series, so rest assured it was a long time ago. I left the video store roughly a year after the incident, and the business itself has closed its doors for good after a tumultuous decade. I drove by the empty husk recently, reminded of every tale I told about that store. This was one of my worst hours, even though I didn't know it until after the fact. The hindsight was enough of a gut-punch to wind anybody.
I usually call this story, “The Day I Was Too Lazy To Die,” and while I'll never know if Shiny would have ended me that night, I will never forget how close I came to finding out.
Twenty-three hundred hours. All of the computers at Mideo Video let me know it; the Timecard monitor gave me a second-by-second countdown of the final hour of business tonight. I stared at it for a moment before recognizing that I had to begin Operation: Make It Look Like We Did Something All Night. Sure, it would all be undone by the following midday, but it was my job as shift leader to at least put forth some effort to keep order and beauty in the store.
A shift leader. This is what's known as a manager-without-a-manager title, someone who can benefit from becoming leadership without being paid properly for it (and also somehow managing to be excluded from health benefits). Shift leaders work the same long hours as every other manager, deal with the same responsibilities and have roughly the same access privilege... but paid half and treated just like any other rank-and-file making minimum wage. I got this position almost by default – the last shift leader left because she refused to come in to cover for the store manager while suffering from the flu. I had to fight for this role amidst an atmosphere of not wanting to hire male management. I had to fight for a dollar raise and an abusive management structure.
I had to fight to be the guy who closed roughly every night of the week, designated the official VHS tape-rewinder, return bin fetcher and shelf-straightener. I had subordinates, sure, but I would never consider them below me. That wasn't the sort of role structure I agreed with. I had promised myself that when I was able to take on the role of shift leader I would lead by example, motivating others to provide slack coverage. By and large, this approach was successful. Take Curt for instance.
Curt was somewhere around 15 years my senior, working as a contractor for the local power company. Curt took the job here for the perks – he had a wife and toddler at home who could benefit from the free rentals we were entitled to, and the rest of his earnings went to fund frivolous expenditures. Did he ever object to me being his supervisor? Not at all – I never had to call out a distinction between our roles, and I certainly never wanted to make him feel that he was beneath me. He told me once that I was a great pick for shift leader because I boosted the morale of everyone that I worked alongside. Proof that someone could actually climb the ranks without fulfilling special favors, whatever those were.
I had just come back in from the drive-up return bin with a fresh load of returns to scan and rewind. Sitting on the counter was a pile of tapes and DVDs that looked like a refuse edition of Jenga probably given to kids in rural sections of forgotten towns in a post-apocalyptic hell. Just under the counter were four tape-rewinders – even when in full, relevant operation they felt like a relic of a bygone era. As I scanned each title, I kept meaning to put a tape in the rightmost rewinder but could not because it was still enduring the task of rewinding our copy of Fiddler. That's right, Fiddler. So goddamn long, it was two tapes worth. Tradition, indeed.
“Hey, bos--” Curt began as he walked up to the cashwrap counter. He remembered that I associated being called “Boss” with someone trying to sell me something, and stopped just short. “Hey, chief.” That's better. “Can you hand me the bathroom key? I gotta use it.”
“Oh, actually, you're gonna need to use my keys to get into the backroom one. We still haven't changed the light bulb in the guest bathroom.” I'll explain this in a minute.
“Great. Just great. I get to do my business while looking at boxes of popcorn and sacks of candy. You have no idea what this means to me!”
“You'll get over it by the time you smell the mop in there.” Earlier in the week, one of our esteemed customers informed us just upon leaving that their darling child had “spilled” in the back. Asked if it was water, I got a sideways “You know EXACTLY what my child did” stare that indicated I would have a stenchmop forevermore. Thanks, lady.
I heard the backroom door close just as the glass double-doors at the front of the store opened. Turning toward the doors, I shouted in my usual tone “Good evening!” while two-finger saluting from my temple. This was a greeting I had learned from our assistant manager, Louis, who greeted folks with “Howdy.” I wasn't about to go that route, instead electing for a fuller greeting that sounded less country. It was Russ and his ladyfriend of undetermined name. I liked Russ – he worked at a local Italian restaurant that my girlfriend and I would frequent, and would typically give us free pours of wine and discounted rates all around. In return, I saved him rentals behind the counter and occasionally let some late fees slide (this was on the up-and-up, as we were encouraged to let those sorts of things slide to repeat customers who spent lots of money... but he didn't know that, so he perked me in appreciation). Beyond all the favors and whatnot he was a joy to talk with, both him AND his father who would also frequent our store.
Just as they crossed the metal detection towers that adorned the front of our cashwrap, another person walked into our store. I had never seen him before, but just the same I gave him my best Good Evening. He was roughly six and a quarter feet tall, wearing a puffy, shiny silver jacket, dark denim jeans and white shoes. No eye contact, head turned away from me. He was black with his hair cut short, with a ruddy skin complexion if his cheek was any indication. He walked with a disturbing limp on his right leg that didn't appear to indicate an ailment, instead just looking as though he walked with a funk. This wasn't a “Humpty Dance” limp for limping's sake, but I could not understand what it benefited.
As he began to walk around the store, Russ and ladyfriend of undetermined name walk up to cashwrap with a sealed DVD copy of Kate and Leopold from our “previously viewed” merchandise table seven feet away. If Russ thought he could get away with just casually putting this on the counter and buying it, he was sorely mistaken. “A rom-com? I thought you guys were better than this.”
Russ smiled, and laughed confidently. “She put up with watching the Angels win the World Series. All seven games. I owe it to her.” Ladyfriend of undetermined name tugged at his arm, head on his shoulder. He's an Angels fan. This gets a pass.
I had to know, because I was tired of referring to her as “ladyfriend of undetermined name.” “I'm sorry to ask this, but what IS your name? I can't remember.” Looked her straight in the eyes.
“I'm Janet.”
I know she'd been here several times before (possibly with different men? I can't remember), but I never formally met her so I brought out old Hamfist for a formal shake. I don't care if you're a woman or a man, if you're going for a vertical shake, do NOT give me the Savannah Limpwrist Au-Chauntay. Guess what she gave me. That's right. Dammit, Janet.
I wrapped their DVD in a bag with their receipt and handed it to them on their way out. Russ gave me a firm handshake as they walked out the door that negated the disappointment caused by Janet's supreme failure. As I turned my head back to the store, I was met with the gaze of our limping friend whose shiny jacket glowed with distraction. I got eye contact this time, and yes, his complexion did suck. “Can I use your bathroom?”
I just realized I haven't explained what's going on with the guest bathroom. My sincerest apologies. You see, when you have a guest bathroom inside your store that is open for public use, there is an understanding that it will be used by the public. When used by a public that has little regard for human decency in regards to property that is not their own, guest bathrooms become havens of disturbance. Toilet paper astray. Soap in places soap should not be. Deuces that missed. Welcome to the public.
More than that, our guest bathroom had a history of being misused – one particular thief would take DVD boxes into the restroom, razor-blade the boxes, dump the shells in the commode while stashing the discs on his person. I still remember seeing the pictures of the aftermath at the other local video rental store – when the staff caught onto his ruse, they trapped him in the restroom until the police arrived to find the restroom covered in blood caused by his fruitless attempts at escape.
All of this can be avoided by simply being too damn lazy to change the light bulb. You remove the chance of a thief dumping product into the commode, and you prevent yourself from wasting precious time cleaning that godforsaken trap when you could be spending time watching Fiddler continue to clog our rewinder. You also reduce the sheer amount of bitching caused by having to assign someone guest bathroom cleaning duty. Everybody wins, in the end. I mean that. Anyway, back to our friend Shiny.
“I'm sorry, sir. Our bathroom is out of order.”
This greatly displeased him. He did a little limp-dance, like a small child needing to tinkle. “Aww, man! C'mon! I need to use it really bad.” I gave a small thought to Curt who, by all accounts, was still using our backroom toilet. I'm not sure why I thought about it. It's not as though I could actually let a customer use that restroom anyway – it was a blatant, flaming code violation as it was. Not to mention cramped, unsanitary, and potentially darker than the unlit restroom I was keeping him from in the first place.
“I can't, sir. I'm sorry. The grocery store across the way from us is open until Midnight – they'd probably let you use their restroom.”
“I don't be-LIEVE this!” Anger. Over a bathroom. What's up, eleventh hour? “You really can't let me into the bathroom?”
I shook my head. I gave him options. I made it clear. I pointed toward the grocery store. “I'm sorry. They're the best chance you've got, man.”
In a huff, Shiny limped his angry ass out of the store. I made sure he started walking toward the grocery store before turning my attention to the next pressing concern: shelf straightening. Yes, this is the task wherein I would wipe down the new release wall and re-face our product so that the boxes tilted upward slightly. This is also one of those “will be undone by midday” tasks, as our city appeared to have a population of brazen hooligan midgets who liked to poke our display boxes for fun while we weren't looking. Mischievous little bastards.
As I began the wipedown, I heard Curt come out from the backroom. I poked my head up above the rows of wooden shelving just before seeing him lob my keys at me. I make an attempt at a right-handed catch. I got a Schlage blade landing pointed into my palm. Don't throw keys. What's more, don't catch them, either. Just let them fall. “Oww. Thanks, Curt.”
“No problem! So, you want me to start straightening Games?”
“Sounds like a great idea. I'm making my way over to Kids, so I'll take care of this section.” I said this just as the phone rang. I race over to the phone to make sure I get it before the third ring (company policy), and made it just in time!
“Thank you for calling Mideo Video! What do you want to watch tonight?” Yes, that was our greeting. It's only marginally better than “Block-busta. Who dis?”
“Hi, what time do you close?” the voice of a young man on the other line asks. Before I answer that, I would like to point out that our hours are posted on our glass at eye level, not down at the kneecaps like everybody else. We tell our customers on every receipt we gave them that we are open until Midnight every single day of the year (even when that's not entirely true; they let us go an hour earlier on New Years, but we're still at the store by the time Dick Clark's balls drop). It's practically our bargain slogan that we could attach to our sign – open until Midnight.
“We close in about twenty minutes.”
“Is that Midnight?” Yes, jackass. It's Midnight.
“Correct, sir.”
“All right! Thanks!”
I hung up the phone, and raised my head to look out the window. Shiny's making his way back into the store, his limp unchanged. I still don't get it. He opens the door and turns his head away just like he did when he came in the first time.
I had already given him my standard greeting, so it was time to get personal. “Hey! Did they hook you up over there?”
“I pissed in your bushes.”
“Well, that's one way to solve the problem, I guess.” I'm not really sure if I ACTUALLY said this out loud, or if I thought it so hard it became audible. I have a history of doing that. Without further ado, I made my way back to the Kids section to begin cleaning. “Well, let me know when you're ready and I'll help you.”
No response. I reached the back of the store and began kneeling down to clean the bottom shelves. As much as I hope some of these kids snack on the dust bunnies down there, I should probably not have allowed it to look so unfortunate. I felt my shirt peel its way out from under my belt. I let this go – it was the end of the night, and any secret shopper coming in at next-to-Midnight can promptly suck it.
Ker-click!! I knew that sound anywhere, but I was still surprised to hear it! Fiddler finished rewinding! I popped onto my feet to go retrieve it, when I encountered something I did not expect.
Shiny, with what appeared to be a spasm of movement, grabbed over fifteen DVDs from our merchandise table, knocking it over in the process. “Sir?” I asked. “You okay?” With a violent purpose, he raced toward our front door, setting off the metal detectors. “SIR!?” I yelled at him. It was probably a moot point; I was never going to “get his attention” because he was blatantly disregarding me in favor of stealing from us. He charged shoulder-first through our double-doors, breaking into a hobbled run in the parking lot and into the darkness.
In a sudden fit of anger, I threw my keys at the door as it swung back to close. Don't throw keys. There's absolutely no point to throwing keys. You're not going to make any difference, and it doesn't even make you feel better. In the end, you're just a guy throwing keys at a door and looking stupid in the process.
“The hell just happened?” Curt patted the dirt off of his pants as he came walking over to me, my hand on the phone receiver about to call the police.
“We just got robbed, dude. Go stop the tape; here's my keys.” I'm not sure what the security camera will be able to tell us, but here was hoping that we got something the police could use.
I called the police at their standard number, not under the impression we were in any sort of emergency. I gave them all the information about the incident I could, and they told me they'd send an officer out to generate a report. They also informed me that I shouldn't be shy to call them using 911, as being robbed is serious enough business. Good to know.
As I put the phone down, the double-doors opened again. Teenage boy with his girlfriend in tow walked into the store with their hands clasped in one another's. “You guys still open?” The boy asked.
“We JUST got robbed. Get out.”
“Oh wow, sorry, man. You hurt?”
“Go. NOW!”
“Sorry, man! We're going! We're going!”
I locked the doors and killed the main lights. We might have had 15 minutes of business left in the night, but I was done. So very done. Even in my anger, I remembered that I should call Louis. He lived only 3 minutes away from the store, which was a convenient commute for an assistant manager to say the least.
“Hell-oh.” Louis answered the phone alert. I kept forgetting this guy's a night owl like everyone else.
“Louis, you gotta get down here. We got robbed.”
“Holy crap! I'm on my way. Did you already call the police?”
“They're on their way. Thanks, Louis.”
The next few moments were a bit of a blur. I attempted to regain my composure by counting down the cash drawer totals, and Curt continued his cleaning regiment. By all accounts we got everything squared away accurately by the end of the evening, but it sure felt as though we were both running on autopilot. Just as the endorphins started wearing off, I heard a loud rapping at the glass.
Knocking against our double-doors with a mag-lite was Officer Kender from the Police Department, an annoyed scowl affixed to her face. She stood about five-eight, with crimson red hair tied back in a meticulous french braid, and her uniform looked as though it was freshly-pressed. Kender had a presence I feared even without the knock.
I quickly opened the doors for her and let her inside. As I was about to close the doors behind her, Louis pulled up in his late-model Mitsubishi. He didn't bother parking in his normal space as he was so accustomed to doing on previous occasions – this was a late hour and serious business. He jumped out of his car, wearing a faded Pink Floyd t-shirt, shorts, and his beard was at the unkemptest I had ever seen him wear it; he continually scratched through it as he walked inside the store.
“Thank you both for coming. I had Curt stop the tape in the back so you can get a look at what happened.” I know I should've been calmer with the police here, but I wasn't. Kender's sheer presence had me shivering inside. I guess there was a part of me that was afraid I had made a mistake somewhere, something that would've foiled Shiny before his dramatic exit. I suppose I could explain that a little more.
Within everything that I do, there exists a strong sense of self-doubt. Call it the aftereffects of growing up with a judgmental and manipulative older brother. I do good, I mean well, and not a soul could ever challenge my work ethic (with the exception of myself, of course; I know where I stress and slack). However, I feel as though I go about my business repeatedly justifying my actions and positions as though I have somehow gone astray along the way. When I have The Law coming to my aid in a situation like this, I want to be confident that I did everything right. There's a good chance you feel the same way, but I just wanted to clear that up. Notice a pattern?
The four of us made our way back into the office. Kender asked for a full rundown on the events with Shiny with as much detail as I could provide. While still a bit frazzled by the whole exchange, I gave her the rough events. I even told her she might also want to check with the grocery store across the parking lot on the off-chance he lied to me about the bushes. She nodded, and wrote down on a pad the details I gave her. She turned to Curt, who had a much shorter story on account of his constipation (nice detail, Curt. Nice). She then asked to see the tape.
Curt had set up the security camera recording just as I had hoped he would. He mentioned having some trouble initially shutting it down and getting it to a reviewable state, but that he was able to rewind it to the point just before Shiny arrived in our store. As it played back, I watched the entire encounter over frame-by-frame (which was easy, as the tape recorded at 60 frames per minute. Stupid security cameras). Apparently Curt really DID have a problem with the tape recorder, as my small exchange with the couple after the phone call was also on the tape. Thankfully the cameras don't pick up sound.
“He cased the joint!” Louis exclaimed in a whispered breath. His brow furrowed, eyes concerned and mouth agape.
“Yeah, that's just what I was thinking!” replied Kender, writing down more notes. “So, you said he asked to use the restroom a number of times?”
“That's right. I couldn't let him use it, though – sorry, Louis. I know we were supposed to change the light in there, but--” My words were cut off at the insistence of Kender.
“Actually, you're lucky you did.” She laughed. First time of the night I heard her laugh. “If you made eye contact with this guy, and he went into the bathroom, it's likely he would've put on a mask and blown you both away. Look.”
A gun. He felt around for it when he walked to the back of the store. The video was grainy, but that was all the evidence Kender needed to know that we were one light bulb away from an armed robbery and a possible double-homicide. My homicide.
I could feel every single organ inside me turn itself out. The wind in my lungs was nowhere to be found as I nearly lost my foothold on the world. My mind raced. In just an instant, I had played that entire scenario over in my head countless times. Russ and his girlfriend Janet with the weak handshake. The kids who were coming into the store at the last possible minute that was just late enough to miss him. The moment earlier in the evening where I stared at the burnt-out light bulb and convinced myself I did not feel like changing it.
I imagined having changed the bulb. I envisioned giving Shiny the key to the restroom. I could see him flipping over the merchandise table while wielding a small handgun, no longer walking with that damn limp he had. I felt my face go cold as I imagined him pulling the trigger on me, even though I know in my heart of hearts that I would've done anything that man said as he held my life against his finger. In that instant, I felt my whole world had gone dark.
BAM! Curt slammed his hand against the wall with a thud. He banged his hand against it about four times. He had our attention.
“Oh, THAT is IT! I'm out of here. I quit. There's no way I'm working here.” Curt spoke so fast, slurring with anger. He looked squarely at Louis, rage in his eyes. You'd swear he had steam coming out of his pores. “I have a WIFE and CHILD, man! I just wanted to make a little money and get videos for my family! I don't even want to come near this place again. Not another day. No way.”
Louis held his hands up and shrugged. He shook his head. “I understand! I'll let the district manager know about it, but you might want to give us a call in a couple of days just to solidify it. So we can get your check ready. Curt, I'm really sorry about this, but I can't do anything but be here.”
Curt's rage lessened, as though the air from an inflated bounce house was disconnected. His face crumbled a bit as he tried to take it all in. No doubt he had the same flashes in his head that I did, but he was the first to lash out. He asked Kender if she needed any more testimony. When she declined, he walked out of the office and made his way to the double-doors. Without hesitation, Louis was close behind, helping him leave and locking behind him. When he returned to the office, I gave him the biggest “You didn't deserve that” puppy dog look I could muster. I'm not even sure how my face looked, if I even gave that impression. Nevertheless that's what I attempted to convey. He closed his eyes and nodded in apparent appreciation.
Louis and I finished giving our details to Kender. We were instructed to keep that tape separated from the others so that we would have record of the events in case the suspect was apprehended. After leading her out the door with our sincerest thanks, we both stopped talking and closed down the store for the night. While still inside that store, it didn't feel like it was even worth opening our mouths. We knew what we were going to say to each other, and just assumed that the conversation had taken place. Our money safe was locked, computers shut down, and everything in order (save for the Kids section). I set the alarm, and left the store.
As soon as I was outside, I could feel myself almost giving in to the emotion. It was as if my chest and face were a sponge that needed to be wrung out onto the sidewalk. I got on my knees and just froze. I had never had a moment in my life where I felt so close to death that I could not control. The circumstances behind the potential sparing of my life having to do with unabashed laziness on my part? Entirely too much for me to take.
Louis had not left. He wasn't sure what to do, so he sat on the curb and looked at the clouds in the night sky. “Well, that's not how I expected this night to end.”
“No?” I sniffled as I replied.
“Hah! No – my brother and I were watching UHF when you called me. I thought I was going to pass out before it was over, until you called.”
“I'm sorry for having to call you out here.” It went without saying that I called him because I didn't feel our manager would have actually made the drive out here for the incident report. He knew it. I knew it.
“I'm glad you called me. I've been in a similar place, but I got tied up at the end of mine. It's unsettling, isn't it?”
I got back to my feet, and felt around my pockets for my keys. I had dropped them on the ground in my fit. “Can't believe Curt blew up on you like that.” I quickly retrieved my keys from the cement.
“Ahhh, don't worry about him. He was entitled to say those things. I don't take it personally.”
“So, you working the morning shift tomorrow?” Realizing that it was about one-o'clock, I felt it in his best interest to wrap up and go home.
“Yup. Seven to four. Don't worry about coming in tomorrow night – I can have Rose cover your shift.”
It was in this moment that I actually started contemplating offering a shift-swap with Rose to make up for the hours I would lose to recuperation. Unbelievable. I stood to lose roughly fifty bucks by letting that shift go. Why on earth did I care so much about fifty bucks right at this instant?
“Tell her thank you for me, Louis.”
“Of course. Hey, you did good tonight, all things considered. I saw the receipts. You should be proud of yourself, as always.”
“I'm sorry about the light bulb.”
“So am I.” He shook my hand and got into his car. He gave me the two-fingered wave goodbye as he drove off.
--
I lose track of how many times I've told this story. Many years have passed since the incident. Most can't even recall off-hand what year the Angels won the World Series, so rest assured it was a long time ago. I left the video store roughly a year after the incident, and the business itself has closed its doors for good after a tumultuous decade. I drove by the empty husk recently, reminded of every tale I told about that store. This was one of my worst hours, even though I didn't know it until after the fact. The hindsight was enough of a gut-punch to wind anybody.
I usually call this story, “The Day I Was Too Lazy To Die,” and while I'll never know if Shiny would have ended me that night, I will never forget how close I came to finding out.
Saturday, February 19, 2011
Bryson (Part 1)
Stuffed air snapped against Bryson's skin in a manner akin to a soccer ball shot out of a cannon as he entered McUrich's Pub on a damp Friday evening through the hefty wooden door. For an instant, he dragged the pouring rain in with him. His clothes dripped silently on the floor as the atmosphere overtook any of his subtlety. The sound of the door smashing against the doorjam securely was obscured almost completely. He could feel the starch and moisture vacuumed from his body, urged to dance with the mists of the other bodies inside with the curling wafts of cigarette smoke.
In the far corner, Bryson observed a group of men disassembling their stage gear. Dressed in aged flannel, deep black Guess jeans ripped at the knees and wallets chained to their belt loops, they began to take down the banner behind them - it read in lazily-sketched spraypaint: “Yet Another Pearl Jam Cover Band.” Through the shouts of the crowd, he could hear the jukebox droning Evenflow, which indicated to him that he must have missed the performance of the worst Pearl Jam cover band ever. The patrons had not adjusted their voices to the absence of the band's performance, as they continued to speak at powerful levels. It was clear to Bryson that the crowd was there for the service, not the show.
He waded his way slowly through the folks standing idly in his path to the lone empty stool near the opposite end of the bar. Elbows cut into his frame, slapping snugly against his brown cotton hoodie, while purses and dangling hands brushed against the pockets of his khaki pants. Bryson stopped on occasion to usher someone past him, hoping the courtesy would buy him enough karma to silently reserve the stool before anyone else could claim it.
One last pedestrian to go before touchdown, he watched a portly man waddle past his line of sight. As he passed, the stool's occupancy changed from vacant to grossly not vacant. Indeed, a woman had entered the fray and taken the place of the void. Atop her head was a frayed, nested waterfall of filth brown hair that billowed from her scalp, stopping to rest at what could be assumed was her equator. With a raspy bark, she called to any bartender that would listen to her pleas for what would appear to be her umpteenth drink of the night. Her northern hemisphere was bedazzled in sequined flowers in all sorts of distracting colors, whilst her southern was skirted with a demonstrably dark curtain that did a poor job of masking the milky white seas above the knees. Bryson only gazed briefly at her skirt as it was once near what would have been his home for the evening.
The man sitting on the right beside the dwarf planet quickly left his post, wisely fearing gravitational pull and likely blast radius. Seeking an opportunity to rest his sneakers, Bryson took confident steps toward the open stool and mounted speedily. For all the support it gave, the “cushion” under his rear might as well have been made of the cardboard street urchins use for beauty sleep. Directly in front of him was a short wall that housed the ale taps, which would likely mean awkward reaching for any crew behind the bar. Sitting to his right was a burly hoss with a beer-soaked mane, his leather jacket unzipped to expose a dark shirt with white letters that appeared to read “UNF.”
Bryson turned his back to take in the scene for only a moment before he heard a call to him from behind the bar: Bryson spun back and met eyes with the bartender, a short-statured man of skin and bone who looked to have seen at least one war with his own eyes. The bartender thoroughly wrung his hands inside the towel that was draped over his shoulder.
“Can I get an AMF?” Bryson asked.
“Wha's 'at?” The bartender blinked measurably as he continued to wring his hands.
Bryson repeated the order. He had been to places before that did not need that spelled out, which confused him.
“Ahh! You're lookin' for some Windex! Why didn't you just say so? I've got some Windex for you behind the counta'. Jus' hang on.” The bartender started gathering the ingredients while Bryson looked on around him.
-
To be continued...
(Pulse Rifle note: I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this right now, but it was an idea that kicked into my head that I wanted to get down.)
In the far corner, Bryson observed a group of men disassembling their stage gear. Dressed in aged flannel, deep black Guess jeans ripped at the knees and wallets chained to their belt loops, they began to take down the banner behind them - it read in lazily-sketched spraypaint: “Yet Another Pearl Jam Cover Band.” Through the shouts of the crowd, he could hear the jukebox droning Evenflow, which indicated to him that he must have missed the performance of the worst Pearl Jam cover band ever. The patrons had not adjusted their voices to the absence of the band's performance, as they continued to speak at powerful levels. It was clear to Bryson that the crowd was there for the service, not the show.
He waded his way slowly through the folks standing idly in his path to the lone empty stool near the opposite end of the bar. Elbows cut into his frame, slapping snugly against his brown cotton hoodie, while purses and dangling hands brushed against the pockets of his khaki pants. Bryson stopped on occasion to usher someone past him, hoping the courtesy would buy him enough karma to silently reserve the stool before anyone else could claim it.
One last pedestrian to go before touchdown, he watched a portly man waddle past his line of sight. As he passed, the stool's occupancy changed from vacant to grossly not vacant. Indeed, a woman had entered the fray and taken the place of the void. Atop her head was a frayed, nested waterfall of filth brown hair that billowed from her scalp, stopping to rest at what could be assumed was her equator. With a raspy bark, she called to any bartender that would listen to her pleas for what would appear to be her umpteenth drink of the night. Her northern hemisphere was bedazzled in sequined flowers in all sorts of distracting colors, whilst her southern was skirted with a demonstrably dark curtain that did a poor job of masking the milky white seas above the knees. Bryson only gazed briefly at her skirt as it was once near what would have been his home for the evening.
The man sitting on the right beside the dwarf planet quickly left his post, wisely fearing gravitational pull and likely blast radius. Seeking an opportunity to rest his sneakers, Bryson took confident steps toward the open stool and mounted speedily. For all the support it gave, the “cushion” under his rear might as well have been made of the cardboard street urchins use for beauty sleep. Directly in front of him was a short wall that housed the ale taps, which would likely mean awkward reaching for any crew behind the bar. Sitting to his right was a burly hoss with a beer-soaked mane, his leather jacket unzipped to expose a dark shirt with white letters that appeared to read “UNF.”
Bryson turned his back to take in the scene for only a moment before he heard a call to him from behind the bar: Bryson spun back and met eyes with the bartender, a short-statured man of skin and bone who looked to have seen at least one war with his own eyes. The bartender thoroughly wrung his hands inside the towel that was draped over his shoulder.
“Can I get an AMF?” Bryson asked.
“Wha's 'at?” The bartender blinked measurably as he continued to wring his hands.
Bryson repeated the order. He had been to places before that did not need that spelled out, which confused him.
“Ahh! You're lookin' for some Windex! Why didn't you just say so? I've got some Windex for you behind the counta'. Jus' hang on.” The bartender started gathering the ingredients while Bryson looked on around him.
-
To be continued...
(Pulse Rifle note: I'm not entirely sure where I'm going with this right now, but it was an idea that kicked into my head that I wanted to get down.)
Thursday, December 30, 2010
For the Last Time
If you’re going to do something, do it right. Do it once. No retry. What’s the point? Your mark is made. Life is too short.
I lay on the Master’s desk, next to this accursed filth of a creation so ensconced in the idea that it could make a mistake that its ass-end is crafted specifically for removing traces that it was ever there. It answered to Dixon Ticonderoga, though “Dix” will do just fine. Dix does my job, but half-assed and with utter contempt for my work. My work is final, but Dix is always a work-in-progress.
Well, that’s balls. See, there are many advantages to being me. I’m deliberate. I come to do a job and I do it. You can count on me unless I’m a newborn or old and worn out, but I’m a tremendous middle – you can depend on me. I’m born with a cap, meant to keep myself neat so that, despite my determination otherwise, I don’t mark where I’m not wanted.
Same cannot be said for Dix. You bounce or scrape him on any surface and he’s liable to leave a stain. Oh, sure, you can always wipe his ass in his mistakes to make them all go away, but when that’s the point why bother? And the more you use Dix, the shorter, more uncomfortable he gets, not to mention the laborious exercise of sharpening him – listen, kid: if you can’t keep it together without needing a tune-up every day, kill yourself.
And don’t even get me started on those of my clan who have chosen to, for the lack of better terminology, fornicate with my nemesis. Unclean ones, those who spill ink but can wipe it away. Doing so seems to miss the entire point of committing, doesn’t it? Surely the Master has more than enough confidence in his abilities not to make use of those half-breed heathens.
When the Master pays, he pays with me. When the Master writes a letter, he signs with me. But lately, Dix has been gallivanting with the Master on scrap sheets of paper. A sword and scabbard here, a singing dinosaur there. Sometimes it’s nonsensical shapes. A great and wonderful pleasure those two seem to share, but it’s all so impractical. Never, ever final.
That’s why I decided that tonight would be the night I would push Dix off the desk. For the last time.
I know what you’re thinking, dear reader. You’re thinking in a shrill, namby-pamby voice “I thought you were all about ‘doing it once’ and ‘no retry.’” That’s very astute of you. Asshole. Let me explain. While I am very good at what I do, I am only as good as the Master who wields me. I cannot be held accountable for a marked mistake by his hand, now can I? It’s not as though I do the writing for him, that’d be silly.
Well, same goes for my previous attempted assassination of Dix. If the Master were just the slightest bit less tidy around his workspace, I wouldn’t even be having this conversation. I would simply be able to glide Dix off the desk and have him roll into obscurity and have him buried in the particles of dust that accumulate from the Master’s discarded skin cells. I would be content in his demise.
But oh no. Like every undoable mistake by Dix, the Master sees him lying on the floor like a maiden strapped to a railroad track, just waiting for the crushing blow of a chair wheel or a less-than-careful step. I am foiled by the Master’s care, the same care that sees me in a reliable perch, unable to fall victim to the same attempt on Dix (pay no attention to the protrusion from my cap; yes I have an unfair advantage in having an incidental roll stopped, but that’s not the point).
I have two options – tip Dix gingerly into a sustained fall that will nest him under the wheel of the Master’s chair, or aim for the Sterilite container with a fresh liner. The former would have a chance at killing him outright, depending on how the Master chose to move the chair before getting in it. The latter would be more of a death-by-neglect, wherein the fall might cloak Dix in a white film that would keep him contained until it was too late.
For all the potential mistakes Dix could make, it would be a more fitting end to see him die of critical underuse, left to rot at the bottom of a plastic bag. Time to die, Dix. No mistakes. No retry. No retreat.
I lay on the Master’s desk, next to this accursed filth of a creation so ensconced in the idea that it could make a mistake that its ass-end is crafted specifically for removing traces that it was ever there. It answered to Dixon Ticonderoga, though “Dix” will do just fine. Dix does my job, but half-assed and with utter contempt for my work. My work is final, but Dix is always a work-in-progress.
Well, that’s balls. See, there are many advantages to being me. I’m deliberate. I come to do a job and I do it. You can count on me unless I’m a newborn or old and worn out, but I’m a tremendous middle – you can depend on me. I’m born with a cap, meant to keep myself neat so that, despite my determination otherwise, I don’t mark where I’m not wanted.
Same cannot be said for Dix. You bounce or scrape him on any surface and he’s liable to leave a stain. Oh, sure, you can always wipe his ass in his mistakes to make them all go away, but when that’s the point why bother? And the more you use Dix, the shorter, more uncomfortable he gets, not to mention the laborious exercise of sharpening him – listen, kid: if you can’t keep it together without needing a tune-up every day, kill yourself.
And don’t even get me started on those of my clan who have chosen to, for the lack of better terminology, fornicate with my nemesis. Unclean ones, those who spill ink but can wipe it away. Doing so seems to miss the entire point of committing, doesn’t it? Surely the Master has more than enough confidence in his abilities not to make use of those half-breed heathens.
When the Master pays, he pays with me. When the Master writes a letter, he signs with me. But lately, Dix has been gallivanting with the Master on scrap sheets of paper. A sword and scabbard here, a singing dinosaur there. Sometimes it’s nonsensical shapes. A great and wonderful pleasure those two seem to share, but it’s all so impractical. Never, ever final.
That’s why I decided that tonight would be the night I would push Dix off the desk. For the last time.
I know what you’re thinking, dear reader. You’re thinking in a shrill, namby-pamby voice “I thought you were all about ‘doing it once’ and ‘no retry.’” That’s very astute of you. Asshole. Let me explain. While I am very good at what I do, I am only as good as the Master who wields me. I cannot be held accountable for a marked mistake by his hand, now can I? It’s not as though I do the writing for him, that’d be silly.
Well, same goes for my previous attempted assassination of Dix. If the Master were just the slightest bit less tidy around his workspace, I wouldn’t even be having this conversation. I would simply be able to glide Dix off the desk and have him roll into obscurity and have him buried in the particles of dust that accumulate from the Master’s discarded skin cells. I would be content in his demise.
But oh no. Like every undoable mistake by Dix, the Master sees him lying on the floor like a maiden strapped to a railroad track, just waiting for the crushing blow of a chair wheel or a less-than-careful step. I am foiled by the Master’s care, the same care that sees me in a reliable perch, unable to fall victim to the same attempt on Dix (pay no attention to the protrusion from my cap; yes I have an unfair advantage in having an incidental roll stopped, but that’s not the point).
I have two options – tip Dix gingerly into a sustained fall that will nest him under the wheel of the Master’s chair, or aim for the Sterilite container with a fresh liner. The former would have a chance at killing him outright, depending on how the Master chose to move the chair before getting in it. The latter would be more of a death-by-neglect, wherein the fall might cloak Dix in a white film that would keep him contained until it was too late.
For all the potential mistakes Dix could make, it would be a more fitting end to see him die of critical underuse, left to rot at the bottom of a plastic bag. Time to die, Dix. No mistakes. No retry. No retreat.
Wednesday, December 22, 2010
Netbooking in the Rain
Rain pounded against the wooden rail like an infant’s first drum set, rattling with the sense that it was excited to be around. It hid in the darkness, only heard but not seen. When the wind heaved its mighty breath, occasionally the rain found its way onto the netbook’s screen as if a wave of wet static crashed against the case.
The netbook rested itself comfortably on top of an aged wooden table whose form was covered by a camp green tarp that barely obscured the roaring lion designs of the center post underneath. The netbook was safe from the torrents of moisture for the moment, hiding itself on the edge of the table closest to the sliding glass door. The other end of the table, for its part, gathered a puddle of water on its surface and continued to take every drop as though it was owed. The netbook’s keyboard was stroked competently, keeping the individual keys warm as well as dry.
The night that surrounded wass filled with the sounds of car tires skidding along the slick roads with a purpose. The looming clouds above gurgled with the threat of even more pressure, more boom and more incidental lighting. The crackle of the falling precipitation stirred memories of a child’s vacuum popper toy, tinkling against its plastic dome as it is rolled along the landscape.
This is the sound of peace. Tranquility. Netbooking in the rain.
The netbook rested itself comfortably on top of an aged wooden table whose form was covered by a camp green tarp that barely obscured the roaring lion designs of the center post underneath. The netbook was safe from the torrents of moisture for the moment, hiding itself on the edge of the table closest to the sliding glass door. The other end of the table, for its part, gathered a puddle of water on its surface and continued to take every drop as though it was owed. The netbook’s keyboard was stroked competently, keeping the individual keys warm as well as dry.
The night that surrounded wass filled with the sounds of car tires skidding along the slick roads with a purpose. The looming clouds above gurgled with the threat of even more pressure, more boom and more incidental lighting. The crackle of the falling precipitation stirred memories of a child’s vacuum popper toy, tinkling against its plastic dome as it is rolled along the landscape.
This is the sound of peace. Tranquility. Netbooking in the rain.
Taking suggestions
Earlier this evening, I put out a second request for topic suggestions for something to write about for the blog. I’ve had the blog going for a while, but haven’t really figured out a good lot of what to put on it. What I could really use is something like you see above. So you don’t have to squint, I’ll explain:
Jackie put up a link on Facebook, asking for my commentary on a CNet list of tech flops. I read through her list, and gave her the best I had. I know there’s not a whole lot of these sorts of things to riff off of, but I’d like to get some feedback so that I don’t feel as though I’m writing in a vacuum the majority of the time.
So, if you’ve got a conversation topic or something that can be easily riffed on, pop me a line! I would like to keep giving you all something to read, but I’ve been stumped on what to write that you’d actually enjoy reading (or viewing, if I go the vlog route).
Yes, I like attention. What?
Peace and Gratitude
I am so very glad that Katie and I put these lights up around our living room and our porch, the latter of which is pictured. This season has brought me the peace of knowing that I can finally get past things that have been frustrating me for far too long, and I am so very grateful to be living in a place that is not at risk for flooding or water damage.
This particular entry isn’t very long, I know – but it’s got a great picture. Just look at it.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)