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When I was a child, my grandmother and I had a weird thing about movies. Specifically, she would see a children's film advertised on TV, and would get it into her head that I needed to go see it.
When I was young, this did not bother me; I liked movies, and my parents seldom attended them; I spent my youth in little bitty towns that did not HAVE theatres, except one, about which the less said the better; when one never cleans a theatre, rats and worse things come to snack out. So when we visited the grandparents, she would make a point of taking me to a movie.
Whether or not I wanted to see the movie was irrelevant. Grandmother had decided that I would like this movie, and therefore, I would be taken to the movies. Saw a lot of the Disney life action films in the early seventies this way. Rather liked Kurt Russell's early Disney stuff...
Eventually, this evolved a little; she did not take me to the movies, but I would be told which movie I would see, and be dropped off at the theatre, with some money for refreshments and a quarter to call home when the movie was over. This worked much better for me, since the theatre in their town, an early megaplex, had three theatres in it, and the odds were good that there was SOME damn thing I wanted to see, and no one paid any attention to what theatre you entered after you paid to get in. It first occurred to me to do this when I was sent to see "Pippi Longstocking," and I realized in the first ten minutes what a wretched film I was watching, and why was I in THIS theatre when "Death Race 2000" was very conveniently showing right next door, and had car chases, boobs, David Carradine, vehicular murder, boobs, cool cars, a very young Sylvester Stallone, and boobs in it?
In retrospect, it occurs to me that my grandmother very significantly contributed to the psychological decay that today makes up most of my personality... all because she thought I should go see "Pippi Longstocking."
Saturday, February 24, 2024
Saturday, February 3, 2024
The Trouble With X
(X can be ANY problem, from "the plumbing has exploded," to "Donald Trump is running for President.")
"There is a problem with X."
"I see. I will address this problem, and do what I can about it."
"But there is a problem with X."
"Yes, I have been made aware of it, and am doing what I can to correct it."
"But there is a problem with X."
"Is there something specific that you would like me to do, right this moment, to address the problem?"
"There. Is. A. Problem. With. X."
"Yes, as you have now stated, in exactly the same terms, four times now. Is there something specific you would like me to do that I have not yet done about it? Am I not moving fast enough to suit you? Is there some new aspect of the problem you feel that I am unaware of? Do you have any NEW information about this problem to impart? What, precisely, do you want?"
"You don't UNDERSTAND! There is a PROBLEM with X!"
"And that makes five times now that you have told me that, and yet have not outlined what you want me to do about it beyond the obvious steps I have already taken. I regret that I lack telepathy, and cannot read your mind to see exactly what you want done, as you either will not or cannot TELL me, beyond simply repeating the same complaint. I regret that if you have no new information, I must ignore further repeats of the same statement, as this serves no purpose and wastes both our time."
"You're not taking the problem seriously."
"I dispute your statement. I have acknowledged the problem, and taken what steps I can at the moment. Later, as things change, I may do more, but can do no more at this time. Would it make you feel better if I discarded calm and freaked out about it?"
"You're not taking the problem seriously."
"Ah, we are back to repetition, which I had hoped I had made clear is not an effective communication style for problem solving, either for X or for whatever problem it is you are having with ME. I must therefore respectfully request that you cease repeating yourself over and over and instead offer specific insights into the problem and suggest possible solutions, or simply explain in concrete terms what it is that you want me to do about it."
"Now you're insulting me."
****************************************************************************
Don't be like this guy. Effective communications, people. Specifics. Explanations. Use the words. And choose new words and elaborate if the old ones aren't working. And just because you have an issue, please don't assume I'm laughing at you just because I'm not freaking out right along with you....
In retrospect, I kinda wish I’d just said, “I’m on it,” and repeated this every time the complaint was repeated. Wonder if that would have changed the conversation?
"There is a problem with X."
"I see. I will address this problem, and do what I can about it."
"But there is a problem with X."
"Yes, I have been made aware of it, and am doing what I can to correct it."
"But there is a problem with X."
"Is there something specific that you would like me to do, right this moment, to address the problem?"
"There. Is. A. Problem. With. X."
"Yes, as you have now stated, in exactly the same terms, four times now. Is there something specific you would like me to do that I have not yet done about it? Am I not moving fast enough to suit you? Is there some new aspect of the problem you feel that I am unaware of? Do you have any NEW information about this problem to impart? What, precisely, do you want?"
"You don't UNDERSTAND! There is a PROBLEM with X!"
"And that makes five times now that you have told me that, and yet have not outlined what you want me to do about it beyond the obvious steps I have already taken. I regret that I lack telepathy, and cannot read your mind to see exactly what you want done, as you either will not or cannot TELL me, beyond simply repeating the same complaint. I regret that if you have no new information, I must ignore further repeats of the same statement, as this serves no purpose and wastes both our time."
"You're not taking the problem seriously."
"I dispute your statement. I have acknowledged the problem, and taken what steps I can at the moment. Later, as things change, I may do more, but can do no more at this time. Would it make you feel better if I discarded calm and freaked out about it?"
"You're not taking the problem seriously."
"Ah, we are back to repetition, which I had hoped I had made clear is not an effective communication style for problem solving, either for X or for whatever problem it is you are having with ME. I must therefore respectfully request that you cease repeating yourself over and over and instead offer specific insights into the problem and suggest possible solutions, or simply explain in concrete terms what it is that you want me to do about it."
"Now you're insulting me."
****************************************************************************
Don't be like this guy. Effective communications, people. Specifics. Explanations. Use the words. And choose new words and elaborate if the old ones aren't working. And just because you have an issue, please don't assume I'm laughing at you just because I'm not freaking out right along with you....
In retrospect, I kinda wish I’d just said, “I’m on it,” and repeated this every time the complaint was repeated. Wonder if that would have changed the conversation?
Sunday, January 28, 2024
The Way The Dice Fell
I think it started somewhere in late '76 or '77, with that copy of Rolling Stone's College Life magazine.
I bought it because it was for COLLEGE guys, of course. I was in junior high at the time, and living out some of the worst years I'd had so far -- ask anyone in education what middle schoolers are like, if you want an earful of that -- and the idea of COLLEGE had great appeal to me. COLLEGE was when you were eighteen, no one could tell you what to do any more, and best of all, you got to go somewhere that WASN'T HERE, a place where no one knew you, a place where things HAPPENED, a place where you didn't have to drive ninety miles to buy a suit of clothes that weren't Western Wear, and where people talked about things other than oil, cattle, and football.
Y'know. Civilization.
And here was this magazine, talking about COLLEGE and what it was like. So I bought it. I HAD to buy it. Because in late '76 and '77, I hated my life, and I hated the place I lived, and I hated my hometown, and wanted nothing more than to go somewhere and start all over in a better place. I came to understand that this isn't far from typical for your basic seventh grader, but I didn't have a lot of perspective yet, y'know?
And I bought the magazine, and there was an article in it... about this thing that college guys did. Apparently, it was a game they played, unlike any other game that had ever been. And it was called "Dungeons and Dragons."
The article was an interesting read. The guys IN the article were unrepentant nerds, but I didn't know that. The GAME looked interesting though -- a sort of swords and sorcery thing that was played on a tabletop with miniature figurines, and didn't seem to have a distinct END, or victory conditions; winning simply meant that your "character" lived another day to have further adventures later.
I didn't know what it was, but it seemed to beat the hell out of Monopoly, and it certainly wasn't football. I began trying to find out more about this Dungeons and Dragons thing. Regrettably, the only sources of information available at the time were newspapers and news magazines, and coverage was spotty; the game wasn't a cultural phenomenon yet, not by far, and it didn't help that I lived WAY out in the boonies in what Robert McCammon referred to as the Great Fried Empty, the south end of the Rio Grande Valley.
But news spread. I ran across a newspaper article, and a short blurb in another magazine. They seemed to line up with what I'd already learned. And, of course, I read that copy of Rolling Stone's College Life to tatters. I honestly don't remember anything else that was in that issue; this weird new game had seized my imagination. I wondered what a "cleric" was. Fighters and wizards and thieves, that I could work out -- I had a working knowledge of "Lord Of The Rings" and the Ace "Conan" paperbacks -- but durned if I could figure out what a Cleric was, and I think it says something about the school system and my distance from any bright light of civilization, that of the three libraries in town (elementary, junior high, and high school), none of them had a dictionary that would EXPLAIN what a Cleric was. Clerks, no sweat, Clerical Work seemed to be what clerks did, and there was a thing called a Clerical Collar, whatever that was, but damned if I could find anything that just explained what a dratted CLERIC was.
I reread Rolling Stone's College Life, and I caught up on my Ace paperbacks with Conan in them. And Thongor the Barbarian; I figured it couldn't hurt. I drew pictures of warriors and dragons in History class, and wondered where one went about getting a copy of this Dungeons and Dragons thing.
And it was that December, finally, that the family took a trip to Laredo. Laredo was the closest major city to where I lived at the time, which ought to tell you something if you look at a map. But there was a mall there, the Mall del Norte, which was the subject of my quest. There were bookstores there...
...and the memory remains with me: seeing a cardboard standup display out front of Spencer Gifts. Stacked in that display were copies of the ancient Holmes Boxed Set, what would be known as the first Dungeons and Dragons Basic Set. Ten bucks. I promptly bought one.
I was disappointed that it contained no dice. It was one of those printed during the interregnum when TSR was having supply problems, and bound into the rules booklet were "Randomizer Chits" that you were supposed to cut out and put in Dixie cups, and draw numbers instead of rolling dice. Disappointment. But the rules themselves... the rules for this game were like nothing I'd ever seen before. I'd been right about my earlier supposition: you created a character -- a fictional character -- a swordsman, a wizard, a dwarf, an elf, a thief, or a hobbit -- and you walked this guy through worlds of adventure, gaining treasure, experience, glory... and possibly an untimely DEATH, meaning you'd have to roll up another character...
I was hooked. I taught a couple of friends how to play, and there was enthusiasm for the game. And the next time we went to the mall in Laredo, I was armed with an entire cashed paycheck from my first job. I can still tell you what I bought with it: A set of dice and a Player's Handbook from B. Dalton's Books, a Dungeon Master's Guide and a Monster Manual from Waldenbooks (they had no Players' Handbooks left), an Atari 2600 video game system at Sears... and I had about enough change left to buy the best Orange Julius I think I have ever had, right there in the main concourse. My old man was quite bent out of shape with me -- "You spent a WHOLE PAYCHECK? NOTHING left to put in the bank? Are you CRAZY?" -- but to this day, I have not even the shadow of a single regret for that glorious day.
My friends and I got started. There were addresses you could send off to for more information in the books -- I became well acquainted with the Dungeon Hobby Shop in Lake Geneva, and did a lot of business with them. I remember visiting Dallas in the summer of 1980, the summer everyone wondered who shot J.R. on "Dallas," and visiting my first real HOBBY SHOP... racks of miniatures, Avalon Hill and SPI wargames, and the White Box D&D sets that I still wish I'd bought, back when they were still cheap enough to afford... but I had the hardbacks, and that's all I thought I needed, back then. Them, and my Holmes Basic.
Through the years of high school, we fought through the Steading of the Hill Giant Chief, and through the other giant enclaves, and the Descent into the Depths of the Earth, all the way to the Vault of the Drow and the Demonweb Pits. We visited the Aerie of the Slave Lords, the Lost Caverns of Tsojcanth, and so many others. I was only in high school for four years... like anyone else... but I remember those adventures as well as I remember anything I did in the real world. And I have continued to hold them dear... and to have more... in the years since, up to today.
...to the point where I run the Dungeons and Dragons Club at the school where I work. Won awards for it, even. It's reading, it's writing, it's creative.
To some folks it isn't much, but to me... and to a few others... it's been entire worlds.
Yes, to this day, I can still taste that Orange Julius. It tastes like triumph.
I bought it because it was for COLLEGE guys, of course. I was in junior high at the time, and living out some of the worst years I'd had so far -- ask anyone in education what middle schoolers are like, if you want an earful of that -- and the idea of COLLEGE had great appeal to me. COLLEGE was when you were eighteen, no one could tell you what to do any more, and best of all, you got to go somewhere that WASN'T HERE, a place where no one knew you, a place where things HAPPENED, a place where you didn't have to drive ninety miles to buy a suit of clothes that weren't Western Wear, and where people talked about things other than oil, cattle, and football.
Y'know. Civilization.
And here was this magazine, talking about COLLEGE and what it was like. So I bought it. I HAD to buy it. Because in late '76 and '77, I hated my life, and I hated the place I lived, and I hated my hometown, and wanted nothing more than to go somewhere and start all over in a better place. I came to understand that this isn't far from typical for your basic seventh grader, but I didn't have a lot of perspective yet, y'know?
And I bought the magazine, and there was an article in it... about this thing that college guys did. Apparently, it was a game they played, unlike any other game that had ever been. And it was called "Dungeons and Dragons."
The article was an interesting read. The guys IN the article were unrepentant nerds, but I didn't know that. The GAME looked interesting though -- a sort of swords and sorcery thing that was played on a tabletop with miniature figurines, and didn't seem to have a distinct END, or victory conditions; winning simply meant that your "character" lived another day to have further adventures later.
I didn't know what it was, but it seemed to beat the hell out of Monopoly, and it certainly wasn't football. I began trying to find out more about this Dungeons and Dragons thing. Regrettably, the only sources of information available at the time were newspapers and news magazines, and coverage was spotty; the game wasn't a cultural phenomenon yet, not by far, and it didn't help that I lived WAY out in the boonies in what Robert McCammon referred to as the Great Fried Empty, the south end of the Rio Grande Valley.
But news spread. I ran across a newspaper article, and a short blurb in another magazine. They seemed to line up with what I'd already learned. And, of course, I read that copy of Rolling Stone's College Life to tatters. I honestly don't remember anything else that was in that issue; this weird new game had seized my imagination. I wondered what a "cleric" was. Fighters and wizards and thieves, that I could work out -- I had a working knowledge of "Lord Of The Rings" and the Ace "Conan" paperbacks -- but durned if I could figure out what a Cleric was, and I think it says something about the school system and my distance from any bright light of civilization, that of the three libraries in town (elementary, junior high, and high school), none of them had a dictionary that would EXPLAIN what a Cleric was. Clerks, no sweat, Clerical Work seemed to be what clerks did, and there was a thing called a Clerical Collar, whatever that was, but damned if I could find anything that just explained what a dratted CLERIC was.
I reread Rolling Stone's College Life, and I caught up on my Ace paperbacks with Conan in them. And Thongor the Barbarian; I figured it couldn't hurt. I drew pictures of warriors and dragons in History class, and wondered where one went about getting a copy of this Dungeons and Dragons thing.
And it was that December, finally, that the family took a trip to Laredo. Laredo was the closest major city to where I lived at the time, which ought to tell you something if you look at a map. But there was a mall there, the Mall del Norte, which was the subject of my quest. There were bookstores there...
...and the memory remains with me: seeing a cardboard standup display out front of Spencer Gifts. Stacked in that display were copies of the ancient Holmes Boxed Set, what would be known as the first Dungeons and Dragons Basic Set. Ten bucks. I promptly bought one.
I was disappointed that it contained no dice. It was one of those printed during the interregnum when TSR was having supply problems, and bound into the rules booklet were "Randomizer Chits" that you were supposed to cut out and put in Dixie cups, and draw numbers instead of rolling dice. Disappointment. But the rules themselves... the rules for this game were like nothing I'd ever seen before. I'd been right about my earlier supposition: you created a character -- a fictional character -- a swordsman, a wizard, a dwarf, an elf, a thief, or a hobbit -- and you walked this guy through worlds of adventure, gaining treasure, experience, glory... and possibly an untimely DEATH, meaning you'd have to roll up another character...
I was hooked. I taught a couple of friends how to play, and there was enthusiasm for the game. And the next time we went to the mall in Laredo, I was armed with an entire cashed paycheck from my first job. I can still tell you what I bought with it: A set of dice and a Player's Handbook from B. Dalton's Books, a Dungeon Master's Guide and a Monster Manual from Waldenbooks (they had no Players' Handbooks left), an Atari 2600 video game system at Sears... and I had about enough change left to buy the best Orange Julius I think I have ever had, right there in the main concourse. My old man was quite bent out of shape with me -- "You spent a WHOLE PAYCHECK? NOTHING left to put in the bank? Are you CRAZY?" -- but to this day, I have not even the shadow of a single regret for that glorious day.
My friends and I got started. There were addresses you could send off to for more information in the books -- I became well acquainted with the Dungeon Hobby Shop in Lake Geneva, and did a lot of business with them. I remember visiting Dallas in the summer of 1980, the summer everyone wondered who shot J.R. on "Dallas," and visiting my first real HOBBY SHOP... racks of miniatures, Avalon Hill and SPI wargames, and the White Box D&D sets that I still wish I'd bought, back when they were still cheap enough to afford... but I had the hardbacks, and that's all I thought I needed, back then. Them, and my Holmes Basic.
Through the years of high school, we fought through the Steading of the Hill Giant Chief, and through the other giant enclaves, and the Descent into the Depths of the Earth, all the way to the Vault of the Drow and the Demonweb Pits. We visited the Aerie of the Slave Lords, the Lost Caverns of Tsojcanth, and so many others. I was only in high school for four years... like anyone else... but I remember those adventures as well as I remember anything I did in the real world. And I have continued to hold them dear... and to have more... in the years since, up to today.
...to the point where I run the Dungeons and Dragons Club at the school where I work. Won awards for it, even. It's reading, it's writing, it's creative.
To some folks it isn't much, but to me... and to a few others... it's been entire worlds.
Yes, to this day, I can still taste that Orange Julius. It tastes like triumph.
The Rapture Of The Whipcream
It was the summer of 1978 that I learned about Nitrous Oxide.
My friend Jimmy was the coolest guy on earth, the Fonzie at the center of the world. He had a Chevy van with orange shag carpeting, a waterbed, a disco ball, and a built in eight track tape player, and he was saving up to get a mural airbrushed on the side.
To pay for this glorious excess, he worked as a stockboy at Stanley’s, a small chain of grocery stores down on the Texas coast. I don’t know if HEB has killed them all off yet, but back in 1978, you could still find them everywhere, and at one of them, Jimmy made the amazing discovery that N2O was used as the propellant that ejected the whipped cream out of the spray can.
In addition to his impossibly cool transportation, Jimmy also prided himself on always knowing where to get weed, disco biscuits, amyl nitrate, and other things (y’know, because it was the seventies, and it wasn’t drug abuse, it was a lifestyle), and he pondered how to add nitrous oxide to his repertoire. And Stanley’s provided him with the key to the mystery.
At the time, Reddi Wip and other aerosol whipcreams had upright nozzles; you push the nozzle to one side, and the cream would come out. But Stanley’s store brand, the cans were designed more like shaving cream cans: a button at the top with a nozzle poking out the side. Jimmy discovered that if you jammed a fairly thick pin into the gap between the button and the assembly, the nitrous would leak out and could be inhaled, or collected in a balloon for later use!
Well, this was a discovery of some magnitude for a mob of teenagers in 1978. A dime bag of weed was ten bucks and would quickly vanish, but a can of Stanley’s Whipped Cream Topping was only 59 cents, and was probably on sale on top of that! A great party was organized, and Jimmy was greatly lionized as the Renaissance Man of the Seventh Decade.
Jimmy had many friends, and it got to the point where he was selling a LOT of whipped cream. It was HIM selling it, because Stanley’s had these little customer satisfaction tickets, and if you turned in enough of them with your time card, you could get a cash bonus. And we ALL wanted to help out good ole Jimmy, so many tickets were filled out, singing Jimmy’s praises as the epitome of everything a fine and noble stockboy should BE!
So naturally, trouble followed. Management called him in for a chat.
“What’s the deal with the whipped cream, Jimmy?” asked the manager.
Jimmy, of course, refused to admit to anything; he’d have asked for a lawyer if he thought he could get away with it. “Beg pardon, sir?”
“The whipped cream, Jimmy. What are you doing with the whipped cream?”
“Um... selling it to customers, sir? That IS what I’m supposed to be doing... right?”
The manager sighed. “Jimmy, when you turned in a hundred and fifteen Customer Satisfaction tickets with your last time card, I was sure you were having your friends come in and fill them out so you could steal from the company.”
Jimmy’s stomach dropped about ten floors.
The manager continued. “So I noticed a lot of these tickets talked about whipped cream. So I ran the numbers. In the past month, this store has sold FIVE TIMES as much whipped cream as any other Stanley’s! We’ve sold almost TWICE as much whipped cream -- in the middle of summer -- as we normally sell in NOVEMBER, when there’s THANKSGIVING! You’re NOT cheating the system. You’re selling whipped cream like it was going out of style! What in God’s name are you doing to sell all this whipped cream?”
Jimmy remained outwardly calm. Between his ears, the wheels spun at a frightful rate. He didn’t DARE tell the truth -- he didn’t want to be the guy who derailed the party train -- so he decided to bounce it back. “Um... well, it’s because of YOU, sir.”
“Wha?”
(A while back, the manager had made a big noise about how everyone should be a salesman, even the stockboys, pestering customers to buy more and other things than what they had. Everyone had ignored the manager, but Jimmy pounced on this and made this amazing story about how he’d taken it to heart, and how now when ANYONE walked through the bakery section, Jimmy would pounce on them with a lyrical pitch about how Stanley’s Whipped Cream Topping turns a cake into a FESTIVAL, only 59 cents, AND it’s on SALE, and you’d be amazed how many people just say, whatthehell, and drop a can into the cart...)
Well, it turned out that the appeal to ego was exactly the right move. It turned out that upper administration hadn’t thought much of THIS manager’s motivational program with the tickets (too easy for employees to cheat) and they’d thought his point of sale program where you got stockboys and cashiers to push product was just dumb. But THIS fine, motivated young man had taken it to HEART and earned himself a fine bonus, AND quintupled the sales of a given product! VINDICATION!
And Jimmy was off the hook, and a great party was held to lionize this Renaissance man of the seventh decade.
Until the following week when the manager told Jimmy he’d be attending a management conference and giving a speech.
Jimmy said “Wha?”
The manager explained that he wanted Jimmy to give a longer, fruitier version of the speech given in the Manager’s office, to vindicate the man’s programs.
Jimmy began to explain that he had plans that weekend--
Management offered a $200 cash bonus if he did, on TOP of the ticket bonus and his regular paycheck. Plus, there would be a champagne buffet afterwards.
Jimmy promptly agreed that this was a speech that needed to be given! Between the two bonuses, he’d have enough to pay off the airbrush artist to do that Star Wars mural on BOTH sides of the van...
And Jimmy stood at a podium at the Hilton and gave a speech in front of a roomful of grocery managers and assistant managers and spun a line of absolute crap about how to sell whipped cream to housewives. And there was much applause. Jimmy pondered whether the van’s port side would have a head and shoulders bust of Darth Vader or portray the lightsaber battle between Vader and Obi-Wan Kenobi. And then, everyone broke for lunch and headed for the champagne buffet, where sparkling wine was served in plastic glasses...
...and the Assistant Manager For Bakery clapped a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “All right, Jimmy, cut the crap. What’s REALLY going on?”
“Wha?”
“The old man’s being going on about how you’re the hottest thing in the store because you know how to sell. Everybody should sell like Jimmy! So I’ve been WATCHING you.”
Jimmy’s stomach dropped about ten floors, and he nervously gulped the rest of the champagne.
“Last week, I didn’t see you talking to any housewives. What I DID see was a whole damn biker gang walk in and ask if you were working, and where you were. I kept an eye open in case I had to call the cops. But they talked to you for five minutes, signed your ticket, and bought ten cases of beer and two cases of WHIPPED CREAM! Now what the hell is going on?”
Jimmy gulped. “Well... okay, you got me... I couldn’t tell the old man what was REALLY going on...”
Asst. Manager Of Bakery grinned. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Keep talking.”
Jimmy closed his eyes. “Y’see... they’re buying it for sex.”
AMOB boggled. “Wha?”
“Y’start with some guy, right? You have a can of whip cream, and you test him by asking “Hey, I bet you’re popular with the ladies, right?” and if you think he’s the right customer, you say something like “You know that thing that they don’t wanna do? They’ll do it if you put a TOPPING on it!” and you hold up the can of whip cream, right?”
AMOB boggled some more.
“Fifty nine cents. And it’s on sale!”
AMOB looked skeptical. Jimmy shoveled onwards.
“And you see some pretty lady, hot pants, big hair, spangled tube top, right? You let her know that they’ll kiss her where she’s never been kissed before if she puts a TOPPING on it! Liven things up! Fifty-nine cents! And it’s on sale!”
AMOB looked stunned. Jimmy went for broke.
“And the beauty of it? REPEAT CUSTOMERS! Once it WORKS, they’ll be back and buying the stuff EVERY WEEK! That’s why the BIKERS came in! They KNEW about this stuff, because I sold it to them WEEKS ago! That’s why my numbers are so high! Once you get the ball ROLLING it don’t STOP! FIFTY-NINE CENTS A CAN, BABY! AND IT’S ON SALE!”
And in the roomful of drunk grocery managers, the two of them stood in silence.
“Wow.” AMOB stood, pondering. “Okay. That’s amazing. All right. Enjoy your lunch.” And he walked off.
And Jimmy promptly knocked back another glass of champagne as the tension drained out of him. Dodged a bullet AGAIN! Although he noted that AMOB seemed to be chatting with a group of junior management... and several of the people he was talking with glanced sharply at Jimmy...
And that night after the conference, we held yet another grand party to lionize this Renaissance man of the seventh decade, and to celebrate the beginning of the artwork on his van of vans.
And then, three weeks later, Jimmy threw yet ANOTHER party of parties... partly to celebrate the completion of the airbrush work... but also to celebrate his promotion to Assistant Manager Of Bakery, a thing unheard of at Jimmy’s tender age of eighteen! Promotion! Raise! Prospects!
Turns out there were more than a few assistant management slots opening up at Stanley’s grocery stores, all of a sudden. It actually made the papers at one point that a great many assistant managers seemed to be getting arrested (and subsequently fired) for some sort of vague sex offenses that the paper wouldn’t go into details about......
My friend Jimmy was the coolest guy on earth, the Fonzie at the center of the world. He had a Chevy van with orange shag carpeting, a waterbed, a disco ball, and a built in eight track tape player, and he was saving up to get a mural airbrushed on the side.
To pay for this glorious excess, he worked as a stockboy at Stanley’s, a small chain of grocery stores down on the Texas coast. I don’t know if HEB has killed them all off yet, but back in 1978, you could still find them everywhere, and at one of them, Jimmy made the amazing discovery that N2O was used as the propellant that ejected the whipped cream out of the spray can.
In addition to his impossibly cool transportation, Jimmy also prided himself on always knowing where to get weed, disco biscuits, amyl nitrate, and other things (y’know, because it was the seventies, and it wasn’t drug abuse, it was a lifestyle), and he pondered how to add nitrous oxide to his repertoire. And Stanley’s provided him with the key to the mystery.
At the time, Reddi Wip and other aerosol whipcreams had upright nozzles; you push the nozzle to one side, and the cream would come out. But Stanley’s store brand, the cans were designed more like shaving cream cans: a button at the top with a nozzle poking out the side. Jimmy discovered that if you jammed a fairly thick pin into the gap between the button and the assembly, the nitrous would leak out and could be inhaled, or collected in a balloon for later use!
Well, this was a discovery of some magnitude for a mob of teenagers in 1978. A dime bag of weed was ten bucks and would quickly vanish, but a can of Stanley’s Whipped Cream Topping was only 59 cents, and was probably on sale on top of that! A great party was organized, and Jimmy was greatly lionized as the Renaissance Man of the Seventh Decade.
Jimmy had many friends, and it got to the point where he was selling a LOT of whipped cream. It was HIM selling it, because Stanley’s had these little customer satisfaction tickets, and if you turned in enough of them with your time card, you could get a cash bonus. And we ALL wanted to help out good ole Jimmy, so many tickets were filled out, singing Jimmy’s praises as the epitome of everything a fine and noble stockboy should BE!
So naturally, trouble followed. Management called him in for a chat.
“What’s the deal with the whipped cream, Jimmy?” asked the manager.
Jimmy, of course, refused to admit to anything; he’d have asked for a lawyer if he thought he could get away with it. “Beg pardon, sir?”
“The whipped cream, Jimmy. What are you doing with the whipped cream?”
“Um... selling it to customers, sir? That IS what I’m supposed to be doing... right?”
The manager sighed. “Jimmy, when you turned in a hundred and fifteen Customer Satisfaction tickets with your last time card, I was sure you were having your friends come in and fill them out so you could steal from the company.”
Jimmy’s stomach dropped about ten floors.
The manager continued. “So I noticed a lot of these tickets talked about whipped cream. So I ran the numbers. In the past month, this store has sold FIVE TIMES as much whipped cream as any other Stanley’s! We’ve sold almost TWICE as much whipped cream -- in the middle of summer -- as we normally sell in NOVEMBER, when there’s THANKSGIVING! You’re NOT cheating the system. You’re selling whipped cream like it was going out of style! What in God’s name are you doing to sell all this whipped cream?”
Jimmy remained outwardly calm. Between his ears, the wheels spun at a frightful rate. He didn’t DARE tell the truth -- he didn’t want to be the guy who derailed the party train -- so he decided to bounce it back. “Um... well, it’s because of YOU, sir.”
“Wha?”
(A while back, the manager had made a big noise about how everyone should be a salesman, even the stockboys, pestering customers to buy more and other things than what they had. Everyone had ignored the manager, but Jimmy pounced on this and made this amazing story about how he’d taken it to heart, and how now when ANYONE walked through the bakery section, Jimmy would pounce on them with a lyrical pitch about how Stanley’s Whipped Cream Topping turns a cake into a FESTIVAL, only 59 cents, AND it’s on SALE, and you’d be amazed how many people just say, whatthehell, and drop a can into the cart...)
Well, it turned out that the appeal to ego was exactly the right move. It turned out that upper administration hadn’t thought much of THIS manager’s motivational program with the tickets (too easy for employees to cheat) and they’d thought his point of sale program where you got stockboys and cashiers to push product was just dumb. But THIS fine, motivated young man had taken it to HEART and earned himself a fine bonus, AND quintupled the sales of a given product! VINDICATION!
And Jimmy was off the hook, and a great party was held to lionize this Renaissance man of the seventh decade.
Until the following week when the manager told Jimmy he’d be attending a management conference and giving a speech.
Jimmy said “Wha?”
The manager explained that he wanted Jimmy to give a longer, fruitier version of the speech given in the Manager’s office, to vindicate the man’s programs.
Jimmy began to explain that he had plans that weekend--
Management offered a $200 cash bonus if he did, on TOP of the ticket bonus and his regular paycheck. Plus, there would be a champagne buffet afterwards.
Jimmy promptly agreed that this was a speech that needed to be given! Between the two bonuses, he’d have enough to pay off the airbrush artist to do that Star Wars mural on BOTH sides of the van...
And Jimmy stood at a podium at the Hilton and gave a speech in front of a roomful of grocery managers and assistant managers and spun a line of absolute crap about how to sell whipped cream to housewives. And there was much applause. Jimmy pondered whether the van’s port side would have a head and shoulders bust of Darth Vader or portray the lightsaber battle between Vader and Obi-Wan Kenobi. And then, everyone broke for lunch and headed for the champagne buffet, where sparkling wine was served in plastic glasses...
...and the Assistant Manager For Bakery clapped a hand on Jimmy’s shoulder. “All right, Jimmy, cut the crap. What’s REALLY going on?”
“Wha?”
“The old man’s being going on about how you’re the hottest thing in the store because you know how to sell. Everybody should sell like Jimmy! So I’ve been WATCHING you.”
Jimmy’s stomach dropped about ten floors, and he nervously gulped the rest of the champagne.
“Last week, I didn’t see you talking to any housewives. What I DID see was a whole damn biker gang walk in and ask if you were working, and where you were. I kept an eye open in case I had to call the cops. But they talked to you for five minutes, signed your ticket, and bought ten cases of beer and two cases of WHIPPED CREAM! Now what the hell is going on?”
Jimmy gulped. “Well... okay, you got me... I couldn’t tell the old man what was REALLY going on...”
Asst. Manager Of Bakery grinned. “Now we’re getting somewhere. Keep talking.”
Jimmy closed his eyes. “Y’see... they’re buying it for sex.”
AMOB boggled. “Wha?”
“Y’start with some guy, right? You have a can of whip cream, and you test him by asking “Hey, I bet you’re popular with the ladies, right?” and if you think he’s the right customer, you say something like “You know that thing that they don’t wanna do? They’ll do it if you put a TOPPING on it!” and you hold up the can of whip cream, right?”
AMOB boggled some more.
“Fifty nine cents. And it’s on sale!”
AMOB looked skeptical. Jimmy shoveled onwards.
“And you see some pretty lady, hot pants, big hair, spangled tube top, right? You let her know that they’ll kiss her where she’s never been kissed before if she puts a TOPPING on it! Liven things up! Fifty-nine cents! And it’s on sale!”
AMOB looked stunned. Jimmy went for broke.
“And the beauty of it? REPEAT CUSTOMERS! Once it WORKS, they’ll be back and buying the stuff EVERY WEEK! That’s why the BIKERS came in! They KNEW about this stuff, because I sold it to them WEEKS ago! That’s why my numbers are so high! Once you get the ball ROLLING it don’t STOP! FIFTY-NINE CENTS A CAN, BABY! AND IT’S ON SALE!”
And in the roomful of drunk grocery managers, the two of them stood in silence.
“Wow.” AMOB stood, pondering. “Okay. That’s amazing. All right. Enjoy your lunch.” And he walked off.
And Jimmy promptly knocked back another glass of champagne as the tension drained out of him. Dodged a bullet AGAIN! Although he noted that AMOB seemed to be chatting with a group of junior management... and several of the people he was talking with glanced sharply at Jimmy...
And that night after the conference, we held yet another grand party to lionize this Renaissance man of the seventh decade, and to celebrate the beginning of the artwork on his van of vans.
And then, three weeks later, Jimmy threw yet ANOTHER party of parties... partly to celebrate the completion of the airbrush work... but also to celebrate his promotion to Assistant Manager Of Bakery, a thing unheard of at Jimmy’s tender age of eighteen! Promotion! Raise! Prospects!
Turns out there were more than a few assistant management slots opening up at Stanley’s grocery stores, all of a sudden. It actually made the papers at one point that a great many assistant managers seemed to be getting arrested (and subsequently fired) for some sort of vague sex offenses that the paper wouldn’t go into details about......
Monday, January 22, 2024
The Book Of Dead Names
Going to get on the soapbox for a minnit. Going to be loud and profane and opinionated. Them what don't want to hear it, consider yourselves notified.
For those of you who care: You have a right to determine your feckin' name.
I have that right. You have that right. We all gots that right, every one of us.
I'm gonna pick on Michael Peters, 'cuz he's a sport with a sense of humor. He, like everyone else, has a right to determine what people call him. I know he does not like "Mike." Perhaps he wants you to call him "Mr. Peters." He prefers that I call him "Michael." And all of that's perfectly okay.
Someday, he might want people to call him "Dark Overlord Michael O'Kittensquisher, ravener of the night and eviscerator of the gods, dark overlord of Hell." And on that day, I might well tell him to go there and wait. But he has the right to at least determine what people will call him, even if it's goofy as hell.
I have strong feelings about this, because I grew up with people making fun of my name. It's bad enough when the first thing someone does upon meeting you is to make a joke out of your damn NAME, but I've met plenty who decided that I was an unpleasant person because I didn't like the joke, didn't want to participate in the joke, didn't find the joke funny after several thousand iterations, and most certainly didn't want to participate in the mockery of basic courtesy that occurs when you MAKE A FECKIN' JOKE OUT OF MY DAMN NAME!
Remember that, folks. I introduce myself, and the first thing you do is horselaugh about my hilarious name and mock me to my face about it? You might as well just hock up a loogie and spit in my eyes. As far as courtesy, manners, and first impressions go, it's essentially the same thing, and I don't care what your so-called intentions were.
Don't insist it was a joke. Don't try to softpedal it or laugh it off. You chose to be an ass to a person you just met, and you can damn well carry the consequences of that. And I've played this unpleasant game enough times that I WILL call you out on it.
All of you who just said, "Hey, pleased to meetcha," please consider yourselves exempt from this rant.
This brings us to "deadnames."
Like I said, you got rights. You can call yourself "Firstname," or "Lastname," or "Mr. Lastname," or even "Mr. Firstname;" I do just that at work. You can call yourself whatever the hell you want. It's your call, NOT MINE. Or anyone else's.
But it seems to me that if your name was Adolf, and you got tired of Hitler jokes, and you changed your name to Bob, and I kept following you around and making Hitler jokes and calling you a name you had discarded, this is essentially spitting in your face again. "You don't GET to be Bob! I demand that you are ADOLF! ADOLF FOREVER, because I SAID SO!"
And this is a thing you have no right to do. These are the words of someone who has chosen to be a major dick.
Trans folks often change their names. They take on new names to match the new identities and self-images they build, because they're tired of conforming to someone else's expectations. They want to make their OWN call, dammit. And it seems to me that the freedom to decide who you are is the most basic of all freedoms.
If you or a politician or some rando on the street gets to decide who I am, how free AM I? So if I'm not going to be a hypocrite, I need to give that same freedom to you and Bob Who Was Formerly Adolf, and John Wayne Who Was Formerly Marion Morrison, and every single trans person on the planet. It's all of us or none of us.
Speaking of trans folks, the picture below is of Jennell Jaquays, who was trans and out and proud. I never met her IRL, but we talked on Facebook quite a bit; I am privileged in that she was accessible as all hell and willing to be talkative and even chummy with some rando on the internet who happened to be me. I was and am a big fan of her work.
She died on the tenth of January, this year. I miss her. I miss our conversations on Facebook about her old work and whatever was going on with her at home and blah blah blah. I never met her, but I felt like I knew her, at least a little. Enough to feel the gut punch of knowing that the circle is smaller by one. Enough to miss her.
And it burns my biscuits to no damn end that she's gone, and that there seem to be no shortage of people out there who will acknowledge all the cool stuff she did and created and made... while deadnaming her to the dogs and back... either not understanding what that means... or just not caring.
I have a difficult time with people who spit in your face while saying, "I really admire your work, but I spit on you as a person." Because that's what it feels like. This post is too long already. I'm going to shut it off now. But before I do... just... don't be a sonofabitch, okay? Give folks the freedom to decide who they are, and what they're called, and don't show us all your ass by deadnaming someone who's gone, and can't call you out on it.
Okay? Because you're not deciding who they are. You're not deciding or declaring or forcing anything. All you're doing is showing us all what a prick you are.
Miss you, Jennell. I'm sorry I couldn't do better.
For those of you who care: You have a right to determine your feckin' name.
I have that right. You have that right. We all gots that right, every one of us.
I'm gonna pick on Michael Peters, 'cuz he's a sport with a sense of humor. He, like everyone else, has a right to determine what people call him. I know he does not like "Mike." Perhaps he wants you to call him "Mr. Peters." He prefers that I call him "Michael." And all of that's perfectly okay.
Someday, he might want people to call him "Dark Overlord Michael O'Kittensquisher, ravener of the night and eviscerator of the gods, dark overlord of Hell." And on that day, I might well tell him to go there and wait. But he has the right to at least determine what people will call him, even if it's goofy as hell.
I have strong feelings about this, because I grew up with people making fun of my name. It's bad enough when the first thing someone does upon meeting you is to make a joke out of your damn NAME, but I've met plenty who decided that I was an unpleasant person because I didn't like the joke, didn't want to participate in the joke, didn't find the joke funny after several thousand iterations, and most certainly didn't want to participate in the mockery of basic courtesy that occurs when you MAKE A FECKIN' JOKE OUT OF MY DAMN NAME!
Remember that, folks. I introduce myself, and the first thing you do is horselaugh about my hilarious name and mock me to my face about it? You might as well just hock up a loogie and spit in my eyes. As far as courtesy, manners, and first impressions go, it's essentially the same thing, and I don't care what your so-called intentions were.
Don't insist it was a joke. Don't try to softpedal it or laugh it off. You chose to be an ass to a person you just met, and you can damn well carry the consequences of that. And I've played this unpleasant game enough times that I WILL call you out on it.
All of you who just said, "Hey, pleased to meetcha," please consider yourselves exempt from this rant.
This brings us to "deadnames."
Like I said, you got rights. You can call yourself "Firstname," or "Lastname," or "Mr. Lastname," or even "Mr. Firstname;" I do just that at work. You can call yourself whatever the hell you want. It's your call, NOT MINE. Or anyone else's.
But it seems to me that if your name was Adolf, and you got tired of Hitler jokes, and you changed your name to Bob, and I kept following you around and making Hitler jokes and calling you a name you had discarded, this is essentially spitting in your face again. "You don't GET to be Bob! I demand that you are ADOLF! ADOLF FOREVER, because I SAID SO!"
And this is a thing you have no right to do. These are the words of someone who has chosen to be a major dick.
Trans folks often change their names. They take on new names to match the new identities and self-images they build, because they're tired of conforming to someone else's expectations. They want to make their OWN call, dammit. And it seems to me that the freedom to decide who you are is the most basic of all freedoms.
If you or a politician or some rando on the street gets to decide who I am, how free AM I? So if I'm not going to be a hypocrite, I need to give that same freedom to you and Bob Who Was Formerly Adolf, and John Wayne Who Was Formerly Marion Morrison, and every single trans person on the planet. It's all of us or none of us.
Speaking of trans folks, the picture below is of Jennell Jaquays, who was trans and out and proud. I never met her IRL, but we talked on Facebook quite a bit; I am privileged in that she was accessible as all hell and willing to be talkative and even chummy with some rando on the internet who happened to be me. I was and am a big fan of her work.
She died on the tenth of January, this year. I miss her. I miss our conversations on Facebook about her old work and whatever was going on with her at home and blah blah blah. I never met her, but I felt like I knew her, at least a little. Enough to feel the gut punch of knowing that the circle is smaller by one. Enough to miss her.
And it burns my biscuits to no damn end that she's gone, and that there seem to be no shortage of people out there who will acknowledge all the cool stuff she did and created and made... while deadnaming her to the dogs and back... either not understanding what that means... or just not caring.
I have a difficult time with people who spit in your face while saying, "I really admire your work, but I spit on you as a person." Because that's what it feels like. This post is too long already. I'm going to shut it off now. But before I do... just... don't be a sonofabitch, okay? Give folks the freedom to decide who they are, and what they're called, and don't show us all your ass by deadnaming someone who's gone, and can't call you out on it.
Okay? Because you're not deciding who they are. You're not deciding or declaring or forcing anything. All you're doing is showing us all what a prick you are.
Miss you, Jennell. I'm sorry I couldn't do better.
Tuesday, January 16, 2024
Just Say No: A Tale Of Retail
I'm a bad person.
That being said, I used to work at a convenience store. Spent several months working there until a serial robber/murderer who was working his way south out of Austin finally made me nervous enough to quit the job before he came far enough south to notice my little mom and pop gas station in north San Marcos.
Usually, when I think about the place, I think about the Beer People. Texas, at the time, had blue laws forbidding the sale of booze before noon on Sunday, and as the low guy on the totem pole, I worked EVERY Sunday morning. And dealt with loud, confrontational idjits who simply could not see why I wouldn't risk jail and being fired just so they could have a twelve pack for breakfast. EVERY Sunday.
But today, I remembered the Four High Guys.
The bars closed in San Marcos at two, which was when it became illegal to sell beer on Sunday morning. I had a graveyard shift this particular occasion, so I sold a hell of a lot of beer and cigarettes, up until about two, after which business utterly died. And so, I sat and read a paperback and occasionally looked around for something to do.
Around three... the car pulled up. And pulled up and pulled up and pulled up. Slooooowly. There were four young men in it, two of which were looking out each window, apparently at the stripes painted to mark the parking spots. They stopped, pulled back out, and sloooowly began pulling up again. As near as I could tell, they were trying to position the car EXACTLY between the yellow lines.This went on for a while. Finally, the car was positioned precisely where they wanted it, and the driver killed the engine. And then they all looked at me.
I did not look back at them. I watched 'em out of the corner of my eye, in the mirror. I already had an idea about these guys.
Upon verifying I wasn't watching, an animated discussion broke out. There was much gesturing. I noted that these gestures weren't the sloppy, fluid gestures of drunks. No. These were the rapid, precise, sharp gestures of people who were not in the least bit drunk, and had adopted their altered state from other chemicals entirely, some of which may not be found in nature.
After a few minutes, a heated four way game of rock-paper-scissors broke out. It took a bit, because one of the contestants had apparently forgotten how to play.
Finally, it was determined that the passenger side front seat guy had lost. He looked disappointed. Then he looked at me and looked a bit frightened. And he got out of the car and entered the store.
I paid him no mind. That's what the mirrors are for. He looked around, hypnotized and dazzled by the fluorescents. He looked like what sinners must look like when they pass the pearly gates and see the face of God. Mm-hm. We were dealing with the Clear White Light, here, or perhaps mushrooms.
He began carefully wandering up and down the aisles. I watched him in the mirrors while looking utterly disinterested. At one point, he stopped and began carefully examining the motor oil display. After a moment, he began rearranging it, making sure the brands were segregated and the cans were properly spaced.
HONK!
He jumped out of his shoes, just about, and then IMMEDIATELY proceeded to the cold case. Whoopsie. He'd lost focus, and his homies were unhappy. Time to fix that. He reached the cold case, dipped into his pocket, and came out with a piece of paper. He unfolded it... and unfolded it, and unfolded it, and unfolded it, and then peered carefully at it... and began selecting items from the case.
I looked up at him with mild interest as he approached the counter, as if I had just now noticed him. On the counter, he put a bottle of water, and four bottles of orange juice. Yup. Urban legend says that when you begin to come down, a jolt of vitamin C will kick you back up for a little while. The Clear White Light, for sure.
He looked at me. I looked at him.
I said nothing. I stood there and stared at him blankly. He began to look nervous.
In truth, within my skull, a battle royal was raging to see who would win: my good twin or my evil twin. My good twin wanted to ring the guy up, take his money, make change, and send him on his way. My evil twin had other ideas.
As the stare and the silence became more and more uncomfortable, the poor guy giggled nervously, and then forced the grin down. He took the piece of paper out again, unfolded it and unfolded it and unfolded it and unfolded it, and peered at it carefully.
"Um," he said. (giggle). (pause). (forced blank face). "Hello. Good morning. I... (snicker)(blank face)... would like... two packs of... (glance at paper again)... Mar'boro Lights 100s." (Look of relief. He'd managed to get through the sentence, and begin human interaction with a non high person. Now, if he could just hold it together...)
And my evil side won by a landslide.
"Heigh-ho," I said, adopting a professional attitude and a VERY slight Eastern European accent. "Burwati. Do-bizzo hoksu mitto? Gormuloi boltagon."
He stared at me. He tried to interpret what I was saying. He failed utterly, and a slow look of horror began to spread across his face.
"Arrowshirt clearasil," I added. "Ngaio marsh. Meow?"
The "meow," I think, finally tipped him over. His face and emotions were fighting as fiercely as my good and evil side had been a second earlier, except that part of him seemed convinced that he'd forgotten how to understand English, and was horrified, and the other part just wanted to laugh hysterically. He slowly sank to his knees, giggling hysterically AND looking horrified, like a hero in a Lovecraft story who's seen too much, TOO MUCH, and madness is taking its toll...
And as he sank to his knees, giggling like a horrified machine gun, his friends realized he was in trouble, and all three of them exited the car, and stormed in the doors......and then stood there, dazzled by the fluorescents.
"Is this guy with you?" I said, ringing up the OJ and cigarettes. "He's weird. Is he high or something?" Their friend by now was on his knees in front of the counter, giggling like a hypercaffeinated Uzi, utterly oblivious to all around him.
They all stopped cold and looked at each other in a way that would have had any reasonably experienced cop doing a facepalm.
"Uh," one of them said. "Yuh. Nuh. Uh, no. He's just drunk. I'll pay for the stuff."
"Dang," I said. "I hope he ain't drivin'." I bagged the stuff and handed it over to Mr. Natural, who thrust a ten at me, handed the bag to one of his sidekicks, and he and the other guy carefully hooked arms under our hero's armpits and began hoisting him to his feet, still giggling in horror.
"Thank you, come again!" I called after them as they hustled him into the car and did a fast fade.
No, I'm not a good person at all.
That being said, I used to work at a convenience store. Spent several months working there until a serial robber/murderer who was working his way south out of Austin finally made me nervous enough to quit the job before he came far enough south to notice my little mom and pop gas station in north San Marcos.
Usually, when I think about the place, I think about the Beer People. Texas, at the time, had blue laws forbidding the sale of booze before noon on Sunday, and as the low guy on the totem pole, I worked EVERY Sunday morning. And dealt with loud, confrontational idjits who simply could not see why I wouldn't risk jail and being fired just so they could have a twelve pack for breakfast. EVERY Sunday.
But today, I remembered the Four High Guys.
The bars closed in San Marcos at two, which was when it became illegal to sell beer on Sunday morning. I had a graveyard shift this particular occasion, so I sold a hell of a lot of beer and cigarettes, up until about two, after which business utterly died. And so, I sat and read a paperback and occasionally looked around for something to do.
Around three... the car pulled up. And pulled up and pulled up and pulled up. Slooooowly. There were four young men in it, two of which were looking out each window, apparently at the stripes painted to mark the parking spots. They stopped, pulled back out, and sloooowly began pulling up again. As near as I could tell, they were trying to position the car EXACTLY between the yellow lines.This went on for a while. Finally, the car was positioned precisely where they wanted it, and the driver killed the engine. And then they all looked at me.
I did not look back at them. I watched 'em out of the corner of my eye, in the mirror. I already had an idea about these guys.
Upon verifying I wasn't watching, an animated discussion broke out. There was much gesturing. I noted that these gestures weren't the sloppy, fluid gestures of drunks. No. These were the rapid, precise, sharp gestures of people who were not in the least bit drunk, and had adopted their altered state from other chemicals entirely, some of which may not be found in nature.
After a few minutes, a heated four way game of rock-paper-scissors broke out. It took a bit, because one of the contestants had apparently forgotten how to play.
Finally, it was determined that the passenger side front seat guy had lost. He looked disappointed. Then he looked at me and looked a bit frightened. And he got out of the car and entered the store.
I paid him no mind. That's what the mirrors are for. He looked around, hypnotized and dazzled by the fluorescents. He looked like what sinners must look like when they pass the pearly gates and see the face of God. Mm-hm. We were dealing with the Clear White Light, here, or perhaps mushrooms.
He began carefully wandering up and down the aisles. I watched him in the mirrors while looking utterly disinterested. At one point, he stopped and began carefully examining the motor oil display. After a moment, he began rearranging it, making sure the brands were segregated and the cans were properly spaced.
HONK!
He jumped out of his shoes, just about, and then IMMEDIATELY proceeded to the cold case. Whoopsie. He'd lost focus, and his homies were unhappy. Time to fix that. He reached the cold case, dipped into his pocket, and came out with a piece of paper. He unfolded it... and unfolded it, and unfolded it, and unfolded it, and then peered carefully at it... and began selecting items from the case.
I looked up at him with mild interest as he approached the counter, as if I had just now noticed him. On the counter, he put a bottle of water, and four bottles of orange juice. Yup. Urban legend says that when you begin to come down, a jolt of vitamin C will kick you back up for a little while. The Clear White Light, for sure.
He looked at me. I looked at him.
I said nothing. I stood there and stared at him blankly. He began to look nervous.
In truth, within my skull, a battle royal was raging to see who would win: my good twin or my evil twin. My good twin wanted to ring the guy up, take his money, make change, and send him on his way. My evil twin had other ideas.
As the stare and the silence became more and more uncomfortable, the poor guy giggled nervously, and then forced the grin down. He took the piece of paper out again, unfolded it and unfolded it and unfolded it and unfolded it, and peered at it carefully.
"Um," he said. (giggle). (pause). (forced blank face). "Hello. Good morning. I... (snicker)(blank face)... would like... two packs of... (glance at paper again)... Mar'boro Lights 100s." (Look of relief. He'd managed to get through the sentence, and begin human interaction with a non high person. Now, if he could just hold it together...)
And my evil side won by a landslide.
"Heigh-ho," I said, adopting a professional attitude and a VERY slight Eastern European accent. "Burwati. Do-bizzo hoksu mitto? Gormuloi boltagon."
He stared at me. He tried to interpret what I was saying. He failed utterly, and a slow look of horror began to spread across his face.
"Arrowshirt clearasil," I added. "Ngaio marsh. Meow?"
The "meow," I think, finally tipped him over. His face and emotions were fighting as fiercely as my good and evil side had been a second earlier, except that part of him seemed convinced that he'd forgotten how to understand English, and was horrified, and the other part just wanted to laugh hysterically. He slowly sank to his knees, giggling hysterically AND looking horrified, like a hero in a Lovecraft story who's seen too much, TOO MUCH, and madness is taking its toll...
And as he sank to his knees, giggling like a horrified machine gun, his friends realized he was in trouble, and all three of them exited the car, and stormed in the doors......and then stood there, dazzled by the fluorescents.
"Is this guy with you?" I said, ringing up the OJ and cigarettes. "He's weird. Is he high or something?" Their friend by now was on his knees in front of the counter, giggling like a hypercaffeinated Uzi, utterly oblivious to all around him.
They all stopped cold and looked at each other in a way that would have had any reasonably experienced cop doing a facepalm.
"Uh," one of them said. "Yuh. Nuh. Uh, no. He's just drunk. I'll pay for the stuff."
"Dang," I said. "I hope he ain't drivin'." I bagged the stuff and handed it over to Mr. Natural, who thrust a ten at me, handed the bag to one of his sidekicks, and he and the other guy carefully hooked arms under our hero's armpits and began hoisting him to his feet, still giggling in horror.
"Thank you, come again!" I called after them as they hustled him into the car and did a fast fade.
No, I'm not a good person at all.
Another Memory, Early Childhood
A memory crystallized in my head today.
The year is 1968, or ‘69, or maybe even 1970. I would have been five years old, give or take a year.
Mommy has sent me to the store. In my pocket is fifty cents. The little mom and pop grocery where we normally shop is some three blocks away, and the town is quite small; no one thinks anything of a five year old wandering around the neighborhood, if he stays out of traffic and out of trouble; it’s even odds that everyone who sees me knows who I am and who my parents are.
I have an errand to run. I don’t mind; the payoff is a generous one for twenty minutes of time and a three block walk, even if my little legs make it feel like a long walk indeed. I walk into the store; one of the ladies at the checkout recognizes me and says hello. I wave back, and head for the comic book rack. Which comic will it be? My tastes at the time ran towards Casper The Friendly Ghost, or perhaps Richie Rich, but Archie was usually pretty good, or perhaps Hot Stuff The Little Devil, a comic that was considered acceptable for children’s consumption at the time (no worse than Casper, really), but would be screamingly assaulted by parent and religious groups today, at the mere sight of its red, horned, pitchfork bearing protagonist.
I choose a comic that suits me, and head for the checkout, and put it on the counter, well over my head and almost out of reach. The nice blonde lady is there; at the time, I remembered her name, but now it’s long lost. She asks me, “Is there anything else today?”
“Yes’m,” I reply. I am being a good boy today, and remember my manners. “Need cigarettes.”
“Winstons, right?” says the blonde lady.
“Yes, ma’am”
She takes a red pack of Winston shorts down from the rack, and rings up the smokes and comic on a manual register; the change comes to something like six cents. We thank each other for the transaction, and I trot back to the house, eager to begin reading my comic.
Mom is in the kitchen. I hand her the smokes and the change, and find a place to begin reading...
Yeah, that happened. And I think I remember it so well because I seem to remember that it happened once or twice a week...
The year is 1968, or ‘69, or maybe even 1970. I would have been five years old, give or take a year.
Mommy has sent me to the store. In my pocket is fifty cents. The little mom and pop grocery where we normally shop is some three blocks away, and the town is quite small; no one thinks anything of a five year old wandering around the neighborhood, if he stays out of traffic and out of trouble; it’s even odds that everyone who sees me knows who I am and who my parents are.
I have an errand to run. I don’t mind; the payoff is a generous one for twenty minutes of time and a three block walk, even if my little legs make it feel like a long walk indeed. I walk into the store; one of the ladies at the checkout recognizes me and says hello. I wave back, and head for the comic book rack. Which comic will it be? My tastes at the time ran towards Casper The Friendly Ghost, or perhaps Richie Rich, but Archie was usually pretty good, or perhaps Hot Stuff The Little Devil, a comic that was considered acceptable for children’s consumption at the time (no worse than Casper, really), but would be screamingly assaulted by parent and religious groups today, at the mere sight of its red, horned, pitchfork bearing protagonist.
I choose a comic that suits me, and head for the checkout, and put it on the counter, well over my head and almost out of reach. The nice blonde lady is there; at the time, I remembered her name, but now it’s long lost. She asks me, “Is there anything else today?”
“Yes’m,” I reply. I am being a good boy today, and remember my manners. “Need cigarettes.”
“Winstons, right?” says the blonde lady.
“Yes, ma’am”
She takes a red pack of Winston shorts down from the rack, and rings up the smokes and comic on a manual register; the change comes to something like six cents. We thank each other for the transaction, and I trot back to the house, eager to begin reading my comic.
Mom is in the kitchen. I hand her the smokes and the change, and find a place to begin reading...
Yeah, that happened. And I think I remember it so well because I seem to remember that it happened once or twice a week...
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