Sound Warehouse Diary

Coworkers: Part 01 - Help Wanted

2008-12-23T16:40:00.002-06:00

   "Did you see this ad?" Zelda pitched the newspaper in my lap.
   Circled in red, Classical Manager Position, apply in person, Camp Bowie.
   "That's interesting," I commented. "I wonder what happened to Mike?"
   "That's the store you shop at. You could do that job."
   "I'm hardly a classical expert," I answered.
   "You listen to classical. Your last job was with the symphony."
   "As a phoner. Before I got fired," I grinned.
   "Just visit. You never know. You've certainly spent enough money there over the years," she added.

   "What's going on with Mike?" I stood outside the Manager's Box, spoke with The Boss.
   "I honestly don't know. He's been gone a month now. Hasn't contacted anyone. Not a word."
   "Yeah, I haven't seen his byline in the paper recently. What about the other Mike? Over at Berry."
   "He'll never come back. He's their assistant. I placed an ad in the classifieds."
   "I saw that," I paused. "I was thinking about applying.
   "Really," he replied. He seemed distracted. "Say, do you know who wrote the 1812 Overture?"
   "What?" I made a face. "Tchaikovsky."
   "Ha ha. How about ... oh ... forget it. Look. I already hired someone. But with classical, you never know ... "
   "I know the music, but I'm not an expert," I confessed.
   "That's not what I meant. Classical types are ... ha ha ... never mind." He stopped. "Would you consider part time?"
   Part time was better than no time. If John's and my business picked up ... well, I'd cross that bridge when I came to it.
   "That'll work. I have another job rebuilding player pianos. But business has been dead over a year now."
   "I need someone Tuesday and Thursday, midshift, 2:00 in the afternoon until 6:00. And Friday, 6:00 until close."
   There was the offer. I weighed it for fifteen seconds.
   "I can do that," I accepted. "Do you need an application, or something?"
   "Fill one out Tuesday. Dress casual. Not over dressed, not shabby."
   "Two o'clock. Tuesday. See you then."
   The Boss stood up, extended his hand, "Welcome aboard."
.

Coworkers: Part 02 - Them What's Nice‏

2008-12-17T08:21:00.000-06:00

   "How'd you find out about this job?" Dan asked. After I clocked in, filled out some paperwork, I was given to Dan, the Assistant Manager.
   "My wife noticed the classified ad. Told me to apply."
   "You always do everything your wife tells you?"
   "Dude, I've learned to respond to ALL women with a yes. Makes them happy. Then I do whatever."
   "Was this for Classical? Are you one of those obsessive compulsive classical geeks?" Dan needled.
   "Ha ha. I'll let you form your own opinion."
   Dan handed me over to Trina. She was sticking 3M tape to the side of cassettes. If thieves walked out with a tape, an alarm would ring.
   Trina seemed friendly. I helped tape and chatted. Security taping was mindless work, but since mine was a new job, I didn't complain.
   "So, have you met Jeri Jo yet?" she smirked.
   "Uh oh. No, I haven't met her. Why?"
   "She's the other, new Classical person. After a week, everyone realized she's completely insane."
   "In what -- Never mind. I don't need to know yet."
   "Wise man. You're on first date behavior," Trina smiled.
   "Got that right. Until I know who's who, I am Mister Agreeable."
   "Most of the people here are nice," she continued. "The Assistants. Dan, Danny, James, John ... mmm ... You might want to avoid Rob."
   "Which one's Rob?" I asked immediately.
   "Not here yet. Don't worry, he'll completely ignore you. You're not female, twenty, and cute."
   I made a mental scorecard. James was a bit of a dreamer, Danny was indifferent, Dan and John middle of the road, Rob difficult.
   The rest of the staff were affable drones. Diana, Dave, two Angela's, Greg, two Todd's, Pepe, Mike, Lisa, Linda, Bert, another Todd (who worked in the back), Amster. There were too many people to sort. Plus, most weren't around so I couldn't affix names to faces. In time, I would realize the store was a collection of free agents.
   A few days later, I worked quietly with Jeri Jo, Trina's comments fresh in my mind. After two hours, I decided Trina was perceptive. At least as far as her observations about the buffalo brained Classical gal.
   Classical types had a murky history. A previous gent punched a hole through a back wall because the drive-thru screwed up his burger order. Sudden rage. The half baked classical soul was gone, the hole remained enshrined.
   Throughout the next two days, that brief cheat sheet of Trina's surfaced with each coworker introduction.
   Trina overlooked a name, however. And that would sting me.

   Friday night. The store was swamped. I worked backup register on and off with Greg. Of all the cashiers in the store, Greg was the fastest. He told me to mind the Floor and listen for two rings of that bellhop bell. Anytime there were more than three customers in line, he would ring.
   "What do you know about this group?" Tall woman, mid twenties, brunette. Holding the latest CD by New Order.
   "Dance music," I said. "Techno." I barely knew a few songs.
   "But ... What about it?"
   About what? Hell. I didn't know the group. There was no one nearby to ask. "They ... came from ... Joy Division."
   "I didn't like the last album. Is this one any better?"
   "Oh. Let me see," I checked the store playstack. Luck smiled. The CD was in the daily assortment. I handed her headphones to the spare CD unit.
   Greg rang twice.
   "Could you increase the volume?" my customer requested.
   Greg rang again. Dan strolled up and ran backup.
   "Say," a short man tapped my shoulder. "when you're done with her, can you help me?"
   "This New Order is great," my woman smiled. "I'll take it. Good sale."
   Greg rang three times for a manager. The Boss answered.
   More than once, both managers shot me a look.
   Damn.
   My male customer gestured toward the Sound Check headphones. "This one quit playing."
   The CD players were locked in cabinets. I didn't possess keys. Dan and The Boss were surrounded. I looked across the Floor, mystified, for another manager.
   "I'll be right back," I reassured the customer, then bolted for the Video section.
   Marched into Video and went to the nearest coworker. Stunning blonde.
   "New guy," she looked me up and down, coolly.
   "The Sound Check quit. I don't have keys. Told the customer I'd be back. I'm supposed to run backup. Is there a manager around?"
   "Slow down," she paused, "I'm a manager."
   Up front, the bell was rung repeatedly. I was getting deeper and deeper into trouble.
   "Oh, I didn't know. Anyway, the customer is wait -- "
   "Didn't know? Or are you one of those who don't think women can be managers?"
   "No, no. I just -- I did not know you were a manager. I don't even know who you are," I confessed.
   "I'm Carey. I'm the Video manager." She pushed open the swinging doors to the back. "Robert!"
   The manager I had heard to avoid came out.
   "Now what? This guy hit on you already? Want me to write him up?"
   "No. He has some crisis up front. I'm going to rescue him. Could you watch Video a second?"
   "Well, thanks for screwing up my plans, loser," he scowled to me.
   Damn. Maybe he was kidding. Maybe they were both kidding. I couldn't tell, I assumed the worst.
   I'd made a bad impression with Carey and Rob. Up front, The Boss was annoyed, Dan regarded me as an infant, especially after I returned to register and promptly locked it up. I stayed on register until midnight, closing. My cash drawer totals, which a half dozen employees had used, were accurate.
   If the cash was short, I figured I would have been fired.

Shoplifting: Case 01 - A Small Church In The Country

2008-12-08T08:54:00.000-06:00

   Someone tapped my shoulder.
   "New Guy, come with me."
   It was Carey, the store blonde. She walked and I trailed after her. I had been "floating," tidying the Rock bins and approaching customers to see if they wanted assistance. Earlier, a girl had asked me about New Order, a group I barely knew, yet I had successfully sold her the latest CD. I wondered if she had been a test, to see if I would actually help people or blow them off.
   Carey, I already knew, one did not blow off.
   I had gotten on her bad side the first time I worked with her.
   "I'm looking for a Manager."
   "I'm one of the Managers. There are female managers."
   "No, it's not that. Other than Dan or The Boss, I don't know who all the Managers are."
   "I'm the Video Manager," she sighed, exasperated. "What do you need?"
   I told her. She helped me. But I kept away from her for a week.
   After a month, Carey no longer regarded me as an unfastened button.
   We walked through Video and into the Back Room. An older man sat on the nasty vinyl couch. Todd, the Back Room guy, stood nearby, as did Danny and Rob.
   "You need to stay back here with Todd," Carey instructed. "Danny has an order deadline, and Rob is supposed to take me to lunch."
   "Yes, ma'am. I can do that, but what do you -- "
   "Stay here until the police show up. Make sure he doesn't leave," she nodded at the guest. One eyebrow arched, "He was caught shoplifting."
   Carey, Danny, and Rob departed. Todd looked at me, then he and the gentleman continued their discussion.
   The man was older. Gray hair, gray beard. Stocky. Wore a white shirt. I assumed he swiped Country. Wrong. LL Cool Jay, Two Live Crew, and Ice-T. Hard core rap cassettes, stuffed in his back britches.
   The guy was a preacher.
   "Got us a small church out in the country. And I wanted to investigate the temptations some of my younger parishioners face."
   "Only you didn't feel like paying?" Todd countered.
   "Would be a sin to fund the Devil's business."
   "Stealing is a sin, man."
   "I was doing God's work. Besides, what would someone like you know about sin?" He was polite, but sanctimonious.
   "Plenty. My father is a minister."
   Their dialogue reminded me of old church arguments about how many angels could dance on the head of a pin. One of the many reasons I declined to enroll in seminary school. Back in the day, many assumed I would follow the path of The Word, but I knew my limitations better.
   The thief was full of shit, defending his transgression by pleading God's mission. What a crock. The clichéd "good intentions" excuse. I didn't participate. I stood quietly. Turned a proverb over in my mind. The road to hell is paved with good intentions. Maybe he thought Todd would release him. Doubtless, he never thought a fellow minister's offspring would work in a record joint.
   Police appeared, Todd waved me off. The Boss and Trina came back to give witness statements.
   The theft was minor, but the cops took him downtown.
   That was the first shoplifter I saw. Man Of God.

Customers: Part 01 - The Italian Car

2008-12-02T13:26:00.000-06:00

  Friday night. I trained on register. Simple enough. Punch in the price tag amount, hit the product code on the register key. #1 for LP, #2 for CD, #3 for VHS, #4 for CS, #6 for Single, #13 for Boutique stuff. There were other product numbers, but I couldn't keep them straight. Luckily, every register had a cheat sheet.
  Anyway, Trina (the same girl who had trained me on security taping cassettes and CDs) explained the register to me. Helped with five or six transactions before she disappeared into the store. There was a counter bell. Ring once if you needed some kind of assistance, twice for register backup, three times for a manager.
  Friday night, it was busy, I was new. I didn't dare ring for a manager unless I wanted to appear completely stupid.
  Wanted to make that good impression.
  But I was stupid. Ignorant, actually.
  "Where's the bathroom, mister?"
  Uhhh ... One bell.
  "Can you break this five dollar bill?"
  Three bells.
  "Do you stock laserdiscs?"
  What's a laserdisc? One bell.
  I fell behind and rang for backup, meaning someone would have to run a second register. Usually one of the managers up in the booth. One of the Dan's. Danny or Dan. Danny had big hair, Dan a coffee cup glued to his hand.
  Danny got this great woman customer. Actually, I suspected she had milled about, waiting for him.
  She was bombed drunk.
  He had finished the transaction, then waited for her to shove off.
  Instead, she said, "I gotta itchy pussy."
  That got my attention. Danny, on the other hand, totally ignored her. Looked bored beyond belief.
  So she repeated her line, louder, "I gotta itchy pussy."
  Brown hair. Looked 30's, skin baked dry from years of tans. Crimson slash of lipstick, could have used a mirror, bit clownlike. Cigarette dangled from her lower lip, bounced up and down when she spoke.
  "Hey, boy, ya hear me?"
  "Yes, ma'am," Danny replied wearily.
  Black top, very low cut. Cigarette ash had fallen onto her left breast and sprayed downwards. Several times. She didn't notice or didn't care.
  "So wha you wanna do about it?" she slurred.
  "Do about what?" Danny asked.
  "Itchy pussy," she leered. "I gotta itchy pussy."
  "Ma'am," Danny leaned forward, "I don't know anything about Italian cars." Then he walked off.
  She paused. Tried to reboot her brain. Looked over at me. Scowled. Shambled outside.
  Heaved.

Link to Danny's Site = http://www.dannyhaslettart.com/

Coworkers: Part 03 - Pink And Clean

2008-11-27T07:27:00.000-06:00

   I had been hired, tentatively, to work the Classical section. One week earlier, however, The Boss had hired someone else. Jeri Jo. To me, she had seniority, and was in charge.
   The Boss thought we would complement each other.
   Jeri Jo approached classical music from a performing standpoint. She was a musician. I, on the other hand, was a collector. For years, I had gabbed and shopped classical from the Mike's. For rock music, I sought out Linda. Linda was dreamy ... spacey, actually ... but I liked her.
   Linda was gone, however. My Classical colleague was Jeri.
   After a week, I realized Jeri Jo had the personality of a constipated rock. Social skills, such as they were, had been pureed through a food blender. She didn't like customers, didn't like coworkers, didn't like retail. She didn't LIKE anything. She whined often and loudly.
   Great agony derived from cassettes. Jeri fussed for hours over cassettes. Classical cassettes. Dust magnets that no one bought. Classical customers were affluent, and early adopters. They were among the first to hop onto the Compact Disc steamship. Most weren't remotely interested in tape.
   I mentioned this to Jeri. She rolled her eyes at me, made a fist in front of her and stroked to and fro. "Why don't you go someplace and distract yourself for the next hour," she suggested.
   She could be, ahem, crude. Like Herr Beethoven. Most likely, she preferred the floor, sitting on her ass for two hours every day. Rearranging. Busywork? Or a trap? Kid-trap.
   Cassettes were all within reach of young children. Many were born redecorators. I'd arrive mornings, tapes stacked neatly off to one side, or piled into houses, castles, rocket ships. Or they'd been resorted by color. Reds here, yellows there.
   Jeri Jo kicked cassettes across the floor, swore, complained, then eased down to the floor like a basking sea lion.
   Whenever a family strolled into Classical, she swooped over.
   "Don't - even - touch - the - cassettes."
   This was addressed to an infant in a stroller. Cheap thug in a baby blanket.
   I needed to share.
   I walked over to Pepe, told her about this headcase.
   "Ha!" she retorted. "That is nothing. Nothing! I was in the back office earlier, on that ratty brown sofa, trying to enjoy lunch."
   "What'd you have?" I interrupted.
   "Jeri Jo waltzes her big ole ass in, and announces she just got back from the doctor's."
   "Psychiatrist type of doctor?" I asked, hopefully.
   "Nooooo, grasshopper. The gynecologist type of doctor."
   "I don't think I wanna go there."
   "Too late! I had a forkful of food heading towards my mouth when Jeri Jo says, 'Now I'm all pink and clean on the inside.'"
   "What the fuck? Excuse me."
   "I about threw up then and there. Then she starts describing the boyfriend's sausage. Mentions baby oil and rubber sheet in the same damn sentence. You wanna hear the Kama Sutra position she likes best? I can tell you. Cause she told me."
   "Stop! Stop!" My lurid imagination was on fire.
   "First ... picture her with none of them baggy tops and droopy shorts she wears here. Jeri Jo, buck ass naked, pink and clean, open for business."
   I left.
   I fled, actually.
   Couldn't eat anything for lunch.

Coworkers: Part 04 - French Videos‏

2008-11-21T08:12:00.001-06:00

   The videos were expensive.
   Damn expensive.
   I had "special ordered" two videos for a friend of Zelda's.
   Diana looked them up for me, then advised, "These are older films, but they are still rental priced."
   "What do you mean? Like, 99¢?"
   "Ha ha," she laughed. "No, start thinking $95.00 each."
   "Jesus! What the hell - - How can ... Jesus."
   Diana continued laughing. "When movies come out on video, most are stickered sky high so only rental stores buy them. After six months, they get re released to the sell through market. $19 or $14. Most stores derive their profit on each rental title during that six month span."
   "I see."
   Truth was, I was still digesting that information.
   "Do you still want to order two $95 films?" she smiled.
   "I need to ponder this," I answered. "Would I still get my discount?"
   "Of course."
   Passed this information on to Zelda. Her reaction mimicked mine. Six months, sixteen months, she could wait.
   When Zelda relayed the story to her friend, however, her friend's attitude was different.
   "I'm not about to wait six months. Or six weeks. I want them now."
   "Even with his discount, they're going to be $75.00 apiece."
   "Oh, that's not too bad. Especially for two films I really want. Yes. Go ahead and order them."
   The American Dream. No one liked deferring gratification any more.
   I ordered both films. French art house fare, directed by Claude Berri.
   Films arrived a few weeks later. These were set aside, and I contacted Zelda to make money arrangements.
   Friday evening, I came to work armed with two $100 notes.
   "Where's the videos?"
   Three days after they'd arrived, both films had vanished.
   No one knew.
   Dan did most of the checking.
   Todd had received them. Carey checked them in, made a note. Diana contacted me, locked them in the Stash Room.
End of the trail.
   Dan's investigations were inconclusive.
   Someone was fired, however. One of the girls. No evidence, no proof. She'd actually done something else, but managers used the heist as an excuse to terminate her.
   Todd was infuriated.
   I felt uncomfortable, like I'd set something in motion. If I hadn't ordered those damn videos maybe she'd still be working there.
   Diana reordered the flicks. Week later I bought them.
   Tried to keep my profile low afterward.

Coworkers: Part 05 - Into The Back

2008-11-15T16:05:00.000-06:00

   "What's going on with that other job of yours?" The Boss asked.
   I was still relatively new. My shift was Tuesday and Thursday, 2 - 6, and Friday 6 - midnight. Fourteen hours. My other job, rebuilding player pianos and pump organs, clocks during overflow, was at a standstill. A mini Recession, focused on the Texas corridor, had slammed business. Dick was long gone. John found employment as a high end mechanic. He worked a bit on Saturdays. No projects were coming in for either of us. I still went to the shop daily, but mostly cleaned, organized, watered the plants, worked on my retirement home play.
   "I don't know," I answered. "Business is slow. Real slow."
   "How would you like more hours?" The Boss asked.
   Did I want more hours?
   "Sure, what do you need?"
   "I was reviewing your application. You've run back rooms ... inventory ... before."
   "New Hampshire, inventory prep, primarily cycle counts. In Los Angeles, I had complete control of the back. Inventory control, shipping and receiving, production schedules, fronting the line. Whatever was needed."
   "We're not that detailed here," he studied my application. "OK. Here's the deal. Danny is leaving. He's going to be Assistant Manager at Hurst. I'm moving Todd up to Floor Manager. I need a new Backroom guy ... " He paused.
   "Receiving Agent? Verify packing slips and contents match?"
   "More or less ... " He paused again.
   "That's day shift. Monday through Friday. And you're wondering about my other job?"
   "Precisely."
   I looked at the Floor, the parking lot, Video. I'd worked with John ... seven, eight years ... only we weren't working.
   "I'll be good to go next Monday."
   "Excellent. Todd will train you Monday. You should pick this up quickly. Thursday, Truck Day, you'll work with Todd and Rob. They haven't killed you yet, so I'm hopeful. Oh, and I prefer speed and accuracy," he gave me a look.
   "In that order? Don't get bogged down with details?"
   "Exactly."
*
   I still had Classical duty. When Jeri was off, I was on call. Most of the crew didn't want to deal with fussy clients. Beethoven was Beethoven. Bernstein, Von Karajan, what's the difference? Advising between the '63 versus the '77 versus the new, digital version, was too much.
   Tuesdays were New Release day. New titles rolled in Fridays, Mondays, and Tuesdays. Cross reference titles with slips, hit 'em with the price gun, stack them in a cart. Note: If there was a stray shopping cart within a quarter mile, it vanished into the Backroom. "May not need it now, man," Todd advised. "But we will for Christmas." We had 20 grocery carts in the back.
   "Packing slip? I never touched that."
   Todd warned me about Dan. Dan was notorious for opening New Release boxes to see what was coming out. For taking packing slips and wandering off with them, laying them down, forgetting.
   I wanted to get along, I tolerated this for awhile. Then, fuck it. I hid boxes or buried slips. Threatened dismemberment.
   Thursday was Truck. Replenishment from the Distribution Center. Accessories, videos, CD's, cassettes, boutique crap, vinyl. Several pallets worth of product.
   Todd and I broke down the shipment, then resorted everything by chart. A-Chart (biggest sellers, highest volume), B-Chart, C-Chart. Also NR-Chart (New Releases). Sometimes NR titles were for the following Tuesday, other times they were already out. The Backroom guy had to simply know, and not break, street date.
   Todd and I worked different charts. He took A, he was quicker. Half the titles were sale priced. Sometimes set by Bromo, other times The Boss let a hot album ride. By noon, half the shipment would be on the Floor, getting security taped.
   "Outta my way, fuckers."
   Rob clocked in at noon and worked Accessories. Blank tape, carrying cases, deck cleaners, stuff like that. Sometimes he was hungover, sometimes not. He was usually cranky.
   Especially if Todd hid a box or packing slip.
   Or his coffee mug.
   Coworkers drifted back constantly. A customer wanted a specific title. It was on-order. Did it come in? Could we find it? Everything stopped and we began digging.
   Carey frequently entered. Not a word. There was a full length mirror on one of the swinging doors. She stared, transfixed.
   "I don't see how you guys can work back here. I'd be in front of this mirror all day."
   We laughed. Carey was difficult, she had a short fuse, but she was stunning. She had no need of a looking glass.
*
   After two weeks, I had the Backroom nailed. I had done Inventory for years. I was an ex-stoner. I could concentrate and organize endless names, dates, and numbers in that rat's maze in my skull. Merchandise got checked in swiftly. The crew accepted me.
   I was "in."
   There was only one teeny problem. D-Chart.
   All the back catalog ordered by James.
   Big State, House, and all the majors. WEA, Sony, UNI, Poly, CEMA. Especially CEMA.
   Those packing slips had NO PRICES. Just meaningless codes. Meaningless because there was no legend or description of the codes, because there were dozens of codes.
   I had gotten stumped. Bogged down with details.
   Exactly what The Boss warned me to avoid.
   Paged James, no idea. He placed orders. Period. I could leaf through all his D-Books. Like hell.
   Todd came back, then Dan, finally The Boss.
   No one knew. In the end, Dan advised me to use the "Danny Method."
   Best guess. If customers only knew.
   "If it looks full priced to you, price it that way. Mid-line. Budget."
   "What I always did, man."
   "What if I screw up?"
   "We'll catch mistakes. Tell you. You'll get the hang of it."
   "Or else we'll come back and throw you off the lift."
   "All of us, taking turns, cause you're one of us."
   Nothing like being accepted.
   I thought of an ancient Browning film. The chanting sequence.
   "One of us! One of us! One of us!"

Customers: Part 02 - Alphabet Lessons

2008-11-09T07:46:00.000-06:00

   "You're not the motocross guy."
   "Nooo," I stalled, "I'm not."
   "No matter. I had a classical question. Well, a couple, actually."
   She had light brown hair and wire rim glasses. As she spoke, she crept into my personal space.
   "Is the motocross guy working tonight?"
   "Who's the motocross guy?" I asked, stumped.
   "The cute guy with the blonde hair. On his neck," she tapped.
   "You mean Greg? I didn't know he raced motocross."
   "Well, I don't know that," she stressed. "But he has the face of a motocross racer, don't you think? Freestyle motocross."
   There was no proper answer for that. I couldn't edge back any further. I was cornered between the cassette wall and the opera box sets.
   "Oh, my name's Natalie." And she stepped back into my space.

   "I always seem to get lost in this section. Could you show me how it's organized?"
   "Of course," I slid past her, putting some distance between us. "Everything is alphabetical -- "
   "I don't understand."
   "From A to Z. By composer. Then you have compilations. Various composers or samplers. Then individual artists. Again, alphabetical. Ashkenazy, Heifitz, Williams," I gestured. "Finally vocalists. Arranged alphabetically."
   "I don't understand," she repeated, and moved in again. Natalie now stood eight inches from me.
   "What don"t you understand?" I asked.
   "That alphabet thing."
   I turned away and rolled my eyes. A colleague, listening over in Video, began to giggle.
   "Alphabet," I said. "As in A ... B ... C."
   "Pardon me?"
   "First comes Albinoni, then Bach, then Chopin, then Debussy, then Elgar."
   "This seems so terribly complicated," she sighed.
   "It's called spelling. What you learned in the first grade. Hopefully." I tried to sound polite. Honest.
   She sighed again and gazed down at the floor. Natalie was a pretty girl, but I felt like I was talking with one of my cats. Her logical patterns were different from mine, from humanity. Plus, she kept inching forward. Was she nearsighted? She couldn't be interested in me. I looked about. Over in Country, there was the Motocross King himself. Greg.
   "Oh, the motocross guy is -- "
   "And I need music to compliment my power animal."
   "Power? You need -- What?"
   "Power animal. Our spirit guide through Life. Everyone has one. Mine is the Bear." Natalie reached up and placed her palm on my chest. "Yours is ... a Tiger."
   "I don't ... Is this like ... Sorry, we don't have a Power Animal section."
   Brilliant, I thought to myself.
   "What would you recommend for a bear?"
   I was getting dizzy. This was sheer nonsense. The Tiger wasn't even my astrological sign, to reference a question from the Disco era. It wasn't even specific to astrology. On the other hand, my girl, Zelda, was a Leo. Moreover, she was a Tiger in Chinese years. I certainly wasn't revealing this to Natalie, however.
   Worst of all, she was in my space. In My Space. I was increasingly uncomfortable.
   The Bear didn't like heavy music. None of those loud Germans or melodramatic Russians. Also didn't like "noodling" music that never went anywhere or made no sense. Modern music was out. Baroque music deemed too shallow. Eventually, we selected Debussy and Mozart.
   Choices made, I successfully launched Natalie towards Greg.
   A minute later, they were in Dance, and she was moving closer and closer.
   Greg finally bumped into the bin.
   I felt his pain
   I walked into Video, popped in a cassette by the rewind unit, and fast forwarded to the episode of Violent Is The Word For Curly. Then I watched Moe, Larry and Curly teach "Swinging The Alphabet."
   Don't understand A-B-C's, indeed.

Coworkers: Part 06 - The Tim

2008-11-03T07:53:00.000-06:00

   I learned from Danny, I learned from Rob, I learned from Todd - Don't even deal with trainees the first two weeks. Never even learn their names. What was the point? Faces eager, confused, upset, stunned, gone. Likely, I'd never see them after a week.
   Still, for every twenty crash 'n burn weevils, one might ... just might ... make an impression. Get remembered long after the door whacked their ass on their way out.
   Such as The Tim.
   Where to begin?
   Hell, his application form, of course.
   Usual two sided application printout. Front Side = Name, Address, Phone, and kindergarten work questions including my all time favorite: Has alcohol use or substance use ever interfered with your employment performance? Back Side = References, Work History. Beside each job, where it asked what your title had been (eg: supervisor, foreman, CPA, whatever), he scratched Tim.
   "And what were you at the White House?"
   "I was The Tim."
   The Tim was blonde, stocky, and built like a beach outhouse. He was hired because he was a bass head. Fluent with Nemesis to Two Live Crew, LL Cool J to Techmaster PEB. Shit we couldn't play during opening hours. More than other temps, this was a dream come true job for the guy because he was gonna be DJ. He'd expose Cowtown to da noize of da Tim.
   Register Training: Managed to piss off easy going Dan and whistling James. By ringing the bell for a manager alert. They'd show up. "Just testing. Ha ha ha." Only did that once on Rob, who advised him to, "Test it up your ass next time." Didn't test the bell with The Boss.
   The Boutique section featured a very popular toy. Fart Bears. Squeeze Fart Bear and from his backside came a disquieting eruption. Sharp and violent or low and slow, depending on one's massage technique. The Tim fell in love with the Fart Bear, and squeezed them at coworkers, outside the girl's restroom, over the store PA system, and, when he worked Register, at departing customers. Stellar moment when he activated Fart Bear in the face of a startled priest.
   Then again, there was one time a colleague was chatting up a female client, and The Tim started squeezing his furry friend. How happy he made them!
   Jeri Jo, from Classical, expressed her opinion to me by standing behind The Tim, making a circle with her hand, and stroking several times at crotch level. He caught her. Thought she was moist for him. Told her he preferred a quicker tempo. "And you'll need a bigger hand. Ha ha ha."
   He was pretty fast when the tape deck or CD player finished. I'll grant him that. And he did find some gems to air. There was a definite shopper response to Me So Horny. Jingling Baby was another winner. And N.W.A? What a bunch of surprised white folks that evening.
   There were other shenanigans. Once he popped a VHS with lots of skin in Video. As usual, Angela and Dave were swamped, they didn't notice until ... well, it was Friday night, their section was packed with families.
   I can't remember all his disasters. Irritated coworkers and customers, male and female.
   The Tim lasted about a month.
   When he was fired, I think I was the only person who mourned.

Coworkers: Part 07 - Dave's New Number

2008-10-28T08:57:00.000-06:00

   "Do you know Dave's schedule?" The Boss asked.
   "Mornings, Monday thru Friday, he's at Blandy," I said. "Evenings or weekends, he's here or at that third job."
   Dave, like many of my coworkers, worked three jobs to pay bills. All paid terrible, especially the major international corporation which was legendary for underpaying employees.
   "I phoned his Blandy number twice. Another individual now has Dave's extension, and they don't know who Dave is. They are also new so they don't know how to redirect me to the switchboard."
   "Can't you key in a directory search?"
   "Tried that," The Boss sounded frustrated. "Led me back to that new person."
   "Bummer. Get what you pay for in this world," I shrugged. "Dave works here in two days, update the number then."
   "I want him to work tonight, if you don't mind."
   I had an obvious suggestion. Very reluctantly I suggested ...
   "You try phoning his home? Asking his wife?"
   The Boss's eyes disappeared into his skull before he steamed off without a word.
   What was that about?
   During lunch, I approached Diana. She tended Video while Pat lunched with John. For the millionth lunch in a row, Diana had loaded in our completely washed out copy of Roxanne.
   "What's up with The Boss and Dave?" I started.
   "You know he spoke with him recently, confidentially, regarding those prescriptions."
   Prescriptions, my ass.
   "Dave's working three jobs. He dozes off, he's toast."
   "Those pills can be dangerous!"
   I shrugged.
   "You are one of the coldest people I know," Diana shook her head.
   "I have my moments. Look, when I suggested The Boss phone Dave's wife, he sputtered away."
   Diana covered her face and began laughing. "Have you ever spoken with her?" she giggled.
   "Uh ... no," I replied warily.
   "He phoned her first. She confirmed that, yes, his Blandy number had changed. Last week she had to dial #1, this week #2."
   "She had -- What?"
   "She can't remember phone numbers. It's all too stressful. So Dave programmed her home phone. To reach husband, punch #2, and that's all she knows," Diana laughed.

Coworkers: Part 08 - The Dungeon‏

2008-10-22T08:52:00.000-05:00

   After several months I simply flat out asked Dan, "Seems like an incredible amount of employee turnover here."
   "Oh," Dan reflected, "we usually lose someone about every six months. Every four or five years, however, it seems like a chunk of the crew turns over. One wave departs and a fresh batch arrives."
   That sounded reasonable. I'd witnessed a high proportion of senior employees check out in the past few months. One of the Todds moved to Alaska, Danny transferred to Hurst, Carey became a stewardess, Charles got a banking job, Lisa slipped away. I'd come in with Jeri to replace Classical Mike #2. We'd hired on with Trina, David, Angela (who had already left), Pepe, and Pat.
   Dan was accurate. It was like a cosmic realignment had reshuffled the colony.
   Another senior person had given notice. Video Mike.
   While Angela and I had been very close, Mike and I barely spoke. I couldn't relate with the guy. Classic headbanger, looked like a audition player for Deep Purple. Long black hair, mustache. Transfixed with metal. Classic metal. The 70's never ended. I hoped he possessed more than one dimension, but I lost interest in him. Call me shallow. My loss.
   Video Mike gave notice and James or Dan or somebody collected "going away" money.
   Most departees bought tunes or videos. Cleaned out their stash, used their employee discount a final time with their modest farewell windfall.
   Not Mike.
   Mike raced his car to Fantasy Ranch, modern version of the sportin' house. Part strip club, part theme park. An interactive West World. Silicone babe attendants. Fantasy Ranch was not a spectator establishment, participation was the main event. For a wallet emptying fee, gents selected from Amazon Warrior Planet, Jungles Of Zanzibar, Lab Experiment, and the very popular Wild West Saloon. Depending on one's imagination, you could envision the elaborate settings, and haze your mind with those words "interactive" and "participation."
   For a half hour.
   Mike knew precisely what he wanted. Metal boy fantasy.
   The Dungeon.
   The dark stone room. Shackles and chains.
   Discipline.
   Mike was stripped to skivvies. Wrists manacled high overhead, far apart.
   From concealed speakers, doom metal groaned.
   Two inquisitors entered. Wearing only masks. Questions, impossible questions, followed by punishment.
   He worked the next day, his final shift. Aching sore and gushing gratitude. Thanked everyone. Fantasy Ranch had been one of the greatest experiences of his life. Now, and only now, he flicked my radar. How many more yarns might I have written about this guy? Too late. My loss.
   After Mike's departure, the store still collected funds for exiting select employees now and then. This was never consistent, an aspect of popularity contest tainted the process.
   Still, after Video Mike, lucky recipients were handed gift certificates. No one received cash again.

Coworkers: Part 09 - Love Flowers

2008-10-16T14:35:00.000-05:00

   We hired this new girl. Kiki. Stuck her in video. Had a kid or two. Slept alone. Divorced or separated, I don't know. Every time she saw husky boy, Bert, she left a dribble puddle. Bert, big, friendly, muscle bound, capable of 200 fingertip push-ups. Well-behaved, clean cut. Does his best to fit in, but, well, he's middle class. Around females, awkward, a novice. Especially females who've bitten the apple.
   And the worm.
   Kiki wanted some stuffin' for her muffin.
   Bert stuffin'.
   Anyway, she started working on dropping that zipper. Likely, he thought she was flirting. Took her a week or two to pick his combination.
   Chi Chi's Bar. After hours with crew drones. Kiki pushed shot glasses, swayed her orbs, drank Bert into stupidity. Drove him to her apartment. There were some temporary technical difficulties, but Kiki was adept at piping the snake resurrection. Like most pretty girls, Kiki eventually got what she wanted. Bert got something, too.
   Alas, it was an ill fated romp. Whiskey dick was rarely compatible with the pink sticky. Kiki never glanced in Bert's direction again. She returned to waitressing, returned to her husband. Popped out another young'un in about nine months. Bert wasn't so good at math, or the obvious, and no one at the store aired their suspicions.
   Bert's bonus? Crimson rash blossomed, then encircled his mouth. Love flowers. Told everyone it was cold sores. Pepe laughed outright in his face.
   Diana vamped a little ditty, "Poison Pink Petals," then sighed, " ... poor thing ... "
   Later, Todd caught him in the Gents, scoping around his pubes, examining love blisters.
   "I'd go to a doctor for that, dude."
   "What? Oh, it's nothing."
   Pat reminded everyone Kiki had said much the same.

Customers: Part 03 - Exchange Lady

2008-10-10T08:06:00.000-05:00

   "I need to make an exchange," she flashed two CDs in front of me. "I don't have the receipt. Sorry. These were gifts. From a gentleman admirer of mine. Don't know why he gives me these discs. But I need to exchange them for something else. If that's all right with you?"
   That last sentence was not a request, it was a statement. The woman had already deposited the CDs on the checkout counter and walked away.
   The Exchange Lady.
   Arguably the customer most detested by the entire staff.
   James told me she had been a Regular for years. Entered monthly, almost like clockwork. Always with brand new, unopened, still-in-shrink-wrap CDs. And they weren't Record Club editions. These were bonafide, direct from the factory, recordings. Always Classical music.
   Never. Never, had the Exchange Lady actually purchased a single item.
   Oh, she wasn't doing anything illegal. She simply requested a favor month after month. Year after year. Long ago, courtesy had become entitlement. That's what chapped the staff. The Exchange Lady may have been a Regular, but she was not a "customer." She shamelessly took advantage of store good will.
   Eventually, a customer or new hire identified the Exchange Lady.
   She worked in the school system. Alas, I have conveniently forgotten which school.
   A school that a stream of CDs flowed into.
   NOT that any of those CDs were diverted into someone's purse. That would be pure speculation.
   Speculation was what most of us excelled at.
   Mooch, leech, time waster. Call her what you would. Stephanie also added the definition of "cheater" to the Exchange Lady.
   No one despised the Exchange Lady more than Stephanie. Stephanie resented that special treatment the woman expected every month. The Exchange Lady had not bought the CDs from us, had not bought them to begin with.
   Most of the staff, however, had surrendered. The Boss, Dan, John, even Rob. They gave the Exchange Lady her switcheroo without comment. Not worth the headache. Stephanie, on the other hand, dug in her heels. She lost every encounter yet she persisted. Requested the receipt every time. Methodically cross referenced the CD stock number off the Phonolog. Stalled and stalled and stalled. Even when Stephanie smiled sadly, "Sorry, no." The Exchange Lady demanded a Manager (who buckled).
   I walked up after Stephanie had lost another skirmish. Still seething.
   "She's not playing fair. She's cheating. I don't march into the mall and trade my old tops every month."
   "Remember, these were gifts," I argued.
   "That woman doesn't have one boyfriend," she complained. "Probably swap them for a jelly sandwich anyway."
   "She always describes them as admirers."
   "Oh, excuse me, admirers. What time does drinking start? Admirers. She's built like a telephone pole."
   Stephanie was blonde, and she frequently tied her hair back with a bright yellow Sound Warehouse shopping bag. Bags were convenient and didn't break her hair. For 98% of the population, that bag, flared out in a yellow bow, would look childish, stupid or trashy. Stephanie was young and cute, though, with a voice of soft sandpaper. Purring rasp. As she got older, her words would burrow into a man's system and linger.
   "Hmm, some guys prefer girls on the lean side," I commented.
   "Most guys I know prefer something they can hold onto," she retorted. "Not a human ironing board. And what's up with that hairstyle of hers?"
   "Ah."
   "Hello, Beauty School Trainee, could you please cut my hair like this French croissant?"
   "Ah."
   "Then after you've weed whacked it into a pancake sandwich, spray on six coats of varnish and bake it until it's harder than a football helmet."
   "Ah."
   "It's not for me, you know. My 126 admirers like it hard."
   I strolled away. As predicted, Stephanie's barbs lingered.

(all thanks to joseph for character reenactment)

Coworkers: Part 10 - Promos‏

2008-10-04T08:46:00.000-05:00

   "When the pile is big enough," Diana explained, "and it looks pretty big to me, then everything will be divvied up between all employees."
   I pretended she had alerted me to a sale on clothes pins over at Mott's. Meanwhile, my breathing had completely stopped.
   Free CDs.
   Promos, or promotional CDs, arrived weekly. Boxes of them. Record shops, radio stations, and music columnists were major recipients. Labels hoped stores would place them in rotation and generate sales. Most albums were advance copies, which placed us well ahead of the radio curve.
   Some chains, usually mall fronts, exercised complete control over store airplay. Tunes were chosen, sequenced, and piped from corporate offices. This was why mall stores were so often sterile, soulless places. And why their employees were dead.
   At Sound Warehouse, managers had complete control. The playstack was maintained and rotated by senior employees. Most titles lingered 3 - 6 months, though Charlie Brown's Christmas endured year after year, silent until November.
   Most record shops, managers appropriated all promos. Promos were used as incentives or rewards or gifted to favored employees. Many managers were petty martinets, and promos were cashed out at pawn shops to buy booze, drugs, corn chips, comic books.
   The Boss, a Berserkely refugee, was an enlightened spirit. Promos were shared with all employees. He was extraordinarily generous for instituting this policy. He was also very savvy. Employees who received a periodic windfall of CDs were less likely to steal. In-house theft was a rare event at Camp Bowie.
   The day I saw the first Promo Pull announcement, I asked Dan for particulars. As usual, he was patient with me.
   "Write down what you want," he said. "Arrange by priority. We'll draw lots for the picking order, and arrange lists. Then we'll go through everyone's number ones. Then number twos, and so on. Whenever a title is taken, we'll strike that line and move to the next one."
   Strategy was involved. I desperately wanted Khachaturian's Gayne. Few coworkers would want that, however. I could place it lower on my list. A half dozen people wanted the newest k d lang. Luck of the draw. I'd look at a Rock release, and ponder Rob, Todd, Trina. How high would Diana or James place some neo folkie album?
   Some promos caused free for alls. 90% of employees placed a This Mortal Coil box set as number one. Don't remember who won it -- it wasn't me.
   Labels also sent stores and columnists one-of-a-kind recordings. Advance copies, samplers, unreleased material. Few customers knew those existed.
   Jeri Jo had tired of the music business after four months. She never anticipated actual work. Effort. Like the hibernating sloth, she assumed her duties were listening to music all day (nice choral music, not Rock or Country or Soul) and gracefully promenading up and down the stately aisles of retail. She only stayed for promos. The day after the pull, she departed. I won Gayne.
   Usually two colleagues did the pull. This was done off the clock. Names were written on bags, then slips of paper were drawn to create the order. One individual read off picks, checked or struck off choices, while the other ferried choices to bags. Usually took two to three hours. Often more team members showed with six packs, snacks and smokes. More helpers meant more chaos.
   There were usually 800+ CDs for any given Promo Pull. Of that, 150 might be desirable. The remaining were grab bag. Unknown albums by unknown groups. Most would remain unknown. A few were overlooked jewels. The bulk were derivative, bad, or worst of all, boring. Come what may, the pile was to be annihilated. Coworkers jotted massive wish lists and trusted in luck. Duds were plenty.
   When my unknown gambles proved to be misfires, I gave them away. One Halloween, I plopped over 50 unwanted cassettes into Trick Or Treat sacks in my neighborhood. Kids were thrilled! Later, they would realize those treats were tricks. Sorry life lessons, learned early.
   I never sold off crap. Neither did Pat or John or Diana. Others did, however.
   Usually for booze, drugs, corn chips, comic books.

Coworkers: Part 11 - Moving Day‏

2008-09-28T07:40:00.000-05:00

ANYONE WANT TO HELP ME MOVE ?
PLEASE SHOW UP - (TIME & PLACE)
FOOD WILL BE PROVIDED !
   Coworkers were prolific relocaters. Reasons were endless. Trivial. Major. Who cared?
   They had gotten evicted. New place was $5.00 a month cheaper. Neighbors were loud -- stalkers -- creepy -- naked. New place had a pool, yay! Old place had a pool, yuk! Damn dogs. Place was freezing / burning up. Owe the landlord / landlady back rent or "favors." Cockroaches won war. Rats ate the dog. Waterbed flooded bedroom. Ex just got released. Druggies upstairs. Shootings. Neighbors have brats. Kinfolk moved in. What is that smell? Plumbing disaster. Neighbor bought new home theater unit. Parking issues. Burglars. Neighbors dance -- pray -- fight -- breed. Overhead light showers sparks, fun! Next door barbeque smoked my unit. Idiot next door only plays ONE album! Neighbor is musician / artist / writer (whatever, they're all fucking deadbeats).
   The crew moved so much, nobody took much notice. I didn't move, but I could relate. I bought a condemned house and was forever repairing something. My neighborhood wasn't quiet, either.
   The notice above had been posted by Dave. Moving from the Near Southside to Mid Cities. Coincided with my day off. I said I'd join the gang.
   Three days later, just Dave and me. Everyone else, well, they didn't take much notice. Even his girlfriend and sister dodged the grunt work.
   Soon as we loaded the truck and arrived at the new unit, I began to have doubts.

The place was much smaller.

Wait a second.

The complex itself was gigantic. One of those faceless, depressing megalo-monoliths. Resembled a brick cliff, from where any reasonable soul would hurl themselves off within six months. Probably slapped together ten years ago or earlier. The rooms were prison cell sized. Sheetrock thin as a saltine, one lick of paint, and carpet with bare patches already. The next door neighbor was watching television. Loud TV. Dave was moving in with two females. Sister and girlfriend. There would be zero privacy. No way that was going to work. This apartment screamed confinement. Knifing. Murder.

I feared for Dave. Oblivious with his computers and audio gear. Missing those feminine signals that two women were going completely insane.

Still, I said nothing. Carried boxes into the truck, shoved them in place, drove. Heaved cartons into the new dump. Sigh. Repeat.

Pizza for lunch. Three or four whole ones. Either Dave had expected an army or he didn't realize I had eating issues.

   We're sitting there, too tired to make much conversation aside from cult movies, when this slip of paper was shoved under the front door, danced in the air, then settled down. The first mail! Dave walks over to examine the what might be a welcome party.

RESIDENT ALERT
Two more rapes were reported last night. In the 100 and 300 sections.
Apartments had been forced open .... blah blah blah ...
There have now been seven reported rapes during the past six months.
Any information leading to the arrest or conviction will ...
PLEASE COPY AND POST THROUGHOUT YOUR UNIT

   "What the hell?" I muttered. "This is fucking Rape City. You wanna start reloading the truck?"
   Dave just stared at the note.
   "No woman on the planet is going to stay here," I continued.
   "We already paid first and last," he muttered. "Plus the cleaning fee. And someone's moving into our old place in three days."
   You are so screwed, I thought.
   "Just deciding what I ought to do about this note," he said softly.
   "Dude, they see that notice, they'll never be able to sleep here. Might want to throw it away."
   Terrible advice, if I do say so myself.
   "Yeah, I was kinda thinking that."
   "Of course, if they find out about the alert, then find out you hid the note ... you are dead meat."
   "Yeah ... " Dave's voice trailed away.
   Couple of months later, Todd was moving. I said I'd help, then something came up and I couldn't.
   Dave still resided at Sex-Pound Apartments.
   Don't know whether he advised the ladies or not. He had given notice from Camp Bowie and begun the ladder climb.

Coworkers: Part 12 - Hiding D-Pages

2008-09-22T08:57:00.000-05:00

   One of the premier aspects of any job was tormenting coworkers. When I rebuilt pianos, there was only John and myself, we couldn't annoy each other too much, that would lead to knives or shooting irons. The symphony was a pressurized boiler room, cold calling, trying to hit that commission break point before you were released. Brenda was my counterpart and she needled me endlessly.
   "You just make a sale, Sweetie? Buy me lunch." or "Let's celebrate. Sneak into the next room and get busy." or "Why don't you leave Zelda? You'll be too weak to walk after I'm done with you."
   Brenda was never going to stray from her husband. She just liked flirting and teasing the cranky white guy. Mess up his focus while he was trying to persuade Doctor Pompous a $1000 donation would not only enhance his community prestige, but would, by implication, attract more wealthy patients and fewer Medicaid types.
   I never got even with Brenda. No one else in the room interested her, but she had my number cold. That was life, I imagine.
   At Sound Warehouse, however, sadistic opportunities abounded.
   Danny hung a monster sized Hendrix poster in the Backroom. Todd or Rob repeatedly stuck giant red, rubber lips over Jimi's mouth, simply to annoy Danny.
   Coffee addicts, Anne, James, Dan, The Boss, constantly mislaid their mugs and wasted time in futile searches. Mugs weren't mislaid, thoughtful coworkers hid them. Cups shuffled from the Manager's Booth, to the Office, to the Backroom, only to surface in plain sight in Cassettes.
   Uneaten food was fair game for maids and buzzards. Diana would often throw refrigerated leftovers away, arguing she had saved an imbecile from food poisoning. Chips, cookies, bag of M&M's, were relocated from the Booth to the Register or trash can. Or they were perceived as unwanted. And free! No safe hiding place existed for fresh snacks. Two of the guys had bloodhound DNA.
   João got angry at Dan for some triviality, drew a cow face and marked it - This Is Dan. Within a shift, Dan penciled hair on top of the bovine and retitled the sketch - This Is João. The cartoon war escalated. The Booth was littered with offensive doodles, human - livestock encounters, and quasi pornographic caricatures, until someone had enough and the cartoon war simply disappeared.
   One morning, Pat asked Rob about some video. Cats, cartoon cats. Was it funny? Absolutely. John overheard the exchange and hurried off before he burst out laughing. So Pat popped in the videotape of Fritz The Cat.
   Several weeks earlier, Greg had failed to alert her when she strolled past with Flash Gordon. Classic serial. Except it was Flesh Gordon.
   Whistling Jim was a favorite target because his reactions were fairly predictable.
   Half the music inventory was D-Chart. Back catalog, music no longer stocked at the DC, but which still sold reasonably well at 6393. Maybe 4-6 turns yearly. These albums had to be inventoried manually. 90% of the crew performed inventory. Saturday was A-Chart and NR during the morning, B-Chart or C-Chart in the afternoon. D-Chart was as needed, which was constantly. Every label had their own black binder for back stock. WEA, Capitol, Poly, Sony, Big State, House, etc ... Inside were crammed the white pages for every album carried at our store.
   Everyone inventoried, but James oversaw D-Chart. What was stocked, quantity, what was dropped. Key pages would frequently disappear, however. Perhaps an entire section, say a folk section. No telling how that happened. It was magic! Bad magic.
   James would tear the store apart, hunting for those damn pages. The whistling would cease, and he'd begin humming. Loudly. He'd spill out his desk drawers completely, wondering where mischievous Gremlins stashed those papers. Continual coffee transfusions only worsened his agitation. Coworkers would sneak glances, then scurry off to laugh.
   One assumed he suspected a colleague pranked him. If this was done elsewhere - - Trina's Boutique stuff, Rob's Accessories, Todd's Video, my Classical, there'd be a sharp, "Alright, fucker, where are they?" Not James, however.
   The anxiety, the caffeine, the frustration, the intensifying rage ... those demons ... James did what he always did.
   Sauntered past the front doors for a cigarette.
   Whistled to the gods, dreamed of gardening, thought of the beach.
   While he recouped outside, pages would be reinserted, not in folk, but funk. Where James would eventually find them. And blame himself, or those incompetent new hires. Or he'd study a few of his male compadres.
   And wonder ...

Shoplifting: Case #02 - Special Orders‏

2008-09-16T08:12:00.000-05:00

   Greg and Trina had busted a punk months earlier.
    Pocketed two cassettes.
    Then pleaded disability.
    "I'm on medication. I have short term memory problems."
    That was a new line, which neither Greg nor Trina bought.
    Police were summoned, perp written up, escorted away. One of the arresting officers advised the coworkers before departing.
    "This will take forever. This kid's daddy is an attorney. Probably where he clipped that excuse about medication and mental challenges."
    "Oh, he was a slick one," Greg concurred.
    "Daddy will string the case out as long as he can. Hoping I relocate elsewhere, or you guys move to new jobs."
    "We're both in school," Trina said.
    That was awhile ago. The case was forgotten.
*
    "I was looking for something on the shelves but you don't have it."
    I offered to phone another store, then phoned Berry and Hulen. Neither location stocked the CD in question.
    I was on Register, but business was slow. Walked over to the Phonolog, flipped through titles, then artists.
    "Here it is," I told the man. "Older title. On the Bullseye label, though. I think they're a subsidiary of Rounder."
    "What's that mean?"
    I explained the procedure, we did our business.
    On the way out the door, he triggered the front alarms. Pretended to pat his pockets, then ran like hell.
    Bastard.
    James walked down from the Manager's Booth.
    "Mmm Mmm Mmm," humming away, "You get a good look at him?" he asked.
    "Mid thirties, brown hair, brown mustache. Five foot seven, a hundred fifty pounds. Blue jeans, green plaid shirt. Ran down the sidewalk. Didn't see a vehicle."
    "What a jerk," James sighed. "Nothing to be done now."
    I withdrew a folded slip of paper from my shirt pocket.
    "Also got his name, address and phone number. Mister Nibbles here, placed a Special Order."
    "Ha ha ha," James chuckled. "And you don't believe in Karma."
    James phoned the Cops, they walked in fifteen minutes later. Took our statements, and took the Special Order slip.
    Unlike physicians, cops make house calls.
*
    Couple of months later.
    Greg and Trina received a court summons regarding Mister Forgetful. Almost a year had passed, the trial date could be postponed no longer.
    Outside the courtroom, the punk approached. Flanked by Daddy and a paralegal. Noticed Trina waiting on a wooden bench.
    Face registered shock, panic, defeat. The kid with memory problems remembered her.
    He chickened out.
    By the time Greg arrived, a plea bargain had already been agreed with the judge.
    Neither Greg nor Trina gave testimony.
    Trina's golden comment to Greg, “He wasn't counting on us being such big losers that we'd still be working here a year later.”
    Pow.

Coworkers: Part 13 - Classical 101

2008-09-10T07:31:00.000-05:00

   Crash course on how to market dead composers in Cowtown.

   After Jeri Jo departed, I became Classical manager. No additional Classical help would be hired, the store needed part time cashiers. The Boss gambled I could run the Classical section and the Backroom.
   Jeri had been very cassette oriented. Tape had a high profit margin, but suffered declining numbers. Call me short sighted or biased, but I couldn't have cared less about tape. The most persistent whine I heard from pitiful cassette buyers was, "I ain't rich enough to buy me no compact disc."
   Right, Hoss, and I ain't stupid enough to wanna talk with you.
   Like other petty characters, I didn't appreciate the snobby wine broker, yet I was equally guilty.
   All customers weren't created equal. So what?
   I inventoried the section and swiftly marginalized cassettes. Nobody noticed. Neither customers nor coworkers. Tapes had been under the neon classical sign and a poster of Van Morrison with my name affixed. Van was an in-store joke. I condensed the area, slammed tapes against the adjoining Cassette room, and refilled the wall with sets. Predominantly opera, and some boxed symphonies. I went on an opera buying spree to fatten shelves. Opera hadn't been a heavy seller in Cowtown, and it never would be. Still, it lent prestige and lifted our cachet with discerning shoppers. Also increased our Regulars.
   Regulars were predictable, they entered on specific days and bought favorites. Most were "deep" buyers, rather than "broad" buyers. Doctor B purchased Bach, Bruckner, Brahms, Beethoven. If a new Bruckner 9th was released he'd buy it, even though he already owned fifteen versions of that symphony. Most Doctors spent freely and spoke sparingly. They probably had to engage with patients all day and feign concern. I seldom pestered those guys.
   College Profs were also Regulars. Ours were affluent misers, studying prices and subtracting the cost of that new Mahler from a yearned for European sabbatical. Usually nit picky souls, disappointed and unhappy, men whose lives revolved around grading busywork they had assigned.
   Every semester brought a new cadre of students who had foolishly registered for music appreciation. I worked with them to buy budget CD's or (gasp) cassettes. The university ought to have provided samplers, but did not.
   The best Regulars were the CPA's. Friendly guys, gregarious, spent like drunken sailors on shore leave. Most were my age, earning more than they ever dreamed. Money bought toys and happiness. For them, life was good ... except around April 14th.
   Any stunt to lure new customers in, I tried. Nimbus sent me glossy posters of an extremely young Conchita Supervia, achingly beautiful. I stapled those next to up and coming Cecilia Bartoli. Call me shallow, I favored young, attractive mezzos over crusty conductors.
   I hounded any coworker who had artistic talent. Layla drew for me, Dan sketched a Wagnerian cowgirl, wearing Stetson, Viking horns, holding a spear, gun belt circling her waist. If not, I improvised. When Sam Ramey came to town, I inked a doodle of the bass singer, upending trees and houses in gales of thunder. PolyGram shipped ad slicks for an upcoming Pavarotti extravaganza in Big-D. In his outstretched hand, someone in our store taped a cardboard pizza slice.
   Didn't boost sales.
   I ordered twenty copies of a disc by Jean Guillou, French organist. Organ repertoire was a very narrow market. Unlikely to move one CD, let alone twenty. Next to the CD's I placed a Fanfare review, describing the frightening low ranges of the recording and warning potential buyers that this particular CD could destroy speakers if played too loudly. As suspected, that caveat proved irresistible. We sold all twenty, I reordered two. The Boss once asked if I bought a copy for myself. I shook my head, he laughed.
   Phillips began to release the complete Mozart catalog. To rev sales, they created a budget sampler with a 200 page booklet. The booklet alone should have cost more than the budget priced disc. During Christmas, I ordered 100 copies and sale priced them. Customers went nuts. Our location sold out. Later, people who had received that sampler as gifts, returned to buy several more CD's.
   Ken termed me The King Of Pulls. Our price tags were dated. If a boxed opera was two years old, I pulled it. Single CD, one year. Imports - six months. Drove Charlie, the head Classical buyer into fits, but our location's Classical turns stood at two. We sold an average of 2 copies per title at Camp Bowie. Corporate bosses were generally thrilled if a Classical SKU turned once a year. Our percentile rivaled those of the flagship stores, and ours lacked their budget and location.
  ~      ~      ~
CODA - The good figures, and heady sales, would last another three years, throughout the Sound Warehouse era. Nothing lasted forever, though.

Coworkers: Part 14 - Two Live Crew

2008-09-04T06:48:00.000-05:00

   Bromo allowed store managers discretion as to whether they would stock Two Live Crew or not. The group had become explosive. As Nasty As They Wanna Be had drawn the wrath of politicians, press, and pulpit. Stalwarts of freedom. National and local.
   The album had been ruled obscene. Authorities threatened to prosecute stores which stocked it.
   The album carried a Parental Advisory sticker, a big one. There was also an As Clean As They Wanna Be version.
   Still, retailers were being arrested. Drivers, playing Nasty in their cars, received tickets.
   A lot of stores pulled their cassettes and CD's of the offensive title until the ruckus cooled. Chainwide, most stores opted for discretion.
   Not Camp Bowie, however. As Nasty As They Wanna Be was an absolute, fucking smash. We could barely keep the sucker in stock. Truck Day, Todd and I searched it out, typically 100 tapes and 50 CD's and rushed them to the floor. This title wasn't even sale priced. Seasoned or older employees manned registers. No newly hired, still living at home, high schoolers. There were potential dangers, and The Boss's neck was exposed, but we were all on board.
   Customers went insane. Everyone bought this thing. Country types, businessmen, head bangers, sorority sisters, and geeks. If asked, we'd truthfully tell folks, "Yeah, it's OK. But there are better rappers, funnier albums, better party records." No matter. Nasty was dangerous, possession might pose criminal implications. Who knew? Aside from the local free press rag, the storm was ignored by our main newspaper. Free speech, censorship, or profits?
   Eventually, the controversy ebbed. Sales slowed as the reality check hit. Nasty was only a porn party album, after all.
   Our store received a lot of lasting good will from this. During the bleakest period, we were one of the few large stores that carried it. Customers remembered that. They remembered employees who gave honest appraisals, or who simply said, "Yeah, we got it. I'll sell it to you."
   Strange, selling that silly title would be such a collective good moment.
   Yet, it was.

Coworkers: Part 15 - They Looked 18

2008-08-29T07:09:00.000-05:00

   The store received a fair amount of publicity and credibility for selling all those Two Live Crews. Weren't a lot of locations that stuck their neck out by stocking the party rappers during the height of the Congressional notoriety.
   Free speech is celebrated and over estimated in this nation. Doesn't exist, Sunshine. Our local newspaper was conservative and hardly the beacon for tolerance. We never knew if they had launched an actual investigation or merely a sting, designed to take down Camp Bowie a notch.
   Most of us suspected the latter.
   Sound Warehouse rented all sorts of movies. Westerns, Action, Foreign, Comedies, Horror. Our location also had a fair number of titles not offered at other locations. Previous Video ops, Angela and Dave, learned how to tweak stock from Carey. When they received 40 copies of hot title, which was also sell through priced (ie: not $99.99, but $19.99), they loaded 35 units into the section and added 5 unusual titles. Mostly Art House fare, vintage comedies like Marx Brothers or Three Stooges, Musicals, Independent Films, Adult titles.
   Alright, Adult. There was Bromo approved Adult, and there were the titles we slipped into the section. Bromo rentals were predominantly Playboy videos. In-house choices included Betty Blue, Fritz The Cat, Queen Margot, Flesh Gordon, Cook Thief Wife Lover, etc ...
   There were no fresh in-house titles. Carey was gone. Angela was gone. Dave was gone. Pat ran Video and played by company rules. She never slipped unordered titles into the rentals, fearing unknown consequences. Didn't matter. Rob, Todd and Dan bumped the section now and then. We remained a very independent store, killing Mom 'N Pop outlets, kicking the ass out of Blockbuster.
   Saturday morning. Copies of the daily newspaper were in the back office and on Video counters. Our store had been mentioned.
   Prominently.
   Seemed a committee of do-gooders wanted to form a local ratings board. They sent children, ages 10 - 16, to over a dozen different video shops in Cowtown. Buying, renting, or simply trying to view R rated content. To check what stores would peddle inappropriate material to minors. They had an agenda, and they must have known most places were staffed by teenagers who weren't going to ID customers.
   Most stores failed the sting. Take It Home, Blockbuster, Tom Thumb, Video Super Center, Osco, were all cited. Yet the store our local newspaper rag chose to focus on, " ... and then there's Sound Warehouse ... "
   Gee, thanks, guys. Hope you appreciated all those advertising dollars we gave you over the years.
   The Boss made sure everyone read the article, then gave the guilty culprit a quiet beating. Someone who played by the rules, fearing unknown consequences.
   Her sole explanation, " ... but ... they looked 18."
   Mistakes happen. The individual involved was deeply embarrassed and sorry.
   There would always be that conflict between free speech vs. censorship.
   None of our titles were pulled.
   Business, by the way, picked up.

Coworkers: Part 16 - Skinny Witch

2008-08-23T07:57:00.000-05:00

   I thought she had it in for me early on. Many expected me to slot in with the older staff. The Boss, Dan, James. Liberal, neo folkies, sensitive, 60's holdouts. A month on, everyone realized I was a throwback to the hedonistic, Me Generation, like I care, worst of the 70's.
   Diana lurked in that lair of hers, the Money Room, crunching payroll and bank deposits. All the while, quietly nibbling on the lettuce sandwich. Sliced bread, leaves of lettuce, hold the mayo. Carbs were not the vice of the Skinny Witch. That title was established long before I worked there.
   After morning accounting, she manned Video during lunch hours, then clocked out. In between, she was quiet, and she was mischievous.
   Repeatedly, she informed me, "You are the most materialistic person I have ever met."
   I countered. "Nonsense. I don't care about things. I don't care, period."
   "That's it exactly!"
   I had been hired for the Classical section, but I was knowledgeable about 60's and 70's music, AM and FM. I was also an old school head banger, though I preferred heavy metal or catchy, hooky metal, rather than thrash or speed. I also hid a guilty taste for girl pop. Songbirds, canaries, girl groups, divas and prima donnas. I didn't tell anyone, however.
   Sabbath carried more credibility than Streisand.
   Within two months Skinny Witch deduced my less than stellar expertise and ratted me out. Customers walked in, singing Lesley Gore, Shelley Fabares, Donna Summer, The Bangles, Pointer Sisters, Swing Out Sister. Increasingly, they were steered my way, and I nailed the tune. First the Skinny Witch pointed me out, soon everyone.
   At the time, Four Non Blondes enjoyed their five minutes of fame, Todd or Stacey asked if I'd rather listen to The Carpenters. Or Rob would hold up a CD and ask, "I was getting ready to play God Bullies, unless you're going to have a meltdown and sob for Abba?" The more hard core rockers booted me from the metal club and pigeonholed me into "gay music." Thank you. Yeah, Skinny Witch (and Dan) apprised the staff I not only knew Disco, but I once habituated those clubs.
   During the Cartoon War between Dan and João, the Skinny Witch added sketches she'd made of me to the lineup. Some were fairly accurate renderings, though she invariably made sure my expression was baffled, and that I wore trendy (materialistic) threads. Since I could only draw stick figures, I didn't retaliate.
   Then there was Van.
   The Skinny Witch brought in a vintage Van Morrison poster and stapled it high over the Classical section. The poster was an immediate distraction. Customers studied the image and asked if I knew that I resembled the Irish singer. Was I a Van Morrison impersonator? Did I own a gold lame suit? (I couldnt' tell them that was Elvis, they wouldn't have known the difference.) Why else had I hung that up there? Was Van my father? My brother? Could I sing Brown Eyed Girl? Or Moondance?
   Skinny Witch giggled the whole time, and I never quite figured how to get even. She did count the money, after all.

   Besides, I didn't remotely look like Van.

Coworkers: Part 17 - Crow ST

2008-08-17T15:32:00.001-05:00

   All week store metal-heads cranked the stereo: Metallica, Nirvana, Motorhead, Nitzer Ebb, Thrill Kill Cult, Soundgarden. After each CD we'd increase the volume a taste. Deaf cripples would dance, the store pounded. Nobody minded.
   Not true. The Boss finally endured enough. His patience burst with his Bambi eardrums. Midsong he killed the Melvins, put in Iris DiMent country schtick. Now everyone's ears hurt. Then he warned -- No more metal overload during daylight hours. Metal, Heavy Metal, Industrial, Bass, all banned until after sunset when Sound Warehouse morphed into Club Warehouse.
   The Boss also had final decree as to what constituted noise. An ever growing roster, apparently. Nitzer Ebb, Lords Of Acid, Ministry, Pixies, Nine Inch Nails, Thrill Kill Cult, quickly plunked into the "sounds of darkness" folder, along with Metallica, Cult, Mötley Crüe, Motorhead, and anything that blared from Seattle. Fully half the playstack.
   While most employees accepted the restrictions, others chafed. Rebellious, stubborn, or stupid. This brought screaming. "Rob!" "Greg!" "Turn that off!" "Worthy!" "Trina!" Todd escaped unscathed because he was in the backroom all day.
   One might argue, but his eyes rolled into his skull. Resistance was futile.

   Crow was a popular favorite, film and soundtrack. Whenever a coworker viewed the flick for the first time, the soundtrack was inserted, volume cranked to 11. Predictable as Summer heat.
   Friday afternoon, late. 4:00 PM. Crow fired up. Loud. Damn loud.
   "Worthy!"
   I shrugged from Classical. I hadn't put that album on. I was too busy making pulls. I liked rotating the stock, not maintaining a museum. Crow wouldn't have been my first choice, I was completely fixated by the Manchester scene music.
   "Rob! Robert!"
   "What?" Rob gestured from where he stood outside cassettes, near the windows. "I didn't play that crap." Then he went back to hustling two college girls.
   Feeling ignored and pissed off, The Boss jumped out of the Manager's Booth, ejected Crow from the CD player, then stomped up and down on it, completely destroying it.
   "Hey, who took off that Crow soundtrack I was playing?"
   Gilda, normally a quiet coworker, though she possessed a legendary temper. She had clocked in minutes earlier.
   The Boss opened his mouth, visibly shook, walked away.
   There were silver shards across the floor.
   Too bad, Crow was a good soundtrack.

Customers: Part 04 - Christian Thing

2008-08-11T08:16:00.000-05:00

   "Some of these prices don't seem at all reasonable, don't you think?"
   The chain charged the MSRP. Manufacturers Suggested Retail Price. Price established by record labels, and yes, it was too high. Nothing anyone could do about that. I'd also complained about the price of music ever since I moved to Cowtown. Prices were expensive because there was no competition in the area. Handful of Mom 'n Pops, couple of punky mall stores. Otherwise, nothing. You wanted tunes, you had to shop the Sound Warehouse chain. We had a lock on music retail.
   When I lived in Los Angeles, I shopped at Tower Records, Licorice Pizza, Wherehouse, Peaches, but I bought at Adam's Apples, a massive music import warehouse in an industrial park. Los Angeles prices were a fraction of other markets. I got spoiled. After I moved around the country a bit, I readjusted. Nothing prepared me for Texas stickers. The stores didn't even attempt to compete.
   Ironic, then, that I ended up working for the big store.
   Customers grumbled now and then. Wasn't a whole lot we could do. The Boss might shave a couple of bucks, generally not. Depended on the customer and their attitude.
   "I mean, I should hope you can do something for me."
   I never approved of whining. Especially from guys.
   This man wore a black fedora. He shopped every other week. I didn't know his name, but I acknowledged him as a Regular. He bought expensive music. Back catalog items, easy listening canaries, opera, art house videos, and blank tapes. In addition to the fedora, his clothes fit nicely and were of quality. Outside, his Mercedes was parked. He also wore the priest's collar. Poverty was not his specialty.
   "Mmm ... Peggy Lee set, Kiri te Kanawa, where did you find this Chris Connor?"
   "She was in Close-Outs, but I find this particular collection overpriced."
   I turned the CD over. ""Two CD set, man."
   "Surely, you can do something -- "
   I hit the register and knocked $3.00 off the price.
   "I mean it's - - Oh, thank you - - it's the Christian thing to do."
   Discount. Christian thing. The words tumbled after Man O God paid and I bagged his items.
   "No problem," I said. "Maybe you can put in a good word with the Big Guy for me."
   "Our Savior? I don't know about that," he demurred.
   "It'd be the Christian thing to do," I commented, with a slight edge.
   The priest tossed me a look, and I tossed it right back.
   Left without a word.
   Think he prayed for me that night?

Coworkers: Part 18 - Label Reps

2008-08-05T08:53:00.000-05:00

   "I wouldn't mess with that if I were you."
   From the bottom of a ladder, Dan gazed up at a rep, tearing down a display.
   "Why? Cause this is a Warners display? One of Ronnie's? I ain't afraid of Ronnie."
   "I just wouldn't mess with that," Dan repeated. "And you are right. That is one of Ronnie's."
   "I ain't afraid of no Big Bad Ronnie."
   The guy blowing was a CEMA / EMI / Capitol field rep. We'd never seen him before. Likely, we'd never see him again. CEMA suffered huge staff turnover. Must have paid terrible and offered zero incentives. No matter, he was ripping down one of Ronnie's layouts. One that Ronnie had stapled up only an hour earlier.
   Just before Ronnie went out for lunch.
   And said he'd be back in about an hour.

   Reps were our main links to the record labels. Promos (promotional CDs), concert tickets. Generally, one got into their good graces by attending meet 'n greets, New Release parties, other alcohol soaked publicity functions. Unless you were new.
   For new hires, in-house probation period lasted from a couple of weeks to several months. Depended on ability, intelligence, social skills, attractiveness. Creatures, human and nonhuman, were shallow. Popular models fared better than flawed wamprats.
   Best advice for newbies in approaching reps? Bide your time.
   Katia perched on a ladder high above the Manager's booth. Major display of rolled flats and ad-slicks, splashed at an angle to make the layout pop. Katia was a BMG (RCA) field rep. Twenty feet beneath her, a hypnotized coworker stared.
   "Say, are you one of those music label people?" he asked.
   "No, I practice ladder aerobics," Katia answered wryly.
   "Ha ha. Yeah, you got legs."
   That particular clerk was still on probation. In fact, he would never survive the evaluation period without antagonizing almost every one of his coworkers.
   The Tim.
   Katia ignored the "legs" comment, returned to the advertisement. She still had four other stores to visit.
   "So ... are you going to offer me tickets or what?"
   "Excuse me."
   "Ha ha. You don't need to ask me to be your date this time - - unless you really want to - - but what kind of tickets do you have in that bag of yours?"
   "I have some passes for the Drop Dead Show."
   "Ha ha. Good one."
   The Tim bobbled away from his register and dropped anchor beside her ladder. Katia worked quite high.
   "Not afraid of heights are you?" The Tim grinned, then began to shake her ladder.
   "Stop!" Katia screamed. "Stop right now! You miserable fucker."
   Employees across the floor heard Katia's gasp and rushed to her.
   "Ha ha. Just kidding," The Tim chortled and waddled back to his register.
   Our mindless colleague never scored those tickets from Katia, the rep who got legs. She never forgot him, either. A few years later, arranging a spread over Boutique, she warned all of us to keep that "damn Tim" away from her.
   The Tim, we corrected her.

   For the average music clerk, Ronnie was the promo source. He visited stores every other month. While most field reps were friendly, chatty, gregarious sorts, Ronnie was a cactus. Taciturn, prickly. Then again, other reps gabbed, handed us a CD or two. Ronnie spoke little, arranged multiple layouts, dropped off a brick of CDs - - thirty discs - - saying, "Give these to The Boss."
   Ronnie was CD Santa.
   Was this bonanza simply WEA largess? Was Ronnie simply scrupulously honest? Was it a chain thing? The longer I worked, the more I believed the answer was "D," all of the above.
   Still, Ronnie was moody. Difficult. He spoke with senior crew members, ignored newbies.
   As for other label reps, they avoided Ronnie. There were a dozen ways Ronnie could wreck them. Their assigned display areas might be relocated, marginalized. Buried in Video or Classical, low traffic zones. Ronnie was the most generous to us. Believe me, that carried weight.
   Other reps didn't mess with Ronnie's layouts.
   Except for that fool who had just torn down a display.
   Just before he noticed Ronnie's car roll into the parking lot.

   After awhile, I made my own contacts and learned to hunt down reps who never visited stores. Out of state, office bound. Tracy with Republic, Lonnie with PGD, Rich with Academy. They sent screeners. Advance movie releases.
   Pat was best friends with Christina at UNI, who spotted her tickets to George Strait for years, and Sylvia at WEA, who slipped her backstage to meet Lenny Kravitz, or added her to the Prince ticket guest list.
   Dan and Rob paddled the liquid route. Alcohol. They went to New Release parties, meet 'n greets, drank with reps at clubs, bars, and events. They called Alan, Patrick, Frank, Marshall, Susannah, you name it. They went to shows at arenas, halls, dumps and dives, met artists famous and forgettable, one-shots and future icons.
   I called WEA reps more than others. Ronnie sometimes, Jamel others. Both were great. My main guy was Gus. "Worthy, how the hell are you doing?"
   Gus rocked. He was higher placed, closer to the executive strata. If there was an album out that I wanted, but hadn't seen a promotional copy of, Gus could usually find it. As in box set. I suspected Gus raided Ronnie's closet.
   I spoke with Gus monthly. Sometimes he wanted to know how an artist was selling, how numbers trended. There were professional charts available, but these could be manipulated. I told Gus what was honestly going on in our store with the acts he represented. For all the years I spoke and dealt with Gus, he and I never met.

   Ronnie spotted the vandalism immediately.
   The beauty of Ronnie's reaction was that there was none. He didn't explode, fume, anger. He simply walked slowly toward the offending rep. Much as I would have loved to have stood nearby, I was busy inventorying Classical. Plus, I didn't want to appear completely obvious. Dan was there, however.
   "Sorry, man, I thought that was put up several months ago."
   Ronnie said nothing.
   "I never would have torn it down to begin with if I thought it was one of yours."
   Again, no response. Ronnie simply folded his arms.
   "I could rebuild that, if you like."
   Ronnie pitched him a fat roll of cellophane tape.
   "I'll be done here in an hour," he declared. "I want that tape back."
   Ronnie walked away, and the CEMA rep, ever the brave one, restored the WEA layout. Ronnie departed after an hour, as did the CEMA rep. He never created that Capitol display.

Coworkers: Part 19 - Lollapaloozers

2008-07-30T09:36:00.000-05:00

People get so touchy sometimes.

Promos were to be pulled and Angela and Keith lobbied hard to do the deed.

Thursday morning, they drew names at 11:00 AM, worked until 2:00. Three hours. Then they took a break from 2:00 - 8:00, eventually finished after 10:00 PM!

Course no one got a damn thing that day.

Angela offered the lame excuse of Spring registration, Keith whined that he couldn't find any clove cigarettes. So what?
They should have thought of this before volunteering their sorry services.

Incompetence begot ridicule.

Two days later. Saturday. Ticket sales! The store anticipated a mob scene for first day Lollapalooza sales. An obligatory sign instructed potential buyers on prices, limits, seating, etc ... Dan had sketched two cartoon figures over the sign, dead ringers for Angela and Keith, holding hands. The cartoon girl waved and smiled cross-eyed behind wire glasses. The cartoon guy sported a pink bandana and smoked two clove cigarettes, one from his mouth, the other from the shunt tube protruding from under his ribs. Each sported a T-shirt: Lola Pa Loser or Call Me Malph.

Rob profiled the artist's models while barking instructions to laughing ticket slackers.

By noon, Dan clocked in. Keith answered his casual, "Hi, Malph," with a shrill, "Fuck you, Dan!" and went home early.

Coworkers: Part 20 - Full Moon Washout

2008-07-24T07:17:00.000-05:00

   Todd and I were adept at getting screeners into the store. Screeners = advance viewing copies of movies. Films scheduled for release within 60 days were routinely sent to video buyers to encourage orders. Mind you, distant Bromeroids in Dallas ordered all sell through and rental videos for the chain. Todd and I were mere store drones, yet we implied we were "big buyers."
   I made contacts with Republic, PolyGram, Buena Vista, and some soft-core porn representative. Camp Bowie received monthly boxes of all sorts of winners. Quality art house flicks from Miramax, neo noir from Poly, B-films from Republic, and naked thriller junk.
   Todd only had one contact, direct to video Full Moon Productions. Subspecies, Trancers, Demonic Toys, Puppet Master, and a hundred sequels.

   I added my boxes to the promo pile and coworkers borrowed jewels at random. I didn't mind. Todd was far more territorial. He shared, but he wanted those masterpieces returned. Todd was building a collection of tiny terrors. Actually, Todd was far more involved with Full Moon than he let on.
   Once a month, I'd phone Monty or Terri or a couple other reps, chat for a couple of minutes, then request whatever they had available. Todd, on the other hand, joined Full Moon fan-clubs, entered their contests, created in-store displays. There was an ulterior motive. Todd was trying to get The Toadies into one of their movies. Press, even for a grade-D film, was still exposure. And Full Moon was holding a contest for bands. A lucky winner would get an appearance in a film to be determined.
   Todd's correspondence with Full Moon, like mine with the majors, went to and from the Camp Bowie address. Mail addressed to specific employees was generally safe.
   Generally.
   Envelopes might get trash canned by accident. Or opened. The store was family, what could you do?
   Todd asked several of us to watch for any mail with the Full Moon return address. Didn't want to miss his winning notification!
   Rob found the letter and plopped it in his box for safe keeping.

   Robert and I had the worst employee boxes of anyone in the store. Ours were nailed on a wall just off the hallway into the office. Coworkers marched into these daily. Once a week, they'd end up on the floor. Contents strewn or kicked everywhere. Yeah, yeah, poor baby. Worse, we were directly under the condensation unit of the store air conditioning. When the A/C froze up, it leaked buckets. Where did all that water go? Rob's box, my box.
   On that particular day, when two boxes were soggy, cardboard messes, there had been an envelope in Rob's box, placed there for safekeeping.
   Took our boxes about a week to dry out.
   In the confusion, Rob forgot.
   Todd was really pissed off.
   He and Rob were sharing an apartment at the time.
   The band hadn't won that grand prize, but, that wasn't the point.

Coworkers: Part 21 - Damsel In Distress‏

2008-07-18T10:56:00.000-05:00

   New girl, Linda or Lynne, had been hired for weekend coverage in Video. College freshman, pretty, bit intimidated. Friday and Saturday nights were riot scenes in Video, so most employees had little dealings with her aside from, "Hello," or "How's it going?"
   Most, but not all.
   Double-A and João were regular staffers in Video. Lynne's shy smile caught their eye. Double-A and João tossed jokes, romance, and suggestions her way. They fought with each other in friendly and not-so-friendly ways. Manly rivalry that modern females adored.
   Lynne gave notice and departed. João and Double-A each blamed the other for chasing off their future steady.
   João disappeared under store radar for awhile.
   Double-A sprayed the sky like a Roman candle.
   Double-A wore very thick, black framed glasses, combed his brown hair down either side of his face, like Manfred the Butler, and he was one of the finest yawners ever to push a video buggy. Initially, most employees disliked A-A. After several months, a higher percentage approved of him because of his radioactive weird factor. Newly minted high school graduate whose dialogue was heavily sprinkled with, "ehh" delivered from the back of his throat.
   "Ehh, I wish I was at home, hacking some Internet sites." or "Customer didn't rewind that, ehh." or "Ehh, stupid pen, ehh, won't write when I want it to. Ehh."
   I was not an admirer. I tended to make judgments based on work. W-o-r-k. When someone didn't pull their weight, someone else, or everyone else, had to carry them. I could understand illness or injury, I could sympathize with alcohol after effects or having a bad day, a bad week, a bad month. Life wasn't always rosebuds and festivals. Double-A was simply sorry assed lazy. Didn't like working, and tried to loaf as much as possible onto colleagues.
   He did enjoy Video, however.
   Because Pat worked back there.
   "Ehh."
   Pat blossomed easy in his eyes. Pat laughed at his inane jokes and smiled bashfully.
   She was cute.
   And ... Pat had separated from her husband. Even better, the ex was deployed overseas.
   Aside from the two lads, Pat was alone.
   "Ehh."
   Pat was the A-A's Medieval damsel imprisoned in the castle tower. She needed rescuing. If not rescue, attention. Manly attention.
   "Ehh."
   Princess Pat not remotely interested in Double-A's suggestion they lunch at McDonald's, then find a dark corner of the parking lot. Didn't want to watch Last Tango In Paris or Two Moon Junction. Didn't want to shove back when he gave her a sporting nudge.
   He could understand NO as well as anyone else. And he knew the reject's response to NO.
   Double-A began stalking.
   Parked his car outside her apartment every night. For hours. Surely, she'd understand his love was serious. She'd open the door. They'd be friends.
   "Ehh."
   Didn't happen, Pilgrim.
   Employees grew abrupt, if not rude, towards Double-A. The Boss had a sobering conversation with him. Pat quit laughing at the jokes he heard on TV.
   Gave notice. Headed out of state to college.
   Eventually that computer hacking brought him trouble.

Customers: Part 05 - Play Berlioz For Me

2008-07-12T11:01:00.000-05:00

   Friday evening. I worked backroom. Todd had a Dallas gig and I agreed to cover. Shipment came in large. Pat walked back and said I was needed in Classical.
   "Who's the customer? Male, female, student?"
   She lowered her head and shot me a look, "It's a movie question."
   "What's with the look? What do you mean by that?"
   "Just come see me afterward."
   I put on a better shirt and made for the floor. Film cue was likely Wagner, Orff, German noise, or maybe Russian.
   Heading out of Video, I tagged my clients right away. Couple. Probably wanted "baby music" like Mozart. No, Pat said movie. Maybe they wanted "baby making music," like Ravel. Or Delibes. I suppressed an image and approached.
   "Hey, can I help you with anything?"
   "We asked for Classical help," the woman said. "Is that you? It's just, you don't look Classical."
   "I am head of Classical," I answered, "I'm also one of the shipment guys. I don't wear my suit on truck nights."
   What did people expect? Tweed jacket, sweater, trimmed beard, spectacles, pipe. A British accent, too, I suppose. I wore jeans, red flannel shirt, long hair, Fu Manchu mustache. I had, admittedly, toked a pipe once or twice in my life.
   At least she didn't say, "Classical ... you know ... Classy."
   Early twenties couple. Preppies. Tailored clothes. The girl was attractive and packaged herself nicely. Professional. The guy's clothes were quality, but ill fitting. He stared at the floor, he seemed uncomfortable. Pretty clear who made that "tops or bottoms" decision.
   "Did you see Sleeping With The Enemy?" she asked abruptly.
   My brain emptied for a second. This was not what I expected.
   "Julia Roberts movie? Yes, I saw that."
   "He bought the soundtrack," she nodded to her companion. "It doesn't have the music."
   "Which ... number ... ?" I scrolled the film quickly in my mind.
   She leaned forward and cocked her head. "Berlioz."
   I paused momentarily, then walked towards the B's.
   The selection was the Witches Sabbath from Symphonie Fantastique. Played in the background during Sleeping With Enemy, while a very dominant husband had his way with the wife.
   The girl pondered several of them, than asked which one was the darkest.
   How the hell did I know?
   "Get the ... oh! ... the Bernstein version," I suggested. "Because Bernstein is ... you know?" I narrowed my eyes like I knew something.
   Total bull.
   "Thank you so much."
   "And turn the volume up. Loud."
   "Oh, we will. We will."
   The power couple departed. Later that night, there would be candles, and that red and black lace outfit. Berlioz would pound. The male partner would be expected to accelerate his sluggish testosterone libido. More likely, he would, once again, be bottoms.

* *
   That was several weeks ago.
   The scene repeated frequently. Either a couple or a girl alone. Buying ... "for a friend."
   Please.
   These females were all trying to reenact some fantasy ... that could never happen. For whatever reason, they had opted for the milquetoast, instead of some average guy, let alone the bad boy. Men who were hard to handle or difficult. A touch of classical menace would never add nasty to Mister Mild.
   Sleeping With The Enemy was about to end its stint at first run theaters. Full ticket, date venues. Next stop for the flick, el cheapo screens. Dollar theaters, then rental market.
   Which translates into a new wave of wanna be victims. Budget victims. Trailer trash and raspberry shut-ins calling the store.
   Asking for the CD. Buying it.
   Telling someone special, later that night,
   Play Berlioz for me.

Coworkers: Part 22 - Crunch

2008-07-06T06:50:00.000-05:00

   The first announcement was a scream. Loud, piercing, girlie scream from the Ladies Restroom.
   Stephanie, Amster, Kathy, one of the part timers.
   First witness to the mouse.

   The "celebrate diversity" store ethos flew out the window. Nothing to celebrate about vermin. Especially, as more rodent-experienced crew members advised, if the vermin was female, loaded with babies. An infestation would explode within months.
   Everyone knew once customers saw mouses, they would become ex customers in a drop dead heartbeat. Worse, where there was mouse, there was rat. Rats carried rabies. They attacked other creatures, they swarmed in packs and devoured humans whole. They swiped helpless babies from carriages, dragged them down, down, to their deepest pits, and then ...
   The mouse probably wandered in by accident and discovered a treasure trove.
   Crumbs, corn chip fragments, bits of candy bar, fried chicken, pizza crusts. Coworkers were messy eaters. Desks held bags of potato chips, candy corn, peanuts, ancient Valentine candy. Dan had his pile of stuff on the floor. Rob and I had boxes nailed to the wall, from whence they tumbled every time the A/C leaked.
   The Office, Money Room, Backroom, Break Area, we were a vast, super-mouseket bonanza.
   In all likelihood, the mouse, a scout, would alert other mouses. They would set up pawn shops, crack houses, gambling dens, vermin brothels, gun outlets, sex barns. No one would shop at our store anymore. Closing managers would be overwhelmed once they switched off the lights. City officials, in their infinite wisdom, would decide there was only one solution. Sound Warehouse would have to be burned to the ground.

   The intruder was a small, gray field mouse. Beatrix Potter type. Everyone saw it. The creature was terrified out of its mind.
   All too predictably, the building landlord did absolutely nothing. The national pest agency, with whom the chain had an insect control contract, pointed out that a rodent, however small, was not a bug and, therefore, not their problem.
   We were on our own.
   The girls wanted the visitor caught and released somewhere. The Botanic Gardens, an island resort, maybe a retirement place for homeless mouses. Some decided the scuttling furball was cute. Stacey joked it could be the store pet. Most of the guys wanted the mouse killed. D-E-A-D. Rob, Todd, Greg, João, Derek, myself, we baited and set traps. We hid poison. Dan, James, and John were less medieval.
   Didn't matter. By now, the mouse had become wary.
   And it had developed preferences. It had become a crack addict.
   Rather, a crunch addict. One food became the overwhelming favorite.
   Nestlé Crunch bars.
   Every morning, we found foil wrapper pieces by Video checkout. The impulse counter.
   Obviously, the mouse was impulsive. It also did not pay.
   We relocated the Crunch bars to the highest shelf.
   Next morning ... mouses were excellent climbers, we discovered.
   Removed all Nestlé products. At closing, set a half dozen spring traps and bait boxes under the candy rack.
   Success.
   Well ... we didn't exactly see the mouse. But all activity stopped.
   Week later, the Nestlé Crunch row at the front registers was attacked.
   Bastard.
   We rarely spied it thereafter.
   Two months later, we found it by the Sound Check posts. Grossly overweight, the size of a tennis ball. Expired.
   The perils of an improper diet. Thus ends a cautionary tale.

Coworkers: Part 23 - Call Matt‏

2008-06-30T07:35:00.000-05:00

   "What?"
   Pepe stood in Video, barking into the telephone. Sounded like she caught a liar. Probably a customer saying the dog ate the rental tape.
   "No, that is not an acceptable excuse. You might try breezing that past one of the managers. John is nearby. Do you want to talk to him?"
   I slowed down to listen.
   "I didn't think so. You better just march your ass down here as -- "
   Couldn't be a customer. Pepe wouldn't talk to a client like that, much as we all wanted to sometimes.
   "That's so much better! Your feet hurt. Your precious, dainty feet. Who are you, the Queen of Sheba?"
   I knew. It was one of the new hires. Calling in with some cockamamie excuse why they couldn't work. We accepted 50-100 employment applications weekly. If newbie couldn't work because their pups were tired ...
   "Oh, a pre-existing medical condition. We didn't know. Play that reason, honey, then you'll have to bring in a doctor's note."
   High schoolers told the stupidest lies.
   "I am serious. If you made date plans, or you wanna stay home and watch cartoons, fine. Mind you, this is the third time you called in past your clock in time."
   Wendy.
   New girl everyone already called Wendy Won't Work.
   I started leafing through the employee phone list, pulled out the card, then searched for John.
   John agreed in two seconds. He wrote another note to The Boss, detailing Wendy's third and final call-in.
   Meanwhile, I dialed the phone and called Matt.

   Matt was Diana's oldest son. He had been a fixture at the store since she started years earlier.
   Matt was never scheduled. In baseball, Matt would be the fireman, the closer. When someone couldn't work their shift, we called Matt straight away. He always showed. Didn't matter that he was 15, or that there was calculus homework, or that Diana would have to drive him. He disliked school, calculus was as pointless as algebra, and his mom ... well ... that's what moms did.
   We felt guilty phoning him sometimes, but he was dependable. Matt was more reliable than everyone else. Fortunately, we couldn't phone him during the day or we would have. For night relief, he was Iron Matt.
   Larry once was out for weeks because a tooth infection went into his jaw. Only when the agony was searing did he make a dentist appointment. During that period, Matt covered for him, night after night. One girl phoned in one evening from jail. On a sorority dare, she tried to walk out of the mall store wearing shoes she hadn't bought. Yet she meant to! Really. Matt rolled in.
   Absences were as constant and varied as the reasons:
Car Accident. Car Won't Run. Waiting For The Plumber. Apartment Burglary. Eviction. It's Raining. It's Snowing. It's Too Hot. Food Poisoning. Our Power Went Out. Concert Tickets! Monday Night Football. Broke My Arm, But I Won't Need A Cast. My Goldfish Looks Sick. The Drive-Thru Spilled Coffee All Over Me. My Cat's Having Kittens! Grandma Died ... No, The Other One. I'm Not Hungover, Honest. I Think I'm In Oklahoma. Jury Duty (One of my personal favorites. For when? Night court?). The Police Sealed The Complex. My Roommate Stole My Shoes. We Broke Up, But He's Waiting Outside. My Best Friend's In Emergency. My Girlfriend Smacked My Face, I Can't See. I Thought It Was Tuesday, So I Just Washed My Hair. I've Got Major Diarrhea. Big Test Tomorrow. I Think I'm Pregnant, But I Can't Pee On The Stick. I Forgot To Register For Classes. Key Broke In The Door And It's Unlocked. I'm Having Female Problems (Ladies, men never question further). The Dog Threw Up On My Clothes - Hello?
   Time and again, who got called?
   Matt - Matt - Matt.

   City fathers modified the employment age after a pair of high profile crimes in which the victims were young, inexperienced teens. One of the robberies occurred three blocks down Camp Bowie. After that time, we informed all youthful applicants they had to be 18 to get robbed in Cowtown. Matt was 16, but he was grandfathered in.
   My favorite Matt incident happened during a Promo pull, when he hadn't bothered to create a wish list. On the Stash Room floor, Greg found a previous list of Matt's and added it to the pulls. Matt won half his requests and was thrilled. That never would have happened to anyone else. The crew credited good karma.

Coworkers: Part 24 - One For Each

2008-06-25T06:56:00.000-05:00

   "They hurt!" she whined. "They really hurt."
   I shot Mary a sideways glance before I rolled my eyes and walked off.
   "They hurt!" She held herself tighter and wailed to anyone within earshot.
   Two months earlier, Mary had transferred to Camp Bowie from the Six Flags Mall location. Mary had been the resident "hotstuff." The prettiest, partiest, wildest girl at Six Flags.
   How'd we know?
   She told us her first day.
   Trina, Gilda, Pat, Amy, Stephanie, none of the current females were going to be second candle to this junior debutante. They beamed sunshine and smiles, yet hated the new transfer immediately.
   Mary had immaculate, fluffy brown hair and blue eyes. She was verbal, she was boastful, but she wasn't blind. The other girls were pretty. Also confident. They attracted plenty of male customers. She wasn't receiving her share, because stupid managers kept parking her on register.
   Maybe if she applied more eyeliner. Darker lipstick. Rolled her blouse higher, inched her jeans lower. In addition to gangstas, frat boys and rednecks, her stomach reveal attracted our weekly newspaper columnist. He crowded 40, but targeted girls ages 18-20, the golden age he still perceived himself as. He apparently had a life membership at a tanning salon. He always looked sunburned. Our beautiful transfer had successfully lured someone older than her father.
   The strategy had misfired, and she complained bitterly about the creepy reporter.
   Mary already had a steady boyfriend. Often unavailable. Self employed type. She wasn't sure what his business was. His car trunk was crammed with firearms. Something to do with law enforcement. Maybe. Dates were unpredictable. Moreover, she was too beautiful to stay home. Parents' home. When none of the girls suggested dating partners, she pouted to the guys and bored those baby blues into them. Greg, Todd, João, Rob, even Dan, avoided her as rejected goods. And a clinger.
   She needed a gimmick to distance herself from the other girls. The teenage brainstorm birthed two stellar ideas. The first, she bounced off her female coworkers. Ink. She would look incredibly sexy with a tattoo, she laughed. There were the parents, however. How would mommy & daddy react? Disapprove, most definitely. The other girls weren't exactly the best sounding board. Screw the parents, that's what they'd do.
   Besides, if you're going to be such a scaredy cat, you could always place the image someplace ... discreet. Plus, if it was hidden, it could be more ... adult. Boys liked nasty.
   Girls could be extremely cruel to each other.
   Mary discarded the tattoo idea. Three of the girls already had at least one. The whole point was to be special. Different.
   She got herself pierced instead.
   Two piercings.
   One for each nipple.
   Only they got infected.
   And they hurt.
   They really hurt.

Coworkers: Part 25 - Shaved, Not Shaken

2008-06-19T08:19:00.000-05:00

   Don't date coworkers.
   If possible, don't even talk with them. Best path for you. Of course, that was impossible.
   As far as I was concerned, the less I knew about coworkers and their personal lives, the better. That meant TV viewing choices, financial poverty, personal hygiene, new experiences with controlled substances, sexcapades, obsessions with neighbors, cousins. Heard enough?
   Like hell.
   People share. They can't help themselves. Colleagues were a notch below relatives in sharing nightmares.

   He rolled up for their date an hour late. Sloshed.
   Many times, there had been a note taped to the Manager's Booth or in the Office:

I'm never going to drink, ever again. Swear to God.

   There were similar pledges at the store. To be honest, I could relate. In another era, I had woken up many times wondering where I was, who I was with, and why did my head, which was so empty, hurt so bad.
   I never vowed to curb my kamikaze habits, however. That required foresight. Thinking.
   Still, I never arrived an hour late for an arranged date, unless there had been an accident and I could show broken bones or severed arteries to a boiling female. If not, most of the girls I dated would have arranged just that.
   And I sure as hell would never have tried that stunt with Larra.

   Larra was a mishire.
   Her parents were rich. She didn't need the punky record store job. For more money, she could have worked in her father's law office .
   Maybe she wanted to mingle with the other classes. Still, she was brainy and attractive, accustomed to a level of treatment..
   Hardly the type to fall for a repeated pick-up.
   "You can always call on me. I am a manager," was an oft used, surprisingly successful line.
   Larra started dating a colleague within the month. Exposed him to Bukowski, among other literary activities.
   The relationship was rocky. He could be combative and thoughtless. She was intelligent, quick tempered. The "thoughtless" aspect perturbed her the most.
   He rolled up for their date an hour late. Passed out on the sofa.
   Two females glowered disapprovingly, Larra and her roommate. They stewed and vented. They could have shaken the slumbering guest awake. Grab, shake, scream.
   Instead, the roommate brought the razor.
   Girlie razor.
   The kind for shaving legs.
   Which is what they did. Females often laced humor with revenge.
   Being a razor, the instrument held no prejudice against male legs. Bare was its goal.
   Now how did I know all this? How did everyone in the store know all this? How did everyone know the deforestation included the mustang brambles surrounding Dodge City? Next week, why did female coworkers make thumb sucking gestures when Baby Boy walked past?
   Because people, even victims, shared.
   Lucky you.

Customers: Part 06 - Restroom

2008-06-13T08:33:00.001-05:00

   "I don't like old people," I stated.
   The Boss had been chewing my ass out.
   A wobbly old codger had mistaken our store for a public latrine. White headed, 120 lbs bag of bones. He looked about 88. Probably had a pea sized bladder. He tottered inside the store mindlessly for five minutes. Took him that long to mosey from the front entry to Video. Reconnaissance mission. Searching for our restroom. After that ... my guess was the After-Life.
   Diana was still counting in the Money Room, The Boss worked papers in the Office, Pat tended Video, Rob carried inventory charts, I tidied Classical, someone else ran front register.
   Six employees worked that morning. The decrepit fossil could have approached five of those six and gotten a happy face.
   No, I'll go further. There were about 25 names on payroll. The old fart could have sought out 24 sympathetic human beings.
   Instead, he walked up to me.
   "I'm sorry, do ya'll have a bathroom?"
   I looked up. We had restrooms. They weren't public, but nicer employees made exceptions now and then. Pregnant women, infants.
   Old folks.
   Grandpa, however, had chosen unwisely. I jabbed my thumb at the front exit.
   "Tom Thumb's that way," I barked, and walked off.
   No wonder Russian Roulette was popular worldwide. If I'd been a pistol, he'd be bleeding all over the floor.
   Last I saw, he was creeping out the front. Maybe he made it to Tom Thumb's public restroom. Maybe not. Like I cared.
   Next thing I knew, The Boss flung open the swinging doors and stormed my way.
   "Did you refuse to let some senior citizen use our facilities?" he yelled.
   "Sure. We don't have a public restroom. He wasn't buying anything anyway. He just came in to tinkle. He'd only make a mess."
   How did The Boss know? The guy had eyes in the back of his head. Literally. His eyes had rolled up into his skull. Imminent warning signal he was about to erupt. Aww, shit. He'd yell, send me home, put me on probation. Jeez. Because some old man wouldn't wear diapers.
   "What is the matter with you? Have you no shred of human sympathy whatsoever?"
   I shrugged. Big mistake. More gasoline. What an idiot I was.
   "I just hope that someday you find yourself, a bitter, helpless elderly man, and no one lets you use their restrooms!"
   "I don't like old people."
   Screaming worsened.
   I got trash duty all week.
   Damn, it was hot.

Coworkers: Part 26 - Boy Toy‏

2008-06-07T09:27:00.000-05:00

   The guy shambled in slow and choppy. Walked slightly sideways, dragging one foot behind. Not a limp. He was stoned to near paralysis.
   Trina intercepted him while The Boss worked in the Office. Had he seen this kid, the kid he had tossed out two days earlier, The Boss would have thrown him out again. Then yelled at a fool underling.
   "Hi," Trina grinned. That Hi could have been a question in itself.
   "Oh ... I'm looking ... I'm looking ... I ... "
   Brain = wet toast, heavy with syrup. He had forgotten why he was in the store, whom he had come to see.
   "She's back there in Video. Back where she always is. Hello. Anybody home upstairs?"
   Trina laughed aloud and walked away. The kid drug his feet and snailed towards Video.
   Where Thérèse worked.
   Thérèse's relationship status had blurred murky.
   Separated, sliding into divorce. Her behavior charted an all too predictable pattern. Where once she hurried home after work, now she went for drinks with coworkers. They were a decade younger, and she downshifted to make up for lost time. Dance in the club while she could still nab the free chick pass. Ventured to parties. Sampled the platter - alcohol, smoke, candy colored treats. Controlled substances, which she was unaccustomed to, left Thérèse a "deer in headlights" zombie.
    Also dulled her rusty dating skills, which translated into rookie blunders.
   Such as telling driftwood where she worked.
   Which was how we figured out she had jumped in the pool.
   And that she preferred her males on "the young side."
   Early twenties, late teens.
   Maybe that's what she dated last. Maybe she assumed younger males would be easier to manage. That they were trainable.
   Only thing ... those puppies ... weren't housebroken yet.
   The kid moseyed towards Video. Thérèse, hands on hips, glared at him. She understood her workmates would gab about her for the rest of the day. She was mortified.
   Worst of all, because she had selected a complete loser. He was parade on display. Her love bunny.
   Baseball cap, wife beater t-shirt, pants that kept falling off his ass, stripy boxers. Stood tall, in five years he would be handsome. Today, he looked fourteen.
   He got down to business. Finance.
   "C'mon, girlfriend, need twenty. Food, maybe beer, this and that."
   She was very quiet, very animated. An experienced man would have recognized the NO - LEAVE warning scowl.
   Yet, she hadn't selected experience. She chose Boy Toy.
   "C'mon, girl. How bout ten? You want me lunchtime? I'll wait."
   Customers began staring. Free entertainment! Plus, any second now, The Boss would stroll out. Then fireworks would ignite.
   "Love what you got. My lady. Even five. No gotta be ten! C'mon, baby. Gimme ten."
   Thérèse dug into her purse, eyes raked the Floor. Everyone studied the stacks with deep intensity. Then she thrust some greenbacks at him. Mouthed something we couldn't catch.
   Boy Toy wadded the bills down his back pocket. Pants dropped to his knees before he caught them. Reached over and pulled Thérèse into his face. Slipped his hand against her chest, pressed. She flinched away and whispered angrily. He responded with a shrug, and reached again, lower.
   Doubtless, he possessed redeeming qualities. Younger males boasted legendary recovery powers. Best appreciated in private. In public, however, house breaking lessons were invaluable.
   Boy Toy strolled out the front door.
   Thérèse exhaled loudly, feigned nonchalance.
   We pretended nothing happened.
   Later that night, after a few drinks, coworkers forgot their diplomacy.
   Asked Thérèse where Boy Toy was. She shrugged she didn't know.
   Dan, as always, spotlit the obvious. "I guess he's still at Mommy's house. Studying for some high school test tomorrow."
   Thérèse told everyone to fuck off and stormed out.
   Touchy.

Coworkers: Part 27 - Swimming Lessons

2008-06-01T07:27:00.000-05:00

   Late August. Summer scorch was ending, so was the current crew. Within weeks, Summer temp help and two long timers were moving on. Michaela, Stephanie, Little E, Panama, Gilda. Most, we would never see again. We knew that. Life's Parade was introductions and farewells. A farewell bash was suggested. Little E offered her parents' house. That one weekend when they were out of town seemed particularly promising.
   Best of all, there was a swimming pool.
   Private home, private swimming pool.
   No one ever mentioned the Playboy Mansion. And yet ... The siren song of the iconic pool soiree. Lush swimming pond, waterfalls, bamboo thickets. Cocktails, hors d'oeuvres, lounge music. Sophisticated ... with the Texas twist. Special guests, Dallas Cowboys and Cowboy Cheerleaders.
   Too bad. Could have been. If only. Too late now.
*
   Fools who organized this should have been certified. Greatest idea, my ass.
   Everyone had fun. At least those who didn't throw up.
   Or those who didn't go blind, or those who wished they had.
   Oh, silly me, that left everyone out.
   Still, it was educational. A tutorial on what NOT to do next time.
   Because there would always be a next time.
*
   OK. What should NOT have been done.
   1) Volleyball. Water volleyball.
   Volleyball turned into water fight. Not just the guys, either. Girls got insanely competitive, old grudges surfaced. Underwater pushing, and slapping water into open mouths proved irresistible.

   2) Cannonball. Never appropriate. The biggest guy (ahem, Bert) launched himself after the ubiquitous, "Hey, watch this." With each six pack, he surfaced slower and slower. He had already pissed everyone off. If he thought friends would rescue his whiny, "Hep ... glug, glug ... hep," he was profoundly mistaken.
   Cannonballers, jump at your own risk. You get in trouble, friends will place bets.
   Special tip, that jump doesn't attract the babes.
   3) Booze. Don't drink near pools. Say what? Don't drink, period. Huh? Stupid rule. Skip Rule #3.
   4) Booze, Part 2. Getting girls drunk.
   Trina brought the new girl, Missy. Dallas transfer. Robster cruised over with drinks. Usually after a handful of shots, Rob would be steady while females tumbled down the rabbit hole. That night, he would discover Missy possessed hollow legs. Alcohol had no impact on her. The following morning, Rob would swear off booze ... for the umpteenth time.
   5) Toupee. Guys, don't jump in the pool and assume the rug will stay in place. Too many buddies, male and female, will ensure it doesn't.

   6) Food. Do you eat in your own bathtub? How about when you take a shower? Nice beefy burrito? Of course not. Still, guys waded across the shallow end, biting that hotdog or burger. Bits of bun or wiener plopped into the water, then bobbed up and down. Chips floated, candy bars sank.
   The amount of debris in the pool increased through the night, exacerbated by Rule #3. Behavior also ... well ...
   7) Chewing tobacco. Two guys had a serious problem with nicotine addiction. A future of jaw cancer beckoned, and youthful handsome looks would vanish with that lower mandible. Bozos were know-it-alls, and immortal. Anyway, they splashed about, innocuous beer bottle in their hand, slurping into it every 30 seconds. Filling the bottle with brown spit. When they played volleyball, they set the bottle adrift, bobbing up and down, listing side to side. Brown spit. Message in the bottle to The Boss. Please, quit hiring chewers.
   Ah, yes, the bottles did capsize.
   Brown in the pool. Luckily it was dark already.
   With darkness, bad behavior intensified.
   8) Pool pole. You know, the surface skimmer? Shoulda been hidden in the attic. Two of the gents took turns placing the net end over a paddler's head and shoving them under. Lot of frantic excitement below the surface. Gee, couldn't swimmers take a joke? For crissakes.
   Then Bert seized hold of the pool pole and began playing shark attack. Bert was royally drunk, and, without his glasses, legally blind. He wielded the pole underwater, like Aquaman with a lance. Shark attack was defined as ramming the pole up someone's ass. Bert, as always, was too strong. Humans blasted from the water like porpoises. Girls turned from Flipper to savage.
   Little E finally confiscated the pool pole. Bert tried to apologize to everyone. No one told him where his glasses were.
   Stellar moment when he cried to the Golden Retriever.
   In case you assumed only boys misbehaved, then you assumed wrong, grasshopper.
   Consider.
   9) Sunburned Alert. Hot Summer night. Reefer and all that water diminished inhibitions and expectations. The everyday, workplace, no-contact rule was suspended just this once. The unnamed male was recovering from a sunburn, however. And all that water had loosened ... the layer of dead skin. Cannabis often led to compulsive, then obsessive, behavior. The just this once female partner began peeling off strips of skin. Her thighs locked his waist. Because she was stoned, because it was too funny, because she couldn't stop herself, because she didn't realize several bystanders had aimed camcorders.
   10) No means NO! Booze or no booze. No matter how beautiful she looked tonight.
There had been inappropriate contact in the pool. The basic rule of don't grab me when I say no had been violated. Repeatedly. One of the guys, of course. A bit hammered and not one of the best swimmers. Several girls were part seal, part water polo star. They out maneuvered and out wrestled the stuttering buffoon, dunking him and upending him easily. Then they swiped his trunks, climbed out of the pool, and pitched them in the fire.
   Plaintive cries of, "Help me," or "C'mon, it's not funny anymore," or "Hey, I'm freezing in here." were ignored by all.
   11) Nudity clause. I should say no more. Everyone knew the equation. Naked + coworkers = blindness or nausea.
   There was duct tape in the house. There was rope, there was electrical wire. Someone should have noticed Dan and screamed warning. He could have been restrained. If necessary, hog tied. Reference duct tape.

   Instead, Dan took off his clothes.
   Other communities have laws. Enacted for good reason. To protect everyone from seeing Dan naked.
   From seeing everyone else who joined him.
   12) Fights. All things pass away, and even fun times have their endings.
   Near the grass, an argument between Pepe and Lisa had escalated. Lisa kept trying to coerce Pepe into the pool. Pepe could not swim. Finally, Lisa simply grabbed hold of her and pitched her in.
   Pepe sank like a stone.
   After being rescued, Pepe was ready to fight, even while she coughed and spat out water. Even though Lisa was twice her size. Pepe was drunk and furious, and rushed her. Coworkers had to pry them apart.
   Pepe tore away in her car, sopping wet. She was still wet by the time she returned home. Her mother went ballistic after hearing the story and phoned the cops.
   Two prowl cars investigated, party goers dispersed or staggered away into the dark.
   Not before one or two heaved into the pool. Party vomit became a running gag for weeks.
*
   Confession, I dodged that gala. In my youth, I had an embarrassing, sorry history of party stupidity. Ever since leaving Los Angeles, I shunned revelry.
   Consequently, I was one of the few coherent employees the next morning when a CEMA contest was posted in the store. The store that played the new Blur album the most, and phoned in with it playing in the background, would win the contest.
   Huge cash prize attached. $300.00 to the winning store.
   We could win this. Three of us devised and implemented the perfect strategy before sobriety returned to colleagues, and they voiced objections or their own notions.
   The Blur CD was permanently placed in the combo player.
   Every time an album finished, Blur fired up. And we phoned.
   And phoned, and phoned, and phoned.
   And won.
   By a landslide.
   Three hundred dollars.
   For what?
   Another party, you fool.
   The Blur Party.
   At Pat's Shack.
   Snowball.
   Details, next week.

Coworkers: Part 28 - Snowball

2008-05-26T09:30:00.029-05:00

    I had to interview for weekend Classical help. Not that I needed help, but Dallas said we should have coverage for nights and Sundays. The Boss didn't want to deal with applicants, since most classical types were muffins. He gave me Mike's old list of questions, and said it would help weed prospects. Any of you could have answered these questions: Who wrote 1812 Overture? Who wrote Carmina Burana? Who wrote Rhapsody In Blue?
    After the first headless cork, I devised my own questions.
    My smile was friendly, but my test was totally contemptuous. The Boss walked by once, dropped his jaw at the exchange.
    "Who wrote Tchaikovsky's Nutcracker Suite?"
    "Uhhh ... pass."
    "Alright, do you know who composed Pachelbel's Canon In D?"
    "Can we come back to that one?"
    "No problem. Who wrote Handel's Water Music?"
    "Hmmm ... pass."
    The guy wore striped pants, checkered sport coat, his hair was glued in place with pressed rat oil.
    Pass.

    Then came Roland. Didn't even question him. Guy had a thorough knowledge of classical. Blonde. Fluffy turtleneck sweater. Soft hands. Pompous, irritating. Mensa underachiever. Told The Boss he'd be the same as Jeri Jo. That the crew would hate him.
    Roland was hired, and immediately began annoying everyone.
    "Hey, could you get that door?"
    "What do you mean? Get the door what? A cookie? Or is the door actually some felon door? Did it steal a doorknob?"
    "Hold the fucking door, loser!"
    "Fucking door? Is the door trying to create baby doors? I don't see any other doors. Or is it asexual?"
    Stupid twat.
    Dan was especially good at leading Roland into his shit bucket questions. But ... that's Dan. Most of the crew shunned Roland. Rob, Stacey, and Todd, predictably enough, simply wanted Roland stabbed.
    Preferably up the ass.

    We'd won $300 for a District wide Blur contest. Blew it all on a big party at Pat's shack. I rolled in early to see the lads, Chris & Joe, check how Jesse was doing, then split.
    Everyone else soaked up beer and tequila, reefer, Ecstasy, and LSD until they were blotto. By morning, most coworkers would awake next to dried vomit or semen.
    Roland, somewhat stupidly, attended as well.
    Lo, the temptation of free food.

    "Oooh ... a sheepdog," he saw Pat's dog in the backyard. "What's its name?"
    "Snowball," Robster answered in a heartbeat.
    "Really? For a sheepdog?" He turned to Todd.
    "Right on, man. Snowball," Todd didn't miss a beat.
    "C'mere, Snowball," Roland walked outside, and began scampering on all fours. "Snowball - Snowball - Snowball."
    Everyone inside broke up. Roland was the ignorant butt of a cruel in-store joke.

    If one of the girls went out the night before, someone might ask how many snowball moments she enjoyed.
    "Go fuck yourself," was the usual response. Or the Gilda classic, "I don't know. How many times did you solo snowball your own cob last night, dickface?"
    Robster had picked up the snowball jargon at some club and dumped it in the store. According to our underground prowler, snowballing was hot in the club world. Sharing semen from mouth to mouth. Rectal semen.
    "Snowball! Come here, boy!"
    Course we've all razzed Rob for the clubs he frequented.

    "Oh, Snowball."
    Meanwhile, Roland, Mr Mensa, supercilious and argumentative, chased the sheepdog on all fours.
    What if someone said the pooch's name was Fisting?
    "Oh, Fisting."
    Armpits drenched, gold rimmed glasses steamed over, he strutted towards the back door. Einstein trapped in the monkey cage. Why was everyone laughing? Remedial school dropouts. Slipped in dog shit.
    "Just what is so funny? I demand to know. Snowball, that's NOT the dog's name, is it?"
    Sorry, dude. And someone explained.
    "But," he tensed up, "I'm no homosexual. I'm not gay."
    I heard it was Todd who tilted his head and said, straight faced, "Not yet."
    Roland left the party. Quit the store.
    Someone said he enlisted.
.

Coworkers: Part 29 - Toad

2008-05-20T09:23:00.000-05:00

Thursday. We were supposed to be processing the shipment, but most people were working on their promo lists. John and Layla would be pulling tomorrow. Everyone was there so precious little was getting accomplished. Joao's massive list, of course, was already in.

I was returning from the Ridglea Library. Squashed on the pavement behind the beauty shop, was the dried flattened husk of a toad. I carried it to the store backroom. (Well, I'd already had my ice cream.) Greg immediately suggested we add it to Joao's promo bag tomorrow. Joao's #1 pick was Frogstomp, he clearly wanted that.
Dan found an empty CD case and pressed the flattened toad into it, then bonded it on the Frogstomp case.

  Two days afterwards, Joao had mulled over his 100 CDs, mostly crap to resell. Greedy bastard. Even better, he had initially overlooked the "limited edition" CD of Frogstomp with lifelike amphibian. Yet there it was. His #1 pick.
   Hell, yeah!
   He was thrilled. Everyone congratulated the lucky stiff.

Six months later, I was chatting with Roy, Joao's brother, and he mentioned the Frogstomp CD. Seemed the label had used shoddy plastic, and something was starting to smell funny. Joao had moved it to his closet, and now his clothes had this funky odor ...

Customers: Part 07 - Dingo

2008-05-14T16:06:00.000-05:00

"Aww, hell, it's Dingo."

"Who?" Joe looked past me at the guy entering the store.

"Dingo," I replied. "The Dingo Warrior. He's a wrestler." I made quote marks in the air.

Joe's eyes lit up. I forgot he was a huge wrestling fan. Pat had raised both her sons poorly in that regard.

"Dingo is an Australian wrestler," I continued. I slapped my cheek. "He's about as Australian as my ass."

We had two wrestling regulars. Dingo and General Von Kessler. I had helped the General a couple of times. He was an old guy, late 50s, bald, stocky, built like a bread loaf. He had come in one night with the missus, a daughter, and a grandson, about 16. He wanted new entrance music. He hummed what the gym currently aired, sounded like Sousa.

"Von Kessler," I began, "are you like ... Nazi wrestler?"

"Ya," he beamed.

His wife carried a small photo album and opened it up. There he was, overweight old guy wearing trunks. Arms extended, holding flag aloft, the red field and black swastika of the National Socialist Party. The Nazis.

"Are you, uhh, the villain?"

"Ya vol!" he smiled again.

"OK."

I picked out two el cheapo cassettes of Orff and Wagner. Led them to the front playstack, put headphones on him, then played two store CDs.

"These are perfect!"

Advised him to stick with O Fortuna and Ride Of The Valkyries. The grandson grasped my intentions and said he could make his grandpa a cassette mix.

Month or so later, I saw the grandkid. Said the music was massive. The crowd HATED The General and booed loudly.

"And ... " the kid shook his fists, "he won his match! Grandpa never wins, but he won that one."

Anyway ... back to the other wrestler. I went over to see if Mister Dingo needed assistance. He usually bought dance nonsense, the kind of drivel I had a guilty taste for. Except I'd never play Black Box for my ringside entrance music. What a maroon. I'm sure that scared the shit out of Kevin and Kerry Von Erich.

"Hey, Dingo. You finding everything alright?"

"You got CeCe Peniston?"

What a dick. Underneath that shaggy blonde hair was a thick skull and a soft brain.

Back at the register, Joe started asking questions. Sports reporter questions. Couldn't tell if they were real or satirical. I didn't relate with Joe as well as I did with younger brother, Chris.

"Hello, mate, how you doing?" Joe asked.

"Doing great."

"Worthy, said you're the Dingo Warrior."

"I am. Dingo, the wild dog of Australia," he puffed his chest.

"And you say mate?"

"No. Of course not, that sounds stupid."

"But you're Australian," Joe persisted. "I thought you all said mate."

"Mate? Look, I'm the Dingo Warrior, not the Pirate Warrior," he corrected my coworker.

"When you're in the ring ... is that stuff real?"

"How can you ask that? Look at these scars!" Held out his forearms.

Looked like welding scars and bad sunburn to me. I peered inside his bag. What else had he bought? Deee-Lite. Jeez. I could wrestle that guy. Hell, Sweeney could whip his ass.

"Hey! Good talking with you," Dingo made to leave. "And I'll see you ... ringside." He punched the air and strutted out.

"So, you ready to be a wrestling star?" I kidded Joe.

"I don't know who that guy was, but he wasn't Dingo," Joe shook his head.

"He's not the Dingo Warrior?" I exclaimed. "But he's always said he was!"

"Naw, he's a fake. Too old, too short, too fat. Listens to shit, too."

BONUS: a New Generation

DOUBLE BONUS:

The Real Dingo Warrior (back in the day ...)

Coworkers: Part 30 - Visiting Mouse Lair‏

2008-05-08T07:58:00.000-05:00

   The last time I attended an official office party, I was released the next day.
   That's so vague. I was fired.
   I could have offered the lame excuse that the punch was spiked. Or that I thought it was reefer, when it was Thai sticks. Or that I hadn't been that out of control. Fact was, I didn't know. I couldn't remember.
   My brain was an ash cloud.
   That was years ago. I was younger. Reckless.
   Ever since, I wasn't one to party, hang, or chill with coworkers. I lunched with everyone, never cared where we went. Correction, I adamantly refused to dine at the nearby Chinese food poisoner. Poodle with noodle, you like, indeed. Most of us drove to Mexican cafes or burger joints. Given the choice, I opted for Kincaid's, in a class by itself. I could always get Pat or Greg to accompany me.
   Yet going clubbing or parties? No. I saw coworkers eight hours a day. More than enough. Listened daily to tales of hangovers, drugged amnesia, bed bouncing. Experiences fresh to them, reruns for me. After hours would offer the same, louder. Plus, I was about ten years older. Old guy at the club. Most of my coworkers still kept that hopeful optimism consistent with young people. I was terribly cynical, and had been so since I was thirteen. So, I politely declined or simply ignored requests for after hours activities which my colleagues graciously, consistently, invited me to.
   That meant I tried not to visit homes or apartments, either.
   At least I tried not to ...

   "Do me a favor and run this by Pat's house on your way home."
   The Boss waved some papers at me.
   I stood next to my box, looking for some notes. I would be clocking out in fifteen minutes.
   "What do you have?" I asked.
   "Insurance forms. They have to be signed today and sent off tonight. John will swing by her house at 7:00 and pick them up."
   Why couldn't she just drive herself, I wondered. I took the forms without a word.
   "What's her address?"
   He told me. Pat lived one block off my route home. No problem.

   " ... the kitchen, don't look. I still have dishes. The room needs repainting."
   Pat was giving me the obligatory tour of the casa.
   " ... Dining area ... "
   Everything looked nice. Orderly. Pat did well with her budget, and with two sons.
   " ... and The Magic Kingdom."
   What on God's earth ...
   An entire room had been devoted to Mickey Mouse. Posters, framed pictures. Dolls, inflatable stand-ups, cardboard stand-ups, statues. Several sets of mouse ears for humans to wear. I couldn't help myself,
   "Do you make guys wear the ears to enhance the romance?"
   "Stop it."
   There was more. A Mickey wigwam, big enough for three children, a mouse rocket ship, rocking chair, clock. Three clocks. Three Mickey Mouse clocks.
   "So, you got any Minnie Mouse items with this -- "
   "I don't care for Minnie," Pat interrupted. "She's not ... my favorite."
   How could such a mouse fan not like Minnie? I'm sure Pat had her reasons.
   Certainly not competition. I mean ... for a shrill voiced, big eared, cartoon figure?
   "Hmm, how about Morty? Mickey's so-called nephew," I made quote marks in the air.
   "Stop it."
   Pat may have had a lot of "favorites," dead musicians, select coworkers, but one favorite towered above all others. The cartoon rodent.
   The Magic Kingdom was beyond belief. Jeez, forget the Magic. This was Mouse Lair. Curtains, wallpaper, throw rugs, pillows. Books, comic books, magazines. Trash can, fake phone, pails, lunchboxes, silverware. A music player.
   "Don't tell me, this plays -- "
   "Listen!"
   Great. Now the Mouse Lair echoed with annoying children. Singing Disneyland crapola. Piercing rugrats were hard to tune out. Pat turned the volume louder. I thought she was getting even for a lot of my bad behavior. Women never forget anything.
   "Is that a Mickey Mouse ashtray?"
   Pat nodded.
   "Do you have a Mickey condom dispenser?"
   "Stop it."
   "What is that, a dollhouse?"
   "No!" Pat reached inside the four foot house and withdrew some figures. "It's a puppet theater!"
   "No way!" I laughed out loud. That had to be one of the funniest things I'd ever seen.
   "And do you still have puppet shows with them?"
   Pat blushed and dropped her head.
   Bingo.
   "Yeah, get that video cam going and Mickey recites Hamlet. Or Dashiell Hammett! Mickey, Rat Detective. Or Westerns. Mickey On the Mesquite. Naw, that sounds like barbeque. Sure you don't have a Minnie Mouse for the saloon scene?"
   "What?"
   "Well, when cowpokes ride into town, they're usually thirsty and -- "
   "Stop! Out! I don't want to think -- "
   "But where do you think Morty came from?"
   "I'm not listening." And she began singing the Mickey Mouse theme. Loud. Pat sang a trifle off key, and she was louder than those damn kids, still squealing from that jambox.

I was promptly ushered out of the Mouse Lair, then bum rushed to the exit. So if there were any extras in the fridge, I missed them.

Coworkers: Part 31 - Hey, Where's My Wine?

2008-05-02T06:50:00.000-05:00

   This wasn't a request. This wasn't a suggestion. This was a command from the Bromeroids. My presence in Dallas was mandatory. No excuse, aside from death, would be accepted. EMI was throwing a gala listening premier for Paul McCartney. I had to attend. All Classical managers had to attend. No exceptions. McCartney had written some classical songfest for Liverpool, and Capitol was trying to create buzz, get all us section managers fired up.
   Hold me back.
   I was also urged, strongly urged, to bring a guest.
   Zelda was less than thrilled.
   Until I told her the event was going to be fully catered.
   "How fully catered?" she queried.
   "I phoned Charlie, head classical guy in Dallas, and he said full wine bar."
   "We're going!"

   This was supposedly huge. No idea how huge. Hell, maybe Sir Paul would be there. Should I take my Beatles CD's? Should I grab my lone McCartney CD? Reality asserted itself. No way, Sir Paul McCartney was flying into Big-D to snack on nibbles and wish a bunch of flunkies and clerks a jolly hello.
   Zelda selected a dark posh frock, I put on a shirt and tie.
   Stuck my lone McCartney CD, Ram, into Zelda's purse.
   What a loser.

   I was Cowtown's sole Classical manager. There were guys from Houston, Waco, San Antonio, Austin. Classical experts, all. Roomful of fishbait was more like it. Capitol reps from field staff to Regional clustered about. No music played, which I thought an oversight. There was a TV monitor over in the corner, switched off. I later found out some middle management curb stop assumed Sir Paul would offer a live feed. I did the math, 7:00 PM in Texas, 3:00 AM in Britain. I schmoozed and made new contacts. You never knew when one of these guys might prove useful. Snag a promo copy of a hard-to-find New Release, or sport tickets to see Big Paul himself.
   Found Charlie from Dallas. He manned the flagship Mockingbird location, and was also head Classical buyer for the chain itself. Charlie was a quiet individual, ever patient with my mindless questions or mispronounciations of all those European artistes.
   "Always the most important thing at any function," Charlie smiled, "is to get your promos before they're all gone."
   He led me to a stack of McCartney's Liverpool Oratorio. Not the whole set, only a single CD with four excerpts. Useless, I decided. There was also a sample disc of current CEMA acts. I grabbed that, too. I would just add both to the promo pile back at Camp Bowie. We might play the Oratorio ... maybe ... I doubted it.
   Found Mark, from CEMA, and we chatted about the imminent Beach Boys boxset.
   "Maybe I can find you something," he hinted.
   Meanwhile, Zelda was getting bored. The music business did not remotely interest her. More disturbingly, she had appropriated a bottle of Chardonnay. She stood off in a corner with bottle, glass and a cracker. There were perhaps 4-5 women at the event, not counting EMI personnel and catering staff. With Zelda was another abandoned female, sipping from a glass of Champagne and a glass of red. Both were laughing merrily. I smelled trouble down the line.
   I fetched Zelda just as the other woman's date retrieved her. We found a table and food was brought. Candlelit dinner. Skewered shrimp, Thai chicken, ribs. Salad, veggies, desserts. The whole package. Also another bottle of wine. Cabernet. Zelda had lost her Chardonnay, but she had drunk most of the bottle. She grabbed the Cabernet and filled our glasses.
   Food was fine. Not top tier restaurant, but very good. As events went, this was exceptional. EMI had outdone themselves for this promotion. Most listening parties offered lukewarm beer and stale pretzels. Glenn from HQ walked by and nodded. I nodded back. My presence was noted, I'd represented Camp Bowie and Cowtown. Good enough for me. Finish dinner and blow.
   By now, Zelda was freestylin' about alloting glasses from that Cabernet. "One for you and three for me. Be nice to me, and then we'll see. Yes, indeed."
   I suspected that "Yes, indeed" was redundant but Zelda was a published poet. Besides, she was enjoying herself.
   "Hi, you two enjoying yourselves?"
   Karn, District Manger sat down at our table. A year before, another Karn had been District Manager. No relation.
   "Can't complain," I replied. "Seems ... kinda over the top, though."
   "I think Capitol executives have hopes for the McCartney Oratorio, and misconceptions about Classical managers."
   "Ha ha. Smoking jackets and tweed."
   "Tweed, indeed." Zelda added the poet's touch.
   Karn blinked, I smiled.
   "Well, I'd better mingle," he said diplomatically. "I'll see you later. Nice meeting you."
   He left.
   "You, you, the moon is blue, and the sea is blue."
   "Come on, Princess, let's get home and you can write all these lines down."
   "Downtown, things will be great when you're," Zelda began singing. "Downtown, don't wait a minute -- Hey! Where's my wine?"
   I looked across the table. That Cabernet bottle was there just a minute ago.
   "Where's my wine?" Zelda repeated.
   "Maybe on the floor?" I suggested. "Next to you?" I knew that was absurd.
   Zelda studied the floor. "Nope. I think ... I think your little friend stole our bottle."
   "Karn?"
   "Karn. Karn the Bastard. He took it. That bottle was half full. I wasn't finished with it. We were taking it home."
   "Hmm." I was already standing, and surveyed the room. Karn was across the way, slowly rising from another table. I observed as he deftly confiscated their bottle as well. I would later hear from Dan, Rob and others that someone had a tiny problem.
   "Where is he? Where's Karn the Bastard? Where's my wine? I want my bottle."
   I knew from the beginning there was going to be trouble.
   "C'mon, let's split."
   "Where's my wine? Where's Karn?"
   We departed without incident.
   Liverpool Oratorio sold reasonably well. Didn't scale the mainstream charts, but our store shifted several boxes worth.
   Day later ... week later ... month later ... probably until forever ... Zelda continued to refer to the booze bandit as Karn the Bastard.

Shoplifting: Case #03 - Peggy

2008-04-26T23:02:00.000-05:00

   Saturday afternoon, late. Busiest day of the week, but it was lunch time.
   Trina spotted Peggy swinging across the sidewalk, towards the doors. The store went into alert. Employees shared either grudging respect for, or complete hatred of, Peggy.
   Peggy was male. Blatant shoplifter. He'd case what he wanted, patiently wait until the moment the crew was most engaged elsewhere, then strike. An opportunistic crow, he'd pick your eyes out if you glanced the other way.
   Stacey and Rob caught more thieves than the rest of the store combined. One of them had once murmured, " ... an ex thief is better at ID'ing and catching an amateur or wannabee." Peggy was no amateur. He was one of the best, simply because we knew he was stealing, and we had never been able to catch the bastard. For Stacey, he had become a personal mission.
   Our crook lurched into Rock and swayed in front of the "N's," pretending he'd never seen those Nazareth CD's in his life. Three pockets over, Stacey tidied The Pretenders. Neither glanced at each other. Dan stood in the Manager Booth, drinking coffee, but paying attention. New girl ran register, rubbing her feet, oblivious to the chess match. I was in Cassettes. Trina was trapped in Vinyl with a geek. Angela and Dave were submerged in Video. Rest of the crew was at lunch. As always, Peggy boosted when the store was short staffed.
   I was called to Classical, Dan paged to Video for an override or crisis. A sleek woman in long jeans and sheer, ripped top asked Stacey for attention in Dance.
   When Stacey next looked, Peggy had moved up front, next to Abba. New girl perched on a stool, skirt hitched high, blowing on one foot. Peggy grinned at Stacey, then bolted off in that bounding gait of his.
   That afternoon, three legs. Other times, four. Four when he wore the prosthetic. He always used crutches. Once underway, he had racehorse speed. Impressive for a one legged thief.
   Peggy - - Peg-Leg - - escaped that afternoon with a handful of CD's.
   Maybe next time we'd catch him.

Coworkers: Part 32 - SXSW Fiasco

2008-04-20T07:28:00.000-05:00

   Seemed like half the crew was journeying to Austin.
   Annual South By South West Festival had begun. An increasingly important showcase for emerging bands.
   Employees like John, Dan and Rob had attended for years. Hear new sounds, drink until they were comatose, party, get outta Dodge.
   This year an extra half dozen coworkers were riding along.
   The Toadies were playing.
   Friends and coworkers, as always, would be there to provide support.
   The band was hitting a stride. As Todd had commented once, they were in a good place. They had jumped, sidestepped, or smashed through obstacles. Personnel wise, Matt was gone, Mark was in. Tracy had been released, replaced by Darrel. Charles left unexpectedly, leaving Todd to pick up the guitar. Todd, Lisa, Mark, Darrel. This was now a stable, four member gang. They were definitely going places. I had written friends, from the east coast to the west coast, about this band poised to take off.
   My predictions aside, The Toadies were still unknown outside of Fort Worth and Dallas.
   Store members who traveled were a mixed group of antagonists and agonized.
   Stephanie hooked up with Rob enroute and they made arrangements to share expenses. James was also going. He and Rob never got along especially well. Major personality clash. Plus, Robster enjoyed success among the female staff, whereas James' flame out with one in particular was irritating. James was going through a "chivalrous" phase, acting protective of the girls. That included ex coworkers. Like Stephanie.
   Events would soon go south.
   João had hooked some babe at a local concert and invited her as his date. She was an unknown factor. To João. Everyone else knew her. She was not a guy sort of girl. João had misread or misunderstood signals. Or he had just been too high to care. Anyway, the couple spent most of the trip in the backseat, improving their jousting skills. For her, João was an amusing lark, a free ticket to SXSW. For João, a mortifying revelation lurked in his immediate future.
   One should never linger with coworkers once they begin imbibing.
   And initiate confessions with, " ... I know I shouldn't tell you this, but ... "
   Dan and Layla ... No one knew what was going on between those two. She was definitely upset about something, upset with him. Dan was an artist, a painter, creative types often possessed more cachet than those whom Shakespeare termed "base, common and popular." He needed models. Pat once asked him to sketch her. He declined. Maybe. Pat could be very persuasive, and she was secretive. Maybe not. Dan couldn't hold secrets. Still, something had transpired between Dan and Layla, and the car atmosphere resembled Winter on Pluto.
   Trina was no longer with Greg, but with Todd.
   Pat wound up in "Friend Zone" with John, which was the last place she wanted to be. FUN battled constraint in that little car.
   The store had always been incestuous. Even The Boss had hired and dated the future Lady Boss.
   Still, when folks were bottled tight for six hours in rolling vehicles, with hormones, raw nerves, alcohol, frustrations, simmering lust, then eruptions, large and small, were to be expected..
   Rob and Stephanie shared a motel room to save expenses. When James found out the next morning, he tried to break the door down. Pounding, kicking, screaming, using language less than high speech. Arguably not the chivalrous way to behave, but coworkers staring from waiting cars were highly entertained. As were a growing crowd of fellow guests and the motel cleaning staff.
   João, wiser, depressed, gloomy, kept trying to make himself throw up. Inquired if there was a chemical peel for lips. Or an exorcism. Or an erase button. His date had already flown away after stray fragments, " ... you're what? And we ... why didn't you ... Did I ... I have to throw up ... " Coworkers wore sympathetic faces in his presence. When he was gone, however, knives emerged.
   Dan and Layla no longer rode in the same car.
   Pat was still lodged firmly in Friend Zone, but she would try to slide out of that folder for years. Persistence of the blind.
   The Toadies put on a great show. Music industry reps took note.
   For Todd and the gang, SXSW had been a great success.
   Everyone else ...

Coworkers: Part 33 - Rainman

2008-04-14T08:02:00.000-05:00

   Rainman was finally banned from the store a month ago.
   He first surfaced in early Spring, and swiftly became a Regular in the R 'n B section. Jangly white male with a fever passion for Soul. He twitched and shuffled, bobbled and stammered, while voicing his opinions about vocalists and groups to any human within earshot. Hardly an expert, yet definitely opinionated. Under different circumstances, he could have been a music critic. For all I know, those columnists twitched all humbledy peggity like Mister Rainman.
   The film nickname had been tagged by friends and coworkers after release of the Cruise / Hoffman flick. He was flattered, and thereafter introduced himself as Rainman, whether people asked or not. He'd launch unbelievable conversations on the the most absurd topics, whether anyone asked or not.
   "If Sam Cooke wasn't dead, he'd be old by now. Better that he's dead than in some wheelchair, huh?"
   Generally, no one asked him anything.
   "Why'd they keep calling themselves The Four Tops? They keep replacing members. Ought to be called The Eleven Tops."
   As one might imagine, Rainman unsettled people, especially other customers. He weaved and wobbled, jabbered and joked. Interrupted complete strangers. Blurted out whatever sprang to mind. "You're really pretty. Those aren't implants, are they? Cause they look soft, I mean." or "You know, after I threw up this morning, it didn't look at all like what I ate last night. How come?"
   For all that, the guy bought. Cassettes and CD's. Handful of items weekly. He was a Regular, and a steady Regular. Plus, several employees found him highly entertaining. Greg, Dan, myself. There was that balance we tried to maintain, keep him buying, not let him chase other clients off. That could be difficult.
   "Martin Luther King doesn't sing. Yet he's got some CD's in Gospel. Whassup with that?"
   By late Summer, Rainman had gotten too comfortable in our store. His eyeglasses permanently fogged up after he was smitten with Jennifer. He boldly asked her out. Despite some obvious limitations. Jennifer smiled, and politely declined. Rainman began to stalk her. Despite some obvious limitations.
   Rainman neither owned, nor drove, a car. Sole transportation, bicycle.
   Yes, laugh, Sunshine.
   Every day, when Jennifer headed home, Rainman followed. He stationed himself a little bit further on her route, then peddled fast and mighty as long as he could. Next day, he stationed himself at his last stopping point. Some of the other females had been stalked, most notoriously Pat by Double A. Jennifer was younger, less experienced, and totally creeped out.
   The Boss decided.
   Rainman was finally banned from the store a month ago.

   Being Sound Warehouse, the flame of Rainman was kept alive.
   September, Jennifer headed off to Alaska University, some place like that.
   Layla and I got a blank card. She sketched an image of Rainman inside. Big smile, spectacles, striped shirt. Waving. Bicycle lying on the ground behind him. I scrawled a message with my left hand. Still miss you. We're forever, the long run. Closer every day. Halfway, maybe. Rockies are hard. Can't wait to see you. Hold you. Marry you. Love, Rainman.
   I stuffed the envelope into a letter to Katalena, my sister-in-law, who lived in Aspen. Asked her to mail the card and ensure it received a Colorado postmark. Let Jennifer think Rainman was cycling his love gourd towards her.
   Then Layla and I waited to hear distant screams from Alaska.
   Instead, we received the, "Ha ha, aren't you funny?" response from the great northern frontier.
   Caught out.
   Layla and I shared a joke. We couldn't win them all.

Coworkers: Part 34 - Cranking Fran

2008-04-08T09:03:00.000-05:00

   Fran was one of the better District Managers, especially coming after the two Ken's. He seemed genuinely concerned about underlings, morale, District performance. During several meetings he reiterated, "My office is always open. I check phone messages, and I will respond." He was way too conscientious, and deserved better.
   Because this was still Sound Warehouse.
   And I was bored one night.

   I relaxed in the back office, and had been "caught out" twice. Once by the new girl Todd simply called FPH. Five minutes later by Dan, who was more perceptive, and more dangerous.
   "You're awfully industrious. What are you writing about? Stories about this place, and all our lovely coworkers?"
   I was writing about the store. Making notes about the creepy, aging newspaper columnist, who gravitated towards store hotties. I couldn't tell Dan that, however. It would be public knowledge within fifteen minutes. I launched my stock lie.
   "Writing my Mom, Dude."
   Couldn't tell if Dan believed me, but he refilled his coffee mug and departed. I packed away my notes. I was superstitious, and assumed if a third person walked back, that would be third strike. Luck out.
   Went to the phone to check the time.
   Found myself on the metro line ... and phoned Dallas.
   Phoned District HQ. Followed the prompts to Fran's voice box.
   I decided to leave an anonymous voice mail.
   "Hello, Fran speaking."
   Damn! I wasn't expecting that!
   "Oh, hello? Are you - - are you that guy?" I adopted the slurred speech of an alcoholic loser.
   "You've reached a wrong number, I'm afraid," Fran said politely.
   "Better not be. This is - - Is this - - Aren't - - You're Sound Warehouse, right?"
   "Sorry, yes. This is District, however. And offices are closed. You probably want to phone -- "
   "Don't you hang up on me! Before I - - you sold me that - - I'm going to have you fired!"
   "Were you trying to reach the Greenville store? Would you like -- "
   "Don't deny - - Pile of no good crap - - think it's funny - - you sold me that fake Fab thing."
   "I am sorry," Fran apologized, "I really don't know -- "
   "You were the guy who sold me that Milli Vanilli disc! Now you think it's a big joke. Ha ha, me."
   "We haven't ... " Fran paused, "we haven't stocked Milli Vanilli in three years."
   "Pair of faking, lip syncing, dancing queens. You owe me - - I wanna refund!"
   "But no stores have -- "
   "Or else I'm gonna phone the police," I ranted. "Hold a press conference. You will be so fired."
   "Sir, if you'll only listen for two seconds, I can explain -- "
   "Sure," I continued interrupting, mashing words together, "think you can hide in some penthouse suite. Cheating all us - - I'm just a little person - - but I have rights! You know - - Congress made inquiries - - I vote."
   "How about, you bring the Milli Vanilli CD into Greenville or Knight & Lemmon, and -- "
   "Right! You already knew, didn't you? That I lost my copy. Big shot. Is there - - who's in charge there?"
   "Listen, why don't you jot down this phone number?" Fran spoke persuasively.
   I couldn't believe how patient Fran was. Anyone else would have slammed the phone ages ago. Still, what if he was analyzing, trying to figure out who the caller was.
   "You guys! I just - - Sometimes I wanna - - I get so mad - - I wanna grind you up and use you for fire ant bait!"
   Plopped the phone back on the receiver. Clocked back in from lunch. Headed onto the floor.
   Tried not to answer the phone that night.

Customers: Part 08 - In-Store / Petra

2008-04-02T08:32:00.000-06:00

   Friday afternoon. Every available employee had been marshaled into the cleaning brigade.
   Petra was due for an in-store appearance at 4:00. (Note: If you didn't know, Petra was a Christian metal group.)
   There were always frayed nerves and agitation before meet & greet events. The Boss's system flew off the scale. Soirees meant visitors. Label reps, District flunkies, media types.
   Petra would be lodged in the Manager's Booth, which had to be purged and disinfected to be suitable for ordinary humans. The booth was an elevated platform; the fan base could enjoy a view of band members before shaking hands, begging autographs, telling them how meaningful Computer Brains had been in their lives, or exposing overzealous fan lunacy.
   We had no idea how large a turnout to expect. A couple of months earlier, Alan Jackson had been wall to wall, folks packed like sardines. Shake and bake, literally. Handshakes and homemade cakes. Country fans. Weeks before I hired on, the crowd for the Metallica appearance extended a block out the door.
   Jackson and Metallica were chart toppers. Petra, on the other hand, received scant airplay. Besides, the band was no longer fresh. Petra had been performing since the 70's. We planned for a moderate to large crowd. Better to be over prepared, especially if District bosses sauntered in.
   Two hours before the event, Karn entered the store. Karn was District Manager.
   He was also known as Karn Evil.
   Karn Evil wanted a store inspection. This was a sneak attack, hitting the store while staff hurriedly tidied chaos. The Boss and Karn Evil had a history of mistrust and mutual suspicion. The Boss thought he hassled managers, wisemen and goatheads, in order to bolster his sagging reputation. Karn argued he was merely doing his job.
   I once unwisely voiced that I thought Karn Evil was a clever DM. The guy visited every three weeks, plopped his briefcase in the Manager's Booth, sorted paperwork for three hours, then departed. No interference. Just observed the mood and operation of the staff. Inferior managers might disguise a sloppy store now and then, but not week after week.
   The Boss regarded him as a snake, waiting for any tiny blunder or infraction.
   Anyway, Petra was enroute, the store was in a tizzy, and Karn was living down to his Evil name.

   Karn walked his inspection with Dan, James, The Boss, whomever he collared.
   Todd and I worked leftover Truck and vendor shipments. Took turns playing different noise on the jambox. Neither of us played Petra.
   Noise from the Floor had grown noticeably louder.
   Todd wheeled a cart toward the swinging doors, and took a look outside.
   "Outside looks pretty intense, man." He went for his shirt.
   I went to see. Who knew Petra still had so many listeners? The store was bursting. Shipment would wait, we prepared to go out and help Rob and the crew.
   "Wait a minute," The Boss emerged from the Office, "Karn, in his serpent wisdom, wants to interview all employees one on one while we're hosting a major in-store event."
   Damnit. Today was not the day for that shit. That's why he was Karn Evil.
   "Todd, the band is one block away. They'll park behind the building. Bring them up by lift or stairs. Ask them to please wait. Chat. Make important contacts," he joked. "Who knows? Two bands, the Heaven and Hell Tour."
   Todd's face was expressionless.
   "Worthy, Karn finished interrogating Diana, now he's with Trina. You interview after her, then watch register for Gilda and send her back."
   Pain in the ass.
   The Boss hit the Floor, I waited for Trina, Todd opened the lift doors.
   Dan and I later commented on the irony of the minister's child, turned fallen angel, acting liaison with the Christian rockers.

   Band members were polite, good humored, diplomatic. If they noticed graffiti on a nearby Barenaked Ladies poster that read Stupider Than Fuck, they didn't let on.
   "Your turn to see Karn." Trina tapped my shoulder.
   "What's he want?" I asked.
   "With me, it was all about sexual harassment. Have any of the managers hit on me?"
   I laughed. "Coworkers? Sleep with each other?"
   Trina made a joke which I couldn't catch. Outside, I Love The Lord roared on, full blast. Todd ferried the band into the screaming mob. The store was jammed. I went to chat with Karn Evil.
   The District Manager asked if I enjoyed working there, if I noticed any borderline criminal activity, if I'd ever witnessed anything suspicious. Theft, especially by a manager, especially the store manager. I shook my head.
   "How about sexual harassment?" he inquired, staring at some notes. Karn Evil avoided eye contact.
   "Well, nobody's hit on me," I mocked.
   "So you have witnessed harassment, or intimidation?" he looked up, eager.
   "Of course," I shrugged. "All the girls have to fend off customers who ask them out, flirt, pitch innuendo."
   "No, I mean managers. Shift managers or the store managers."
   "Oh, I guess the managers get propositioned, as well. Not that I've asked. To be honest, I have some old bird, probably in her sixties, white hair, glasses, who's always telling me what pretty blue eyes I have."
   Karn Evil wasn't remotely interested in prowling clients. I knew that. Maybe he knew I knew. I didn't care. My loyalties were with The Boss, the man who hired me, rather than the viper and his stealthy witch hunt.
   I replaced Gilda on front register.
   A stream of customers filed past the Petra members. Many bought CD's from the shelves, or brought in posters or vinyl. One guy carried a grocery sack of 8-Tracks. Did he even have working playback equipment? More than one person offered hymnals to be autographed. That seemed strange to me.
   The members were very patient, gracious. How many of these events had they attended over the years? How many thousands ... hundreds of thousands ... of fans had they met over the decades? Fan questions had to be repetitive. I would jump off a cliff.
   Meanwhile, The Boss's Heaven & Hell quip echoed in the back as Karn Evil continued his dark quest. Gilda came out and sent Rob to the Office. I would have given a nickel to gauge Rob's expression when asked about employee co-mingling. Dan followed, then Pat and Kathy, Todd, the whole crew.

   What was Karn looking for? Confessions? Video tapes?
   My opinion of his "clever factor" plummeted. There was no subtlety in his method. This was an amateurish, grade school inquisition. I decided he was barely competent to be District Manager.
   On the Floor was Petra, a group - - to be honest - - I never knew, and likely never would. My ignorance of them was my loss. Yet my opinion of them contrasted sharply with that of Karn Evil. Petra was a class act, quality guys. The crowd had been huge, but they met and listened to every person.
   Karn slithered away. Headed towards Hulen or Berry. We phoned both stores with fair warning.
   The Petra fans had been high caliber. Most purchased CD's to be autographed. Store profit was excellent. Face it, this was why we bothered with these happenings.
   Surprisingly enough, this was one of the better in-store events.

Coworkers: Part 35 - Angela

2008-03-27T08:59:00.000-06:00

   Angela visited the store again two weeks before Christmas.
   By this time, it was completely pointless.
   Two years earlier, her family had moved east. She reluctantly accompanied them. She hated it, all of it. Then, chance beckoned, and she leapt.
   Angela accepted a crazy job offer in Colorado. State park near Yellowstone. Angela's sister had actually applied for the opening, had gotten approved, then changed her mind. Angela, typically, went instead. When she contacted me, we laughed about that.
   The whole outdoor, back-to-nature scene suited Angela, and she would have stayed forever. The position had always been temporary, however. Rotating gap year students. No exceptions. She scrounged everywhere for alternate employment. Nothing opened.
   She decided to move back to Cowtown. Asked me if she'd be able to return to the record store. I reassured her that would pose no problem, she would be rehired in a heartbeat.
   How fucking wrong I was. If I had only checked first.
   Loaded her car. Left the Rockies. Back to the Lonestar State. Chatted with The Boss, who seemed agreeable, but he'd need to contact Dallas. Meanwhile, she rented a duplex, and found part time work at Pig & Whistle. Yet, she really needed our store.
   By this time, her family had relocated back to Texas.
   Second interview, there were no openings at our store.
   I immediately advised her to go to Berry. Berry Street was always desperate. Ask for Eric. Reference my name. Eric wasn't there, Jordo never gave her the time of day. Then he told her he never heard of me. Typical Jordo.
   I chatted with The Boss. He confessed he had been inclined to rehire Angela. Thought she would be an asset, especially during Christmas. There were obstacles, however. Most of the employees.
   "Dan and Rob told me they'd flat out quit if I brought her back," he explained.
   "What? Why? They're not going to give up their jobs."
   "Hulen would transfer either one of them in a heartbeat. And," he paused, "I don't think Pat would be comfortable with her."
   "Angela built the Video section. Then Pat made it rock."
   "I hear you. Just ... there were more people ... and I'd rather have all of them, than one of her."
   "What's so wrong about Angela? She was goofy, but she never complained, she wasn't negative, and she worked!"
   "My friend, you were the only one who got her. Everyone else?" he gestured in the air. "Sorry, man."
   I couldn't get her rehired. I'd failed. I couldn't even get her hired on at the dump site on Berry. Here I was, her big friend, and I let her down. I felt like a shit.
   You wanted the best for your friends in life. Angela was now entering darkness.
   Her money was exhausted. Worse, her family pressed her to come home.
   She dreaded that.
   Home life was unhealthy. In every sense. She suffered victim's guilt. I tried to explain that wasn't her fault. My advice was like my help, meaningless. The music store had been her escape ticket. Colorado had been her dream world. Now she was running out of options, and the nightmare yawned open.
   The family insisted she return to the fold.
   Angela visited the store again two weeks before Christmas.
   By this time, it was completely pointless.
   I never told her no one wanted her. No one valued her efforts. How could you tell anyone such a thing?
   She went from one old coworker to another and wished each Merry Christmas. She was all but begging, she might as well have been on her knees. Her face graced the smile, but it was sad and lifeless. She was destroyed.
   Angela returned to the family, about an hour away.
   We tried to stay in touch ... but ... it got harder and harder.
   One day a letter came back, no forwarding address. Telephone disconnected.
   I never saw Angela again.
.

Coworkers: Part 36 - FPH‏

2008-03-21T09:42:00.000-06:00

   Specific first names had either an F, or a PH, now and then two F's. Never all three. Jeff, not Jefph. Jennifer, not Jennifpher. Philip, not Fphilip. Fifi, not Fphifphi. New Girl was the offspring of an indecisive parent, or a parent with faulty spelling.
   The newbie had that fph arrangement in her first name. Todd and several other guys immediately called her FPH. Her own radio call sign. She was one of the first hires who viewed Todd as "rock star," and not simply as the guy in the back, one of the managers, or simply Todd. FPH had seen Todd sing at clubs and now she was working with him! Brush with fame. Maybe that was why she didn't quash that FPH nickname immediately.
   FPH was a stereotyped goth girl. Black tresses, black fingernails, heavy makeup, lots of eye liner and eye shadow, blood red lipstick. Everyone assumed she listened to that type of music, but she rarely selected tunes for the play-stack. After awhile, whispers trickled that she didn't actually have any taste in music.
   That was also the time coworkers created extensions for that FPH. Fool, Phone Home was one of the kinder ones.
   I had little dealings with this creature. Even when we worked the same shift, she always seemed elsewhere. Dusting, tidying, walking about. Busywork. In fact, the only time I noticed her at all was during truck day. She found one excuse after another to drift into the Backroom and ask questions or seek advice. Not from me, not from Rob. Todd. She remained fixated, his embarrassing in-house fan club. Moreover, Todd already had a girlfriend.
   Ironically enough, a few months later, Todd busted her.
   He was in the Gents, admiring the Shannon Tweed poster, when he overheard crackling noise coming from the Ladies. All of us had razor hearing when 3M tape was being removed from CD's, cassettes, or videos.
   Someone was stealing.
   Restrooms were Employee Only.
   Todd hustled out, meddled in the Backroom a bit, until FPH departed the Ladies. Quick investigation. CD wrappers and cases buried under a pile of paper towels in the trash. Discs and booklets missing. FPH was sent home later that day. Permanently.
   She still crashed a couple of store parties, though.

Coworkers: Part 37 - Dancing Queen

2008-03-15T09:25:00.000-06:00

Her feet hurt, she required breaks every fifteen minutes, she babbled endlessly, her favorite topics were herself and herself. Even Rob shunned this 18 year old, home-schooled, slightly racist princess. We were stuck with her.

Thank you, Boss.

Wednesday night, as she slouched at Chi Chi's with the crew, criticizing the dancing girls, she admitted her own natural brilliance on the dance floor. Missy and Trina mentioned Amateur Night on Friday. $100 or a keg for prizes! After they poured several margaritas down her, she was determined to add yet another trophy to her dresser.

We already knew Wanda owned trophies. She had brought in a newspaper clipping of herself, grinning away, clutching some award for sewing buttons or eating hot dogs. Whatever. She'd tacked this by the refrigerator for our education and admiration. Dan cut the trophy out of her hands, Todd replaced that trophy with a photo of a chocolate colored dildo.

Friday night, Wanda drank backstage with new buddies, Missy and Trina. Competition was skank. Nobodies. Clumsy jiggle bunnies and pork-rind trailer whores. Yet she still wanted an edge for her sure win.

  Stacey half-joked she should dance in her underwear.
   Wanda listened.
   Chi Chi's draped a sheet in front of the stage so patrons would vote for dancers -- not cousins. No one could possibly recognize her. Besides, her body was so hot! While she stripped down to skimpies, Missy and Trina teased her hair into a Mount St Helen's dust storm.

The fabric was ... sheer. Backlit dancers saw their own silhouettes, audience members saw ... everything. Saw that Wanda was drunk and buck naked. Did NOT see that her epileptic baboon frenzy was actually natural brilliance on the dance floor.

Half hour later, boozed up frat boys competed for the keg. Wanda had counted her five $20's a dozen times when she identified features and birthmarks behind the sheet.
Looked around. Patrons smirked and tapped beers at her. Guys mimicked chimpanzees. She cried a bit, complained, then began cursing. Called us sick perverts, assholes, social deviants, shameless monsters. When she quit the store, we were crushed.

Returned a week later for her paycheck. Plus her newspaper clipping.

That didn't go so well.

Customers: Part 09 - Squishy Man

2008-03-09T07:49:00.000-06:00

   "Could you watch my register for a bit?" Trina asked.
   "No problem."
   "There's a guy over in Cassettes. He doesn't know it yet, but he needs my help."
   I surveyed the section. "Big creampuff mooning over in Soundtracks or that 14 year old gangsta?"
   "Aren't you funny?"
   "Oh, maybe you mean that personal trainer type."
   "Wish me luck," she grinned.
   "You just be back in time to check out the Squishy Man."
   Trina cringed, then prowled towards Adonis.

   Squishy Man was a Classical Regular. Came in Saturday, checked New Releases, bought German or Russian. Moody and broody.
   The staff avoided him on sight. He was pasty white and soft. Bread dough. One might play patty cake patty cake with him, he was so soft. Zero muscle tone. The Squishy Man handle was in use when I started.
   He peered out of thick round spectacles. He was more into opinions and statements, less into questions. He liked touching. Tapped people on their shoulder or just below their ribs. Then complained.
   "Does this noise really have to be so loud?"
   Saturday morning, speakers purred light and breezy. Chart hits, movie soundtracks, alternative rock, rhythm 'n blues. No metal, no rap, no industrial or techno. That morning, Classical actually played. Orff's Carmina Burana. Not gentle music, but it should have been right up Squishy Man's alley.
   "I find my powers of concentration are diminished when you broadcast compositions I'm overly familiar with."
   Customers complained about loud music, about Rock. Country was stupid, Rap was offensive. Top 40 was repetitive, Jazz put people to sleep, and Christian or Gospel ... no one liked those. That Saturday, five Regulars browsed in Classical. Four were in Carl Orff Hog Heaven. Squishy Man protested, however, not because he disliked the music, but because familiarity distracted his mushy brain.
   I rolled my eyes, faded Carmina, and loaded Sinatra. If someone whined, staff fired up Sinatra, Beatles, George Strait, Al Green.
   As always, the Squishy Man entered with his shambling, meandering gait. His pants were baggy, white t-shirt half tucked, he always looked unfinished. Squishy Man taught at the large college. There were a number of profs in Classical. Hard core Regulars were predominantly Professors, Doctors and CPA's. The Doctors were quiet, CPA's gregarious, Professors moaners. They hated teaching, university politics, privileged, dim watt pupils. I doubted any of them scored coed leg.
   Trina and Mr. Rocky shifted their conversation to the Singles area. I tended Classical and watched the Cassettes register. Plenty of customers. Including Squishy Man.
   Funny, five minutes with the Squishy Man was an eternity. Ten minutes with someone cute was a nanosecond.
   " ... I conclude cheque writing is inherently problematic." Squishy Man tore up check number three.
   Squishy Man couldn't write a check to save his life. One of the girls, Emily, a bubbly type, once threatened she would brain him with a hole puncher or shoot herself if she spied his checkbook.
   No one understood his difficulty. Customers with severe mental problems mastered bank draft IOU's. For the fourth time, he scrawled across the paper, then held it against the lights. What was he looking for? Invisible hieroglyphics? I had watched, three times in a row, as perfect checks were ripped up after he noticed "something." What a muffin.
   "Mistakes lead to complicated misunderstandings," he explained.
   I grasped his meaning dimly. I had phoned his professorial abode several times for special orders. His mother always answered. She was a confirmed screamer. Loud, rural, and terrifying. Norman Bates sprang to mind. I didn't want to think about his home existence. "Misunderstandings" could be imagined a thousand unsettling ways.
   Everything was good. Check cleared. I handed Squishy Man his receipt.
   He'd purchased Beethoven, Brahms, and Orff. Orff, the "noise" he'd complained about, whom we'd removed from playing.
   There was no accounting. After he paid and departed, Trina took over her register.
   I didn't ask her how she fared.

Coworkers: Part 38 - Water Weenie

2008-03-03T08:37:00.000-06:00

   There were two sides to many stories. Sometimes more than two.
   This particular yarn only had the two. Two coworkers, one romantic mishap.
   Point of view - - recollections - - Memories skewed. Worse ... shared.

   This was after the party. Or the show. Or the club.
   The rest of the gang had split. These two were alone. Bored. Drunk. Stoned. Blotto.
   Horny.

   Afterward, one version was mentioned to the guys.
   The other one gossiped to the girls.
   They should have known better. Camp Bowie was not the harbor for secrets.

   "So, we're hammered. Started fooling around on her couch."
   "I didn't know what I was doing. I was drunk. I knew I shouldn't. But I wasn't responsible ... "
   "I started old reliable, you know?"
   "This was about to happen, but I wanted to fix the mood a little."
   "She got up all of a sudden and started tidying."
   "The room looked like the inside of a trash can."
   "She was cleaning. I told her to forget it and hop back on the couch."
   "Maybe if I adjusted the lights, the room wouldn't look so bad."
   "She switched off the lights, which was fine. Then started digging around, searching for damn candles."
   "Candles would make the room look better. Make me more attractive. Only I couldn't find them."
   "Then she asked me if I wanted any tea. Hell, no. She went and poured two glasses anyway."
   "I didn't have anything else in the fridge. Not even beer."
   "She staggered back, still drunk. The room is dark, then she tripped, damnit."
   "I spilled tea all over him. So then I started searching for a towel."
   "Fuck the towel. I took off all my wet clothes."
   "I didn't have any clean towels. I was supposed to do laundry, but ... I don't know."
   "I'm down to briefs."
   "He was way ahead of me. Only I wanted, oh, I didn't know what I wanted."
   "She started fucking with the stereo system."
   "I was in the mood for Luther. Sometimes George is the man, other times Rod. I wanted Luther."
   "Fuck Luther. Fuck music, fuck beverages, fuck candles. I just wanted to -- "
   "Then I decided I wanted Prince."
   "Fucking hour of my life gone already."
   "Finally. I went into the bedroom to change into something else."
   "Another fucking hour."
   "I eased next to him."
   "Spur of the moment - dead."
   "He couldn't get it up."
   "Sitting on that couch for two hours. Wet. Tired."
   "He couldn't get it up."
   "Two hours earlier, it was a beast."
   "Whiskey duuu ... I can't say it."
   "Swear to God."
   "Was like, you know, water weenie."
   "If she hadn't been wasting all that time, she'd need fucking crutches by now."
   "I didn't want to remind him this happens to guys. They go all weird and get ultra defensive."
   "Got up and left again. Now what? She's going to make a meat loaf?"
   "I went to the bedroom and got a little ... gadget."
   "Darth Vader's fucking light saber handle!"
   "For other guys this is like their favorite part."
   "What's she going to surprise me with next? Mayonnaise jar and a watermelon?"
   "Only the batteries were dead."
   "Or a gerbil?"
   "All of a sudden I felt nauseous."
   "She left again! Bathroom or something. I got dressed and walked."
   "I must have passed out. I don't think we did anything."
   "Swear to God, it was as big -- "
   " ... water weenie."

   About a week later, a rubber Daffy Duck toy appeared on the Cassette area register. Arms stretched as wide as they could reach. Slip of paper stuck between the arms read, "Swear to God, it's this big."
   Elsewhere, in Video, inside drawers or cash registers, there often lurked a surprise. Water weenie toy. Preferably pink.
   Coworkers were ever considerate.

Coworkers: Part 39 - Cuffs And Glitter

2008-02-25T07:45:00.000-06:00

   I never thought The Boss would hire her. She was a very pretty girl. The store crew was overloaded with females, and The Boss had an internal balance scale. He was overdue to hire more guys. Two or three more.
   She listened to Country, however, which was a big deal. The playstack featured Cash, lang, Strait, Yoakam. Individual employees had select favorites, but nobody knew Roy Acuff from Ernest Tubb from Don Williams. I marked COUNTRY on her application and high-lit my note in yellow. Placed hers on the top of the application stack so The Boss would see it tomorrow. She was watching and I told her what I had done. She gave me a movie star smile, and said thanks.
   Sissy knew Country, chart hits and oldies. She only needed part time work. Her other job was with the city District Attorney. She carried handcuffs. That was going to cause trouble. Four or five store colleagues would find that accessory unbelievably sexy.
   The Boss would never hire her.
   Sissy started a week later.

   She worked evenings, had soft brown hair, was tanned, toned, and curvy. Her purse, banging heavy on the table, would have triggered metal detectors. Staff members fluttered around her, but Sissy wasn't an easy damsel.
   Business picked up steadily in Country. Men flocked to the section. She was knowledgeable and helpful. The store had no policy about lunch breaks with customers. Neither did Sissy. She was busy, organized and discriminating. Retail wage earning coworkers rarely shared that lunch date or after hours drink with her. Law enforcement types, lawyers, businessmen, suits with Stetsons packed her dance card.
   In a way, Sissy became invisible. She didn't interact with coworkers, never went to parties, never lingered for in-store conversation. Dating, friends, adventures, none of that interested her. None of us even knew what she did at the DA.
   When she requested her hours be trimmed to Friday and Saturday evenings, we wondered how the DA would react. Working part time at Sound Warehouse was one thing, working part time at Sinbad's (a strip club) was another.
   Sissy worked the store floor till eleven, then changed in the back. Teased hair, low cut blouse, push up bra. Heavy makeup. Glitter dusted across her face, splashed down her cleavage. Cuffs hanging from her belt, bouncing off her backside. Sashayed to that gentleman's palace, where she was billed as Sassy Ryder.
   That lasted about three weekends. By then, Sissy must have decided the record store gig was no longer useful or worth the effort. Gave notice so she could dance, excuse me, hostess five nights a week. The money was extraordinary, beyond what she earned as retail buckle bunny.
   Came in for her final paycheck a week later. No one spoke with her. I was in the Manager's Box, working on a massive PolyGram order. I gave her a little wave. Sissy tossed her head back, and threw me a huge smile. She took my breath away. Strange moment.

   Down the line, there were isolated updates.
   Sissy lost her position with District Attorney.
   After that, things went downhill.

Coworkers: Part 41 - Sixty Fans Can't Be Wrong

2008-02-13T07:49:00.001-06:00

    Todd and I had quietly, callously, eased Rob out of the Backroom.
    Rob wasn't blind and he was none too happy.
    "Pair of fuckers. Act like you're gods back here!"
    He was correct, but that was the Sound Warehouse attitude.
    The Backroom was pretty much my domain now. Todd helped out on Shipment Day, while The Boss kept suggesting new helper jumble-heads. None of those worked out. Rob wasn't booted or anything so blatant. Todd and I simply worked well together and were very fast. Often, as Robster cruised in at 2:00, we had already polished off his Accessories. We then returned to C and E Chart boxes, and D Catalog from vendors, leaving Rob with nothing to do. We shouldn't have hopped over to Accessories before all CDs were processed, but ... well ... bastards.
    Now, arrogant behavior was rebounding back in my face.
    Todd still worked, yet he wasn't "there."
    The Toadies, while still struggling, were beginning to break out. Beyond Cowtown, beyond DFW, beyond Texas.
    Seemingly overnight, the band found themselves in-play in the music industry.
    Josh's persistent self promoting aside, the group still had no manager. Todd arranged bookings, scheduled events, entered competitions, negotiated on the telephone. Todd was still a major player on the Camp Bowie team, but the record shop had dropped in his priorities. On Truck Day, I was frequently the lone god. Rob heckled me, but he helped. For Todd, more employees picked up the slack and carried the weight. We wanted to help. From the beginning, we had wanted to support the group.
    Now, everyone could almost sense it.
    The Toadies, Todd, Lisa, Mark, and Darrel, they were about to become famous.
    Sure as hell hadn't happened overnight, though.



    "Brought in a batch of new Toadies tunes this morning."
    Todd strode into the back Office / Break Area and plunked down a jam box. The store wouldn't open for another half hour. I clocked in with Greg, Trina, Diana, Dan and Todd. I was still a new hire, so I listened to be polite. I had never heard of The Toadies. Didn't know Todd had just created the group with Lisa and Charles. (Guitarist Charles had departed Camp Bowie as I joined.)
    Anyway, I'm sitting on the couch with Greg and Trina listening to noise.
    I didn't like it. Sounded like crap.
    Not the music, not the group. The recording. Todd had found an empty warehouse, car chop shop, slaughterhouse for practice sessions. The cassette was awash in feedback, echo, distortion, overload. Rehearsals of a raw band torturing instruments. Todd, howling away in a muddy mix, Lisa still learning how to play bass. Charles himself would laugh if someone called him a precision style guitarist. The drumming? Wasn't Mark, wasn't even Matt (Madison).
    Todd snapped off the the tape deck. Looked about.
    Greg and Trina gushed that it was great. Maybe I was just fucking old. Those two were 10 - 12 years younger than I.
    Todd looked at me.
    I shrugged. "Kinda murky, Dude. Hard to hear through all that distortion."
    Todd stared, expressionless. "Distortion is what this group is all about." If he was insulted, irritated or annoyed, he didn't show it. Todd had a good poker face.
    Over the months, everyone heard more taped rehearsals. Band technique improved significantly, slaughterhouse acoustics did not.
    They began making and selling cassettes. Todd turned to coworker Dan for artwork. Those cassettes, by the way, professionally recorded at Crystal Clear, didn't sound like amateur hour floundering.
    Club gigs were becoming realities.

    Week night.
    Zelda and I paid cover, bought drinks, then sat near John, Pat and Little E. Greg, Amster and Layla were in a booth with Dan and James. Behind us, Gilda, Rob, Trina, João and Josh yelled. There were other people, all friends of the band, and not a lot. The venue was cozy.
    We were at The Hop, a small bar on Berry Street.
    Weekends were for "name" bands, week nights for nobodies. Correction, nobodies never got bookings to begin with.
    Toadies were performing and celebrating Todd's birthday. Combination event!
    The Hop manager leaned across the bar and smoked, appraising the band and tables. Weary and jaded. Clearly, he'd seen it all. Young punks clawing their way up, has-beens sliding down. New acts that turned a profit earned repeat chances for the weekend slot. Groups that lost money ... they tried their luck at Axis or Joe's Garage. Tonight's audience numbered twenty five or thirty. Period. Sound Warehouse coworkers dominated, along with buddies and fans.
    Matt, long haired and shirtless, pounded away on drums.
    Tracey shifted around near the back, layering rhythm.
    Lisa stood anchored in front of her amp, over which she'd masking taped FUCK FUNK.
    Charles rolled around and hammered away on a hapless Gibson.
    Todd wailed, screamed and dodged a constant artillery barrage. Fans tossed flour tortillas, Frisbee like, throughout the set. Remember, this was his birthday.
    Receipts must have passed the mark. The group was invited back. They also began opening in clubs in Dallas, Denton and thereabouts.

    After a certain level, local music brokers began to notice.
    Club owners and radio personalities.
    Sometimes they could help, other times ...
    There was an influential radio personality. A deejay. Aired local bands and major alternative acts.
    Never placed The Toadies in rotation. Never cast one song.
    "Man, those guys are really angry," was one his responses.
    Another excuse, usually quipped after an on-air request, "Oh yeah, The Toadies. For who, their sixty fans?"
    Didn't know if he was referencing Elvis, Ochs, or just being cute. No matter. The celebrated radio host never played the group.
    Cassettes, Slaphead, Dig A Hole then Velvet, were sold at concerts and in the Camp Bowie store. Dan had designed covers for the latter two.
    Radio stations would not broadcast the band. Corporate rockosaurs - college stations - the influential alternative joint.
    Program Directors couldn't be bothered. There were a couple of newspaper columnists, several club managers, and those pesky sixty fans.
    Then bookings tanked.
    Suits offered to "manage" the group. For a percentage. Venue performances were denied ... unless ... the band signed that management agreement.
    Financial coercion, all too typical on the Rock N Roll Highway. Shysters and hustlers, greedy for a cut or a slice here and there.
    Casual graft, the perils of success.
    Reference Badfinger.
    The band retreated to home turf in Fort Worth. The Hop, Mad Hatters, Engine Room.
    Even in Cowtown, however, betrayals occurred.



    Zelda and I were barred. We were at The Hop again, trying to pay cover. Under orders, the bouncer was carding everyone. Zelda had not brought identification. Last time Zelda had been ID'd was at the Whisky in the 70s. My drivers license showed I was 37. I blurted out that Zelda was older than I, which earned me a swift kick. We still didn't get in. The doorman wasn't the sharpest tool in the shed, but he was only following orders. A majority of clubbers were turned away. Guru hustled out and tried to argue us inside. Then Todd tried. No good.
    The group was being squeezed again. The less fans got in, the smaller the band's take.
    Once again, the "management offer" had been extended.
    The percentage skim.
    There were late night phone calls from all strata of personalities, reminding the group how much simpler life was with a little compromise.
    Cooperation.
    Most of us at Camp Bowie offered stupid advice. We were clueless, but we wanted to help.
    Dallas was a hot scene, I suggested to Todd he might talk to some of the other bands who had "made it." See if they had any tips.
    He thought that was a good idea. Whether he contacted anyone ... I don't know.
    This was a difficult period.



    After South By Southwest, the band's fortunes improved dramatically. They had wowed the audience, and caught the gaze of several labels. Contracts didn't happen, however. Don't know whether this was the group's reluctance, or the music machine was wary of Dallas. A few years earlier, a dozen Dallas groups inked deals. Only one had scaled the charts, and they had already faded.
    Most of those wheeler dealers extended offers over the telephone. Todd was in and out of the Backroom a lot. Very distracted.
    Deciding on which label to represent them was monumental.
    Of course, coworkers aired their suggestions. Restless, BMG, Reprise, Def American, RYKO, Sub Pop, Epitaph.
    To be honest, we knew shit. Plus, it wasn't our future at stake.
    One rep who actually walked into the Backroom was from Grass Records, a branch of the Dutch East India Trading indie line.
    They gave the band national exposure and distribution. Moreover, Grass delayed the band's decision about a major label awhile longer.
    During this period, the group lineup shifted.



    The only time I remember Todd actually asking for my help was for a Grass tribute album the band would participate on.
    Chairman Of The Board - Interpretations Of Songs Made Famous By Frank Sinatra.
    Every large music store had at least one resident Sinatra buff. At Camp Bowie, that was me.
    I brought in a pile of CDs that Todd listened to during several weeks.
    Eventually, he chose Luck Be A Lady because of the lyric, " ... A lady doesn't wander all over the room, and blow on some other guy's dice ... "
    He found that funny as hell.
    The Sinatra tribute came out. Pleather came out. The original artwork on Pleather was not Dan's. It was special, though.
    By now, local club doors were flung wide for The Toadies. Paradoxically, seeing them became increasingly difficult. The fanbase had exploded into an avalanche. Theaters and clubs were mobbed. Hundreds upon hundreds of followers packed sweaty joints. For many of the original Sound Warehouse crew, those who clocked out at 11:00 or past midnight, club doors were locked. They couldn't get in. They'd arrived too late. Shows were sold out and fire marshals enforced crowd limits.
    In a way, that was for the best. This was the end of an era.
    The Toadies didn't really need us any more. The sixty fans.
    Audiences were growing. All too soon, the group would leap from ballrooms to amphitheaters to arenas.
    You want your friends to do well in this world. To succeed.
    The Toadies had succeeded. It had not been easy, had definitely not happened overnight. The group had worked tirelessly, they had persisted, they had endured. They navigated through minefields, swerved shysters, found their voice, slammed their way into the light.
    Now and then, one of us might spy another early fan in the vortex of the concert hall.
    There would be that flash of recognition, then we'd exchange a knowing glance.
    Sixty fans can't be wrong.



.

Customers: Part 10 - Hotmom

2008-02-07T07:23:00.000-06:00

   She was a Regular before I began working. Shopped once a month, primarily for Rock. Maybe some Country artists, if their music sounded like Skynyrd or ZZ Top. Groups that wore cowboy hats, but were otherwise rockers. Half the staff knew her name, chatted with her, then forgot about her once she hit the exit.
   Had at least one child that we were aware of. Didn't focus on her, either.
   Then the daughter started senior year, high school.
   About the time, our Regular got that name, Hotmom.

   The daughter began showing up with jeans hitched low and snug. Panties were replaced with string undies. Tops rode higher. She wasn't what we'd call a Regular at our store. More likely, she was a Regular at the tanning salon. Mid December, she'd cruise in, skin stained mocha. Her teeth were professionally whitened and she had either enrolled in gymnastics class or gotten a gym membership.
   Hotmom also lost weight. Her blouses were cut low and open, better to display who had the biggest cleavage of them all. Also hit the tanning beds. Over her jeans she flashed the new tattoo. Tramp stamp.
   Behavior reminded us of an eternal competition. Mother vs. daughter. Youth vs. experience. Cougars who sometimes eat their young.
   Most of the girls at Camp Bowie noticed and exchanged comments.
   "She's too old for that tattoo."
   "Was that Japanese or a butterfly?"
   "Those pants haven't fit her since eighth grade."
   "Ow! My eyes."
   "She looks good to me. I want to see her wearing that leather jacket, and only that leather jacket."
   "No way that is her real hair color."
   "Hey, heifer, bull riding's yonder."
   "Last weekend, I saw her at the same club I go to! Grinding away."
   "How can she parade in public like that?"
   "Look! Wait ... If she ... just about ... One's loose."
   "I say, are they real, or are they Memorex? I'm not saying, I'm just saying."
   Several of these in-store critics were Hotmom's contemporaries. Also tattooed and pierced. Also preferred flattering attire. And hadn't they stalked the same clubs? It was also none of their business, but that rarely curbed opinions. If girls sought support from male coworkers, referencing blonde rinse or silicone, males generally confessed, "Huh? Like we know the difference? Like we care."
   That response didn't fly too well.
   Tell the truth, I liked Hotmom. She was funny, and in the best light she might be considered ... oh ...
   What was that question again?
Gents treated Hotmom, like we treated fellow male customers who had become old-guy-at-the-club. We pretended they were whatever age they acted like. For years, we heckled wrinkling guys who strutted about with their shirts open, exposing sexy gray haired chests, or boasted tanned foreheads designed for widescreen viewing. It was easy for men to kick other men. With women, it was tricky.
   One staff member, whose name I have conveniently forgotten, started needling Hotmom, asked her about wildly popular boy bands, adolescent girl singers, Radio Disney.
   That Radio Disney was a mistake.
   Hotmom was unamused. Noisy, too.

Coworkers: Part 42 - Ambushed‏

2008-02-01T07:46:00.000-06:00

   "This Backroom is a complete catastrophe!"
   I was processing the DC shipment when Dan walked back with Greta, the newest District Manager. She was conducting a Gotcha Inspection. Greta was DM Numero-4. I had already served under Karn Evil, Karn II (aka: Karn the Bastard), Fran. Each of these types inspected. Karn Evil often popped in monthly. Yet, those first three came in, on appointment or by surprise, when The Boss worked.
   Greta preferred to strike on The Boss's day off.
   Here she was, and she had been giving Dan the third degree.
   Now it was my turn.
   "Why isn't the Backroom organized?"
   "It is organized," I countered. All my life, I advised guys to never argue with women. That afternoon, I was as crafty as an egg sandwich.
   "How? Show me."
   "Stack of A-Chart here, next to that AA-Chart. Then New Release, and New Additions. Then B - C - E. Finally, the label drops. The Accessor -- "
   "And why isn't the floor marked off with tape?"
   Because that was a stupid idea only used by dimwits, I instantly thought. Instead, I made a face.
   "When I was Backroom Manager I always ... "
   There it was, the wisdom of a chronic masking tape wacko. Spare me, please.
   " ... taped the floor so that Inventory stayed within specific boundaries ... "
   Like I told her. We had stack A, stack NR, etc ... Single digit IQ's weren't hired at Camp Bowie. Tape on floor always became tape jamming the pallet jack. Grief.
   " ... so that my guys, and I had a crew of ten -- thank you -- ten very troublesome Backroom guys who needed direction at all times, and if I didn't -- "
   "Uhh," Dan broke her rant, "Worthy only has a crew of one, not ten. We don't have that kind of budget, remember. On Truck Day, Rob and Todd -- "
   "I don't see any other help. I don't see any tape!"
   Greta had the mindset of a freight truck.
   "Rob won't clock in until two. In about five minutes, he'll -- "
   "And what about this Todd person? Where is the famous Todd, Rock Star?" she asked, sarcastic.
   Todd was preoccupied. The band thing was going nuts. Label reps dropped in weekly, there were calls, letters, appearances. The Toadies had no real manager, Todd dealt with everything himself. Sometimes, after a call, he'd say, "I'll be back," then clock out and be away for hours.
   Like today.
   "My God! What is with all those posters?" Greta cried. "Gator Bait?"
   Ours was one of the biggest Backrooms in the District. The long wall had been smothered in posters over the years. Rock groups and exploitation films.
   "Pretty cool, aren't they?" Dan laughed. At least Greta was no longer interrogating me.
   "And these carts!" She began counting. "Do you honest to God need twenty - - I can't believe it - - twenty shopping carts?"
   Damnit.
   "Yes. We do," I answered. "Maybe not today, but when Christmas season slams us, every one of those carts will be packed."
   "This store is completely out of control!"
   Drama queen in pissy pants.
   "Hello, fuckers."
   Rob.
   "Excuse me!"
   More screaming.
   Dan stared at the floor, I gazed towards Louisiana. If so much as a chuckle escaped ...
   "Oh, sorry. I was referring to Worthy and T -- "
   "Robert. Could you watch the Floor while I accompany Greta?" Dan threw him an escape hatch.
   "Straight away." Rob backed out smoothly.
   Greta decried extra CD bin racks, the shrink wrap machine, the wall of Returns and Defectives. Crap that had been sorted there since the Peaches era.
   Greta had missed her calling. Prison warden would have suited her better. Bare walls, shackled inmates.
   Finally, she wheeled and marched out, turned down the hallway toward the Office. I overheard yowls of outrage. The hallway wall was plastered with posters, prints and flats. Most were autographed by musicians, famous and obscure. Years of In-Store events. Greta didn't recognize the chaotic imprint of the music world. Only litter on pristine walls.
   Next stop, the Office, which always looked like a dump truck had capsized.
   James had chosen, of all times in the week, that afternoon to reorganize his desk.
   Several other employees were eating lunch.
   And hurling french fries at each other.
   After awhile, I believe Greta damaged her vocal chords.
   At least it was quieter.

Coworkers: Part 43 - Gimme A Hug

2008-01-26T07:15:00.000-06:00

   Camp Bowie could be a vicious environment.
   Weekly, we were indifferent, cold, or brutal with coworkers. From new hires to seasoned veterans. Blameless innocents, brainless morons, or fuckers who deserved it.
   Everyone got slashed.
   Sometimes it was ugly.

   The Boss had asked me to select someone to train for receiving. Most of the crew realized Todd's Sound Warehouse days were numbered. He and The Toadies were on the road constantly. They had inked a deal with indie label Grass, but the majors were seriously interested. Big contract and national release was a matter of time. Todd rarely worked Truck Day and I couldn't process a half dozen skids of CD's and accessories on my own.
   Dane had been hired specifically to learn the Back Room. To paraphrase a bygone colleague, he proved to be a suppository bomb. Dane was a quintessential blonde and fancied himself a bassist in some cheese metal group. Long, very long, yellow hair. When he spoke, he tilted his head sideways so his hair would drape like Rapunzel. The girls disdained him because he tossed his locks and gazed off in the sunset during conversation. He was forever posing for his imaginary Vogue photographer. Dane wasted more time preening in front of the mirror than the entire crew combined.
   For receiving, Dane was hopeless. I could not train him. Every fourth CD he selected was a revelation; he'd have to ponder song titles, cover art, band photos. Wanted to open every CD and give it a listen.
   "Dude, we got Truck! I'm barely keeping ahead of the Floor. I've hit A-Chart, and New Releases. I gave you C-Chart because there was nothing Sale Priced. You've only done half a box."
   "Check this out, Flying Burrito Brothers. Name like that has to be great. Let's open it."
   "No. Look, Dan's been back here five times already. Missy and Trina, too. Everyone's counting on us."
   "Yeah, man, those girls are cute and obviously interested. I'm so available," he shook his tresses and envisioned the threesome.
   I complained. The Boss assumed I was being paranoid and territorial. He scheduled himself to work Back Room the following Truck.
   "Dane, what is your problem?"
   "Aswad, isn't this awesome?"
   "Sure, whatever. It's English Reggae, OK? Let's go."
   "I mean, ass and wad, get it? Ass wad."
   The Boss's eyes rolled into his skull. I pounded down another box. I hadn't said two words, and I didn't intend to.
   "Whoa! Big Black, I never heard of this group. Songs About Fucking. This sounds awesome!"
   "Have you been listening to me?"
   "We have to open this."
   The Boss was now quivering.
   "I'm going to visit Derotha at Eckerd's," I announced. "Anyone want anything?"
   "Songs ... about ... fucking. Hello, love life."
   I waltzed back ten minutes later, Dane was toast.
   The Boss told me to pick whomever I wanted. I requested Layla.

   Layla caught on immediately. Stayed focused, didn't get distracted. Could work alone or work with jerks. The only problem she had was with one of the assistants. There was tension between the two, but I didn't ask. Most souls spilled their stories. Layla did not.
   Friday evening, we were still processing a huge shipment. Truck had arrived late Thursday. We were behind and business was massive. Stacked behind Truck were several catalog drops. A huge PolyGram classical shipment I'd ordered. Three monsters James had placed. All D-Chart:: UNI, CEMA, and Big State. James and his orders. Big State and CEMA were both maddening.
   James, moreover, had wrecked havoc in the fabric of the crew. He was one of the mildest humans I knew, but he could be impulsive and reckless. His temporary obsession with Pat was mindlessly self destructive. Gifts and dinners were lavished on someone who never reciprocated. James was not wealthy, he was quite poor. He had no money to waste. Half the crew mocked him, others felt badly. Most of us swung both ways. Sympathetic bastards. Mind you, Pat never made promises, never led him on. Never put her foot down, either. Flowers and gifts were, after all, flowers and gifts. Married or single, sharp dressed or scuzz, she offered all males her coy smile, soft laugh, innocent denial.
   The situation was excruciating for Big Jim. Pat dated other guys in the store, while fresh boyfriends came and went. She never gave James the time of day, which killed him. Store affairs and infatuations were common and messy. "We've all slept with each other over and over," an unnamed female muttered once. The Boss hadn't, I hadn't. Still, The Boss had married an earlier coworker, and my friendships with Angela, and then later Sheri, had drawn barbed comments. I digress.
   James lost his temper one evening with one of the oldest hold-ons at Camp Bowie. She had worked with crews long forgotten. For years, she had declared, "Ireland, here I come." once she had $300K saved up. Such resources were beyond the entire store combined. There was no reason for her to share her financial situation, especially when half the crew bought Ramen noodles by the case. She was not popular.
   One evening per week, she clocked in and worked one shift.
   Why was she still holding this record shop job? To keep her hand in music business? Because Rob made the tastiest coffee on the planet? (She did drain half a pot every time she worked, doubtless wired awake for days afterward.) For that 20% employee discount? Or ... because she still nursed the flame for James? In whose life, she meddled.
   James vented all his frustration out on her. Told her nobody enjoyed working with her, the entire crew begrudged her presence. Her musical knowledge was outdated and out of the loop. There was more, a lot more. This was cruel behavior, more associated with Rob or myself. This was an exceptional moment for James.
   She confronted other employees, demanding feedback. Reassurance was subdued.
   She gave notice on the spot. That evening would be her last shift. I suppose ... someone ... could have persuaded her to change her mind. No one made the effort. Maybe it was the wrong shift that night. Jerk shift.
   Layla and I finished Truck and shifted to catalog. D-Chart. I gave her the confusion of Big State which vexed her mightily. Layla frowned, sighed, but plugged away.
   Miss I Quit marched into the Back Room. Told us she was leaving, went on and on about how wonderful the job was, how she loved everybody, but it was just time. Layla and I replied, but kept our backs to her. Shipment, you know. Miss I Quit edged closer, repeated her comments. We maintained our positions.
   Eventually, Miss I Quit marched out of the room.
   "What was that about?" Layla whispered.
   "I had the feeling she was fishing for a goodbye hug."
   "I had the same feeling," Layla shook, as if someone stepped on her grave. "No!"
   No, indeed. No hug from anyone that night.
   What'd I say? Cruel.
   Bastards.
.

Customers: Part 11 - I Used To Work Here

2008-01-20T08:48:00.000-06:00

   "I defy you. I defy you!"
   One of my earlier memories working the Floor. The Boss listened patiently, a polite smile plastered on his face, while the newspaper reporter noisily declared. "Name one! Name a single double album set that wasn't padded with filler."
   Even though I was heading towards the Booth, I mentally swept down to my music collection and began scanning spines.
   "The White Album, easily lose one or two sides. Tusk, completely overrated. Anything by Chicago. Frampton Comes Alive, come on. I love London Calling ... but. And Allman Brothers' Eat A Peach or Live At Fillmore? Hello, I was asleep at Fillmore!"
   I thought up Electric Ladyland, then The Wall. I was new, however, I kept walking.
   A portion of the job involved listening. A fair amount of customers needed to talk. Usually, male customers. Sometimes they were interesting or entertaining, they might have insight worth hearing. More often than not, bombast ruled.
   "Sign O The Times AND Graffiti Bridge. Woodstock, my God! Wheels Of Fire, Springsteen's The River, A Show Of Hands - - I can show them a finger. And Yes. Who keeps letting Yes release those marathon snooze fests?"
   You perched in the crow's nest and pointed starboard, "Thar she blows!"

   "I just fail -- completely fail to see the connecting dots."
   "They progressed, man."
   "How was it, they could make that leap from Hard Day's Night to Sergeant Pepper? It's impossible!"
   "Rubber Soul, then Revolver. They experimented, they grew. Plus, it was the 60's, Hoss."
   Shooting the breeze. This guy wasn't going to buy any Beatles albums, he probably owned the complete collection on vinyl and CD. He was my age. Short hair, trimmed beard, glasses. Looked like an office drone. Paper pusher. He was an a Regular (subset: Annoying Regular).
   Wrong. He was worse than an irritating Regular. He was a wannabee.
   " ... I used to work here, you know ... "
   He'd drop that phrase into every single conversation. I wanted to answer, "I used to shop here."
   I went up the ladder. Greg, John, finally asked Dan, who'd been at Camp Bowie a decade, about this man.
   "Why would he spout shit like that? Besides, I'm new, why's he not talking with his old coworkers?"
   "Because senior employees avoid him. He's told me the same thing, only he never worked with me. I don't know what his game is."
   Eventually I asked The Boss, who'd been manager since the Peaches era. He knew the character. He had never, ever hired him.
   "Sure, he's told me the same crap. 'I used to work here.' Bull. Maybe he worked one week while I was on vacation."
   So, I tried to tune him out.
   "The collective consciousness of 70's, after the drug induced genesis of the 60's ...    After Gabriel left, who would ever imagine ...    Lennon specifically said imagine, he asked listeners to ...    How dare he call himself the King Of Pop, I mean ...    Big deal, he played guitar with a violin bow ...    She can't sing, she can't dance, she's not even blonde ... "
   I discovered, if I clammed up, he got stymied. He wanted the good argument. If I didn't respond, he searched out another sounding board.
   Or towed in his own audience.
   For a while, he came in with the wife. I assumed it was the wife. Female, same age. Bored.
   Then ... the girls.
   Young girls.
   Fifteen, sixteen. Usually shopped around 3:30 - 4:00. When school let out.
   I realized he was a teacher. Our store had become a special, one on one, extra credit assignment.
   " ... I used to work here ... "
   They must have been students.
   They were always female. Young, fresh, pretty.
   He'd tour from artist to artist, sharing priceless, opinionated wisdom. The girls were wide eyed, eager. He was an expert.
   " ... I used to work here ... "
   Female staffers, Layla, Pepe, Trina, Amy, were completely creeped out. The scenario smelled of mandatory dating. Like he was using his authority position to ... to what?
   I didn't know what to think. I never talked with him anymore. No one did. Didn't matter, he coerced his own entourage. Every two weeks, different girl. Never once saw a boy.
   Then again, maybe he taught at a girl's only school.
   Yeah, that had to be the explanation.

Coworkers: Part 44 - The Brain Trust

2008-01-14T15:18:00.000-06:00

  After Bromo, the chain was acquired by Disney. Not Mickey Mouse, but Shamrock holdings, the investment firm run by nephew Roy Junior and his Brain Trust. Confident suits who assumed music retail would be easier to boss than the cartoon animators and amusement ride specialists from magic kingdom.
  Gestapo of the Brain Trust was Gull. Even a rumor that he was within a hundred miles of the store launched a hurricane of dusting, general housekeeping convulsions, and mopping. Charles flipped into tizzy land. Gestapo Brain never appeared to actually "do" anything. Making subordinates afraid was probably enough.
  Overblown concerns that the Brainiacs would command us to don dish sized mouse ears never materialized. There were, however, strange orders for immediate changes from time to time from the Mansion.
  Best known was the cassette shift.
  Cassettes could no longer be placed horizontally. Vertical was the new look. Easier to tell what potential clients were regarding if they had to twist their heads sideways. That was my guess. No actual reason was ever given, but one does not question the gods. Besides, they were the Brain Trust.
  The chain was simply an afterthought.
  These geniuses held the chain three years, maybe more, maybe less. Accomplished nothing on our level. Maybe we were simply a cash cow for those handsome salaries. Did they improve the chain, increase market share, make an impact in the music industry? No. They did jack. Until they sold off the chain, and then they did something horrible.
  They sold the entire wad, from stores to DCs to offices, to another group that knew jack -- absolutely nothing -- about music.
  Blockbuster Video
  Then the Brain Trust had one less distraction, for the magic kingdom was in trouble.

Shoplifting: Case #04 - Seventy-Five Bucks

2008-01-08T07:21:00.000-06:00

   The thieves arrived together. Family unit. Father, Mother, Auntie, two young boys, one girl. Walked in, split off towards CD's, cassettes, videos. Derek and Todd profiled them quickly and warned the crew. All employees recognized them, even Stephanie, chewing gum and busily tying her hair with a plastic, yellow Sound Warehouse bag.
   These shoplifters were almost a stereotype. Now and then, they clustered, conferring in quiet voices. Then they splintered off again. Six human balls in a pinball machine.
   Thieves often behaved abnormally. Too organized, too efficient, yet haphazard and wary. Organized, anal types were classic grab 'n go shoppers. Browsers tended to slowly sweep the store. Regulars checked new releases, talked to employees, asked questions or annoyed the hell out of us.
   The dawdling, the mini conferences, these guys were up to no good. After thirty minutes, and a final huddle, family members waltzed through the exit doors. Except for Auntie and girl. Auntie bought a 99¢ blank tape. The girl waited behind, bored, clutching a bulky sweatshirt across her chest.
   The girl was the mule.
   Stephanie ran register. Charles pretended to be busy at backup. Layla and Dan tended front displays.
   Purchase made, change given, Auntie and cohort walked. Triggered the alarms.
   We closed the trap. Auntie launched the excuse.
   "Oh, that must be me," she laughed and waved the blank tape and receipt. "But I already paid. See you!"
   This excuse might have sailed elsewhere, not our store. Charles appropriated the bag, and walked it back through the gate as a "special courtesy" for them. Sound Warehouse - because we care.
   Alarm triggered again. Girl apprehended. No resistance, no protesting, no drama. Auntie simply said, while she walked ...
   "You'll know what to say. We'll wait in the car."
   The girl looked twelve or fourteen. Hair pulled back. Pants, blue windbreaker over a t-shirt. Plus, a sweatshirt full of swiped items. She gazed slowly across the store, hadn't a care in the world.
   A police substation was staffed one block from us. Cops always responded when we called, and responded pronto when the culprit was a young offender. Police always wanted to deter criminal tendencies early on, and they were masters of friendly scare tactics.
   No sooner had the cops arrived, and begun the intimidating authority message, than the girl launched Stage 2.
   "Seventy five bucks. I'm underage."
   "Excuse me?"
   "I'm a minor. I'm under eighteen. I took less than $75 in stuff. You can't do nothing to me."
   All those huddled family pow wows made sense now. Doing their arithmetic. Sweatshirt contained four cassettes, three compact discs, a close out movie, five candy bars. Before taxes, totaled $73.92.
   Son of a bitch.
   "Seventy five bucks. I got less than $75. I'm a minor," she repeated, louder.
   From a legal standpoint, she was, damnit, correct. At worst, the theft was a misdemeanor. More likely, an infraction. As a minor, however, an amount under $75 was ... nothing.
   Not only a family of thieves, but educated thieves.
   "I'm under 18. And you can't do nothing."
   The two cops, both large males, had entered with broad smiles before shifting into impassive enforcement figures. They remained stone eyed, but one could sense bottled fury every time the girl jeered at them. If the perp was male, and this was 1947, there would be slapping.
   Two more cops cruised in. Male and female. Within minutes, they scowled and muttered in frustration. The law was what it was, their hands were tied. Li'l Criminal was going to swing out the door. Reinforcing the lesson that she'd beaten the law.
   "Actually ... " Charles spoke up, " ... most of the items she took were on sale."
   Cops, Coworkers, Culprit, everyone's attention flashed back to third grade math class.
   "Cassettes are marked off $3.00 each as part of a midline sale. Two CD's are New Release priced. The third is also part of that midline sale."
   "Seventy five bucks. I'm a minor," the girl protested. Yet she wasn't so loud or cocky now. She leaned sideways and looked for that waiting car in the parking lot. No cavalry from that quarter.
   "To be technical, the law specifies $75 - - Retail," the policewoman smiled like a tiger. "Retail, the baseline price, not the Sale price."
   The Retail price totaled $97.92, three bucks shy of a felony charge. As it was, misdemeanor, and a free ride downtown in the back of a police car. And a lot of crying.
   The family vehicle followed at a discreet distance.
   For the store, and four cops, a tasty victory.

Coworkers: Part 45 - Not Fade Away

2008-01-02T07:41:00.000-06:00

   The change seemed to happen overnight.
   The change was the culmination of departures and transfers. The change was the end of one era, the onset of another. Goodbyes, disappearances, new faces. Coincidences simply fell into place. Life may have been temporary, but change was, more often than not, permanent.
   Sound Warehouse began slipping away.
   The chain had been snatched up by video behemoth, and arch rival, Blockbuster, on a music store buying binge, diversifying their retail outlet line.
   We had heard rumors for months. The facts still seemed inconceivable.
   Long timers departed. Diana, Matt, and family packed off for the Northwest. Layla moved away to college or simply another city. Not really sure. Justin, the Orb, followed the Dead for two months, returned for a bit, disappeared for good. Pepe had been working one afternoon, laughing at the top of her lungs, gone a week later.
   Other employees were conflicted all to hell. Then, by sheer chance (or Fate), an alternative surfaced.
   A chain bookseller was opening a branch in Cowtown.
   James gave notice immediately, citing for "exit" reasons: Blockbuster. He was one of the bookstore's first hires.
   Larry, who had been Pat's right hand in Video, gave notice as well, and transferred loyalties.
   The bookstore seemed to target employees from our chain. Hulen and Berry likewise suffered losses.
   Rob went next. He was assigned his own store. Berry Street, the notorious disaster. Very difficult, very troubled store. High shrink, most of the employees were terrible, neighborhood in decline. Rob said goodbye to Todd and me in the Backroom, during shipment. Rob said he planned to phone us often with shipment, receiving, or paperwork questions. We reassured him he could call anytime. Todd advised him to, "Fire the Berry crew, all of them." We laughed, it was a quality moment.
   Finally, Todd gave notice. The big contract hit. This is what he and the Toadies struggled for. The label deal, the tour, the road. Fame beckoned, and the wonderful feeling of sharing their music. The band packed into a white van and pushed off on the quest.
   The change seemed to happen overnight.
   It had been months in the making.
   Familiar faces you had worked with for years. Daily presences became ghosts.
   James, Larry, Diana, Matt, Layla, Justin, Rob, Todd, Pepe.
   Leaves falling with the Autumn frost.
   Almost overnight, over a third of the crew was gone.

   Contractors became steady visitors. The store, which had been one of the lingering Peaches holdovers, was to be gutted. That whole natural wood motif, ripped down and replaced with soothing Blockbuster blue paint. Blue carpet, dozens of listening stations, a massive influx of product. Improvements had their price. Retirement plan and health insurance came with a dress code.
   And drug tests.
   The iconic Sound Warehouse question - - Has alcohol use or substance use ever interfered with your employment performance? - - was swept away with the destroyed wood paneling and lingering 70's aura.
   Current employees would not be drug tested, which was for the best. Most of us would fail a drug or alcohol test utterly.
   The Boss, Beserkeley survivor, became in-house drug administrator. The irony escaped no one. For a decade, since the Peaches era, The Boss had operated the store as his private fiefdom. Now he might have to conform into the Blockbuster empire. Truth was, none of us knew anything for sure.
   Our years of service would be grandfathered into Blockbuster, which was a decent gesture on their part.
   Friends who'd jumped to the chain bookstore urged us to follow, the grass was much greener over there.
   The book place was merely another national chain. Plus, this was only a book store, it damn sure wasn't a record store. Their prime customers were upper middle class Boomers. White bread white folks with a taste for oldies, aging artists, pleasant music. Soccer moms. Our friends were happy with their new home, but they were in wheelchairs and walkers. Overnight, they'd gotten old.
   The rest of us stayed behind. Braced ourselves, shrugged, worried, waited. Dan, Missy, João, Greg, Trina, Derek, Pat, John, Kathy, Stacey, and a stack of fresh replacements.
   Then ... Sound Warehouse was gone.

Coworkers: Part 46 - The Donut Bear

2006-12-20T12:25:00.000-06:00

   The chain was swallowed whole by Blockbuster. Complete takeover. Stores were notified to anticipate visitors. Very Important Visitors. New Bromeroids, though that phrase had lost its cachet. All locations, including ours, would be inspected. Evaluated. Prepped before the conversion to the Blockbuster way of business.
   Resistance was futile.
   And the new Masters arrived. Actually, one.
   Big Bear.
   Greeted staff with an unsmiling, "You're fired."
   This was addressed to Dan. Big Bear, as he termed himself, was the Loss Prevention agent. He had chosen The Boss's day off to conduct his preliminary inspection. Classic retail behavior.
   "Ha ha, right," Dan couldn't tell if this guy was joking or was serious. He smiled, but it was a sickly grin.
   "Giving you fair warning," he stated flatly. "I have total authority to terminate anyone in the chain. Field level up to Regional."
   "I'll keep that in mind," Dan said.
   "Do that." He surveyed the Backroom, where I was working. Didn't look at either of us. "Clear your things ... you're fired."
   Dan and I looked at each other.
   "Just kidding." Big Bear walked towards the empty corner, past the dead shrink wrap unit.
   I already hated this man, I wanted to saunter away but couldn't. I'd be on his suspect list forever.
   "What are all these CD's?" he demanded.
   "Everything is organized," Dan answered cheerfully. "Defectives. Pulls and Recalls. Promos."
   "Why are they not secured?"
   "Secured?"
   "Locked up somewhere," specified Bear.
   "Customers never come back here," Dan laughed.
   "I'm not talking about customer theft. I'm talking about securing them from employees. Surely you don't trust your coworkers?"
   That was our initial encounter with the Blockbuster crime unit. Within a month we would realize this gent was not interested in protecting us from professional thieves, resolve banking errors, track hijacked shipments. Blockbuster only recognized one type of theft. Internal. Turned out they had a long and very troubled history of hiring boatloads of disgruntled employees who stole and stole and stole. Or, that was how Blockbuster perceived their valued associates.
   In five years at Sound Warehouse, I didn't even know if the chain had a Loss Prevention agent. We had our share of internal theft. Managers were expected to detect, identify, and fire sticky fingers. If not, if the shrink was too high, managers were released. Our store shrink was less than 1%, The Boss strived for .5%.
   Big Bear became a regular visitor. The dangerous intruder. Anytime someone went to the restroom, he pulled out his wristwatch. I gave him a skeptical side glance and he fired off, "You think this isn't my job? Well it is. If some goldbrick is stealing time."
   This was the same guy who suggested we install cameras in the bathroom. You couldn't pay me enough for that surveillance duty.
   While he was Blockbuster to the bone, he had no desire to office out of Dallas, let alone Garland. His residence was in Cowtown, so he wanted his office to be in Cowtown. Our little location suited his purposes, and had bonus points. Females Missy and Trina, he took a shine to. They were too pretty to be fired. Why, he even offered to share his donuts with those two.
   Oh, yes, donuts. Every time he strolled in, he cradled two dozen donuts. Then he devoured those two dozen donuts.
   Two boxes. Sticky flour, deep fried in oil, drenched with sugar. Twenty four. The ex-cop's breakfast special.
   I don't think I properly described Big Bear, now referred to as Donut Bear. Maybe I don't need to.
   Most of all, he desperately coveted the Stash Room, where employees locked their purses, jackets, and stashes of CD's and toys they planned to buy ... eventually. The room where Returns were stored and sorted.
   Employees didn't need that room, he argued. Employees ought to keep their purses and lunches in their cars. Returns should be stored in the office, or hallway. Stash Room would be Loss Prevention Command Base, complete with mini fridge he would requisite. It was an honor.
   I think that's what he said. Hard to understand a man who spoke with his mouth full of pastries. While your eye followed half chewed food bits that spilled past his jaw while he issued orders. When you watched wet food plop the carpet, knowing we had a rodent problem. Then he reeled you back, demanding, "Am I right? Am I right? Of course I'm right."
   There seemed no way to reason with the Donut Bear. Even the DM was subdued near him, knowing full well Bear would take full delight in firing. Bear loved firing, he reassured everyone. Every single visit, which had increased, he told someone, "You're fired." He no longer said he was joking. Sooner or later, he would mean it.
   Hopefully, everyone has dreams and plans in this world. Even bears have their dreams.
   Donut Bear's dreams of that Stash Room becoming his sexy Bear Cave crumbled a few weeks later. He'd forgotten our store was receiving a full remodel. Everything would be gutted. The Stash Room was not in the blueprint. Indeed, there were no rooms in the blueprint, only a tiny Backroom / Office.
   Bear fixed his eye on another store. Berry Street. Rob's store, lucky him.
   There was a Dunkin' Donuts right across the street from Berry.
   Anyway, Donut Bear was the first impression we had of the folks who now presided over us.
   More impressions were enroute.

Coworkers: Part 47 - Crew Shift

2006-12-15T08:49:00.000-06:00

   Four people got hired during the transition. Kristi, Mandy, Mikey, and The Professor. I was directly responsible for two of them.
   During the last weeks of Sound Warehouse, I was in the Booth, working up a Classical order when this girl approached me. Typical Texas blonde, reminded me of Stephanie or Carey.
   "Are ya'll hiring?"
   I didn't hire, and The Boss was across the way in Cassettes. I could weed applicants quickly, however.
   "What do you listen to?" I asked.
   "I listen to all kinds of music," she replied.
   "Does that include Rap, Jazz, Classical, Techno?" I challenged.
   "Ha ha," she laughed, "no, I listen to Rock, but mostly Country."
   "Country?" She had my full attention.
   "Yeah. Most of my car presets are kinda/sorta on country stations. New stuff and oldies."
   "You walk over to that man," I pointed out The Boss. "You tell him you just spoke with me, you're looking for work, and ya'll listen to Country."
   The Boss spoke with her for less than five minutes. Kristi was hired on the spot. In our store, she was the final Sound Warehouse hire.
*
   After I returned from a trip, the store was bisected with black plastic. Demolition in the back was total. Backroom, Office, Money Room, Stash Room, bathrooms, all rubble. Many coworkers were stressed. The usual suspects, and most of the females. Whereas Stacey was indifferent, Pat, Trina and Missy vented on new girls Kristi and Mandy.
   This was beyond the usual territory cattiness. Sound Warehouse reeked of music snobbery, of which I was equally culpable. If you weren't knowledgeable you were shoved out the door. Kristi went to clubs ... Billy Bob's and country bars. Newer girl, Mandy, the first official Blockbuster hire, didn't club at all. In fact, Mandy knew shit about music. Her minuscule music quotient came from her boyfriend, and his was FM based knowledge. Six months behind the curve.
   The new girls weren't "cool" enough. Maneuverings and politics began. I immediately countered arguments and checked comments. Kristi and Mandy were accused of being too straight, ignorant of cutting edge, and wearing lame clothes. The latter was my favorite reason they were uncool since every employee now wore Blockbuster's blue and khaki attire. Whatever. The Bobsey Twins worked like freight trains. I loved these girls, and insisted they work Truck Day. I'd failed with Angela, but I was determined to shield this pair.
*
   "What do you think about this guy?" The Boss thrust a filled application form into my hands.
   I scanned it briefly. Looked to be written by a convict, using with his fingers.
   "For the Classical Room?" I asked.
   "Correct."
   "I could continue running the Back Room and Classical like before."
   "That'd work for me. Unfortunately, Blockbuster wants someone in that room constantly during business hours. I need you running inventory."
   "Alright," I sighed. "I know this guy. He is an expert on Classical music. Knows more than I do, plus the two Classical Mikes combined."
   "Personality. Will he fit in? Over the years he's applied about five times, and five times I gave the job to someone else."
   "He will never fit in. If this was Sound Warehouse, employees would carve him up. Slowly. In his swank Mozart room he should be isolated, though being in there may lend the impression "special." That room, in my opinion, smacks of elitism."
   "My friend, that's not our call. Will he get along?" The Boss focused on answers.
   I shrugged. "He will annoy everyone, but he will work hard and he'll try to get along."
   "Good enough. On your recommendation, I'm hiring him as Classical manager."
   There. Guilty. I'm the one. Any colleague or customer who would ever have difficulties with The Professor could look at me, shake their head, and say, "Thanks, idiot."
   Worse, that night I had to inform Zelda I was no longer section chief. She was crushed. For five years, anytime someone asked what I did for a living I answered, "I'm in the music industry." If Zelda was within earshot, she'd immediately bolt over, grab my arm and add, "He's head of Classical," unweaving the fabrication.
*
   Since Kristi was Sound Warehouse, she dodged the mandatory drug test. Mandy, The Professor and Mikey passed easily, lowering in-house esteem even further.
   Mikey on the other hand ...
   Mikey's head was shaved.
   He provided hair samples, nevertheless.
   Pubic.
   Everyone took note.

Customers: Part 12 - Poopdeck

2006-12-10T09:52:00.000-06:00

"Hey, you!"

"What?" Oh, fuck me, I thought.

Poopdeck.

I hadn't been paying attention. I was writing groups for D Catalogue bin cards. Blockbuster gave us thousands of nice, new bin cards, but we carried so many obscure and local groups that we had to print hundreds more. Usually Mandy, Kristi, or Sarah did these, but it was Saturday and I could either work on bin cards or help Krause in Classical.

Bin cards.
  So I was engrossed. Didn't see Poopdeck totter into the store. I didn't have a sense of smell, so there went that early warning system. I wasn't deaf, though, I should have heard him.
  "You!"
  Poopdeck was ten feet and closing.
  "What do you need?" I asked, coldly.
  "What? I bought an album of pirate songs here awhile ago."
  "No. You bought an Errol Flynn soundtrack. Sea Hawks, I think. It wasn't a recording of authentic 17th Century pirates."
"What? Where do you keep your sailor songs and sea shanties?"
  "We don't stock crap like that!"
  Poopdeck always demanded shit like this. Pirate music, sea man tunes. That's half the reason Dan and Rob nicknamed him Poopdeck. Why couldn't he just reenlist in the Navy? Fall overboard.
  "Well, how do you know if you don't bother looking?"
  "Because I check everything in. Yes, everything." I swept my hand in a broad arc across the store. "Every single item that comes into the store, checked in, priced, entered into the database. Me. I'm the one accountable for inventory. And ... I ain't checked in no pirate ballads, no Marine Corps hymns, no lusty mermaid songs. Or do you want Octopus's Garden?"
  "Then ... who do I see about ordering what I want?"
  "Do you want to talk to Dan?"
  Swear to God, Dan, on the other side of the store, heard his name, looked over, recognized Poopdeck, hurried out the store.
  Typical. Lucky bastard.
  Poopdeck and I were getting louder with every exchange. He was hearing impaired. Working those below deck boilers, or cleaning his ears out with a screwdriver. Customers glanced our way, curious about the ruckus. Once they took in the full glory of Poopdeck in his bespattered raiment, they shielded their eyes. Then wondered why I abused such an individual.

  Years earlier, when I saw Pepe attack Gnarly, I figured she was the meanest, most insensitive person.
  I worked one register, Sweeney the other. There were two lines. Friday night.
  "Excuse me! Can I get to the front? I have a cab."
  Big guy, really big guy, hulking. By his wailing tone, I knew he had been shortchanged in brain cells. I motioned for him to cut line.
  "Oh, no, you don't. Gnarly, you don't ever cut in line like this," Pepe loudly chastised him. "Do you understand me?"
  "But I have a cab!" he wailed.
  "You have no such thing!"
  How rude. Here was a guy, clearly with some mental challenges, and she was publicly scolding him.
  "I'm in a really big hurry."
  "Then you can just hurry yourself right out the door. But you're not cutting in front of all these people."
  "What if my cab leaves without me?" he insisted.
  "Then I'll take you home myself," Pepe answered. "Or ... " she pointed to Video, "your parents can take you."
  Parents?
  Later, I realized Gnarly exaggerated his deficiency to interrupt conversations, jump lines, give incorrect change. What were once special indulgences, he now accepted as permanent advantages. Plus, he used his intimidating size. I learned. Pepe had been completely justified.

  So, I'm dealing with this half deaf, nautically obsessed, old fart weirdo. Poopdeck shouted loudly. The other half of that Poopdeck moniker? He always wore a sailors cap. Not a U S Navy cap. No, a British tar's cap. Aarrr. And it was actually Poopdeck Pappy, though most of us abbreviated it. That day, he wore bib overalls, with the remnants of some shirt underneath. Everything from chin to zipper was terribly, permanently soiled. Grease, pizza, paint, mustard, unidentifiable discharges. He now stood six inches from me. Barking. Still deaf.
  Of course, no rescue posse was forthcoming. Somewhere, a cluster of coworkers were laughing. Wisely hidden.
" ... I mean, I've seen these. You know, at the base."
  Christ. Why don't you shop at the base that stocks pirate music?
  Maybe I should dump him onto The Professor?
  Ahh, that would be cruel.
  Suddenly ...
  "Hey! Follow me."
  Led Poopdeck into the Rock stacks. Procal Harum. Flipped through titles. There it was. Placed A Salty Dog in his grubby hands.
  "Well, now you're talking." He glanced at the track listings, but kept returning to that cover of a happy British tar inside a life preserver.
"Is this good?" he asked.
  "Considered a classic," I replied truthfully.
  Poopdeck paid and departed. Maybe next time he'd ambush someone else.
  There was always that next time.
.

Coworkers: Part 48 - The Concept

2006-12-05T07:06:00.000-06:00

   Suppose you threw a party, and nobody attended.
   You held an election, and nobody voted.
   Or you built yourself a national record chain, and nobody bought.
   Blockbuster had purchased a half dozen music store chains including Turtles, Record Bar, Tracks, Music Plus, Super Club, and us. They did not completely understand the music business model. Blockbuster was accustomed to patrons walking in, shopping, departing with arms full. Clients entered to rent something, anything. They'd rent 3-4 films, buy overpriced candy, microwave popcorn, and leave. Rental customers did not exit empty handed.
   Music stores were different.
   A sizable percentage of customers came to shop. Not buy, shop. Browse. Loiter. Money did not always change hands. Patrons chatted with staff, perused inventory, tweaked mental wish lists for their collections. Many suffered the proverbial "champagne taste - beer budget" syndrome. Most of us were patient, understanding. Like them, we were poor, too.
   Our new owners suffered a hissy fit. What was wrong with these customers? Visitors were supposed to spend money! They marched in, thank you very much, marched out an hour later. Nothing! Used up store air conditioning, wasted payroll man-hours in non profitable jabber, tracked dust on fixtures (Blockbuster may have known damned little about music, but one thing they did know was dust. Every single visit, every BB flunky zeroed in on dust.).
   "There must be a solution," a red headed minion stressed. "We need to force people to buy. Well, not force, convince. They are here to spend their money. We're not a social agency. Music stores were acquired to boost profits."
   She babbled on and on to The Boss or any handy assistant. Many of us had been in takeover situations before. New masters were always arrogant know-it-alls. Our new bullies, no matter how friendly, were cast to type.
   "Make sure all listening posts are working. If people hear it, they'll buy it. Remember your new slogan, The Power To Hear It All. You should post that phrase everywhere so employees don't forget. If clients don't know what they want, simply tell them what they want. Put something in their hands, suggest chart toppers, walk them to the registers so they feel compelled to buy."
   Hard sell.
   Customers hated this shit. We quickly discovered customers also hated Blockbuster. The video chain was a controlling monopoly, engaged in movie censorship, and practiced predatory pricing. Worst of all, Blockbuster had deliberately killed our own rental section. Maybe they had, maybe they hadn't. Yet customers were convinced.
   There was the strong suspicion we had been acquired originally because we were kicking their rental ass. Sound Warehouse rentals had been 99¢ and 49¢ per night. Business was dynamite. Two registers ran full bore from 5:00 on. Friday or Saturday, three registers. Video was a crowded, happy madhouse.
   After the takeover, rental prices were improved to $3.99 nightly. Our location lost over 90% of our rental customer base within one week. Movies with questionable ratings were purged. Oddball titles, not in their database, were eliminated. As prices exploded skywards, Video became funeral parlor sleepy.
   Faithful customers departed in droves. Even Henry and Martha, in their 80's, who had been with us for over a decade, discovered the grocery store next to us. Rentals there, $1.00 per night.
   Blockbuster never intended to keep rental at the music locations.
   "That is not in the overall concept. When people want movies, you're supposed to send them to the video locations. If they want music, we send them to you. Synergy. This will be profitable for everyone."
   Our store was remodeled. Sans video section. Rental stock was liquidated. I phoned friends at the public library, they filled several shopping carts with our old titles. The library, by the way, charged nothing for renting videos.
   Blockbuster's great concept. Synergy? Video locations began stocking compact discs. "We gotcha covered, teammate."
   Oh ... yes ... almost forgot about that second prong of their great concept.
   The master plan.
   Downloading.
   The mighty powers at Blockbuster planned to establish download stations in music stores. Customers could download albums or singles from a remote database and make copies in-store. Artwork and booklets would either be printed separately or mailed to them. That aspect remained murky.
   An intriguing concept.
   Blockbuster assumed, however, all the music labels would be agreeable to this. They assumed music labels would fall into line and kowtow to all powerful Blockbuster, just as movie studios had.
   All assumptions, even Boardroom assumptions, contain the same first three letters.
   The designers assumed wrongly.
   Record labels categorically refused, threatened legal proceedings if Blockbuster tried to launch their plan. Their grand presumption, on which they begun their music retail buying binge, came to nothing. They would have to compete in the marketplace on equal footing with competitors. They would have to entice disgruntled customers back into stores and convince them to buy, if they were to recover the millions invested.
   Grand schemes by suits, carried out by scattered trench rats.
   Folly.
   For myself, that was the first time I heard the word downloading.
   Pandora's box.
.

Coworkers: Part 49 - GUEST

2006-12-01T07:38:00.000-06:00

   Blockbuster honchos began devising new stunts to lure reluctant shoppers back into their music division. Bosses were genuinely startled by the eroding foot traffic. In the video realm, they had enjoyed a de facto monopoly. Music retail, on the other hand, was fiercely competitive. As our store knew, all too well, even booksellers had entered a crowded market. There were many mall chains, mom 'n pop shops, big box stores like ours, mail order clubs, and Wal Mart.
   Many long time Regulars quit shopping because they simply disliked Blockbuster. Their corporate arrogance coupled with their routine censorship alienated many. Blockbuster launched a predictable strategy to get folks, and their wallets, back into their stores.
   Stage One: Advertise. Catch phrase, The Power To Hear It All. Every week, there were glossy TV commercials of happy listeners previewing any CD they wanted at those newfangled Listening Centers at their nearby Blockbuster Music. This was partially successful. We did enjoy new customers. Only they didn't stay. Nine times out of ten, they asked to hear a CD then either didn't like it, or had to think about it. Meaning, they went elsewhere to buy. Tellingly enough, the commercials were all video based. There was nothing created for the radio market. Which was where music was broadcast.
   Stage Two: Bribery. Bonus Boxes. With any purchase, customers received a bonus box with goodies inside. Three fun sized candy bars, pack of microwave popcorn, and a stuffed doll. There was an ongoing fad for Beanie Baby dolls. I personally knew -- I had friends, actual friends, who based their retirement strategy on building a Beanie Baby collection. Future was mapped out brighter than the sun. A couple of thousand dollars invested in "highly collectible" dolls, would steeply increase in value until the lucky owners could buy Manhattan.
   I confided to my friends, that for the price of a CD single, they could get a bonus box with dollie.

Then I was dismissively told, ours were not genuine Beanie Babies. Ours were Coca Cola dollies. How fussy. Still, we gave away thousands of bonus boxes, several missing the microwave popcorn that mysteriously exploded in our Backroom. How many of those new visitors who walked out with bonus boxes became steady Regulars?

How many fingers do you have on one hand?

   Subtract four.
   Stage Three: Indoctrination. Also known as employee motivation. Or simply, GUEST.
   The GUEST system had been used in restaurants for years. This was customer service shorthand. Greet (the client) - Understand (what they want) - Explain or Explore (what they want instead) - Suggest (additional purchases) - Thank them.
   Blockbuster sent us peppy, snazzy videos to watch.
   "Hello, madam, how are you today?" asked a perky male employee.
   "Thank you so much for asking!" replied the 30'ish lady customer.
   "How can I help you today?"
   "I came in to buy a Barney video for my youngest," she said.

   "We have a full line of Barney," explained the employee. "This one is my favorite," and he placed the video in the customer's hand.
   "Oh, you're so helpful. I love shopping here," gushed satisfied client.
   "While you're here, if you have other children, you might want to get something for them as well. Preempt arguments," suggested the clerk.
   "You're right! I better get some videos for the boys as well."
   "How about these two action films," clerk placed two more videos in customer's hands. "Very popular. With plots that offer lifelong lessons."
   "Whatever would I do without you?" customer beamed.
   "Well, what about something for yourself? You look like you'd enjoy a good exercise video." He loaded a workout video onto her stack.
   "I guess I could lose a little weight. And this looks so fun! Oh! I forgot my husband! What would he like?"
   "Just the thing." Male employee gently slid a Playboy on top of the pile. "This guarantees smiles all week. The art direction is exceptional."
   "All this came to only $143.00? Ooh, candy bar! No wonder this is my favorite store. Thank you so much."
   "No ... please ... I thank you."
   There wasn't a single music item in the story, but the concept was the same. Greet - Understand - Explain - Suggest - Thank. Customers were like steel ducks in a shooting gallery. All we had to do was greet 'em, pile product in their hands, thank 'em before the exit door whacked their backside.
   "Any questions?" The Boss asked a disgruntled squad of us, after ejecting the video.
   "It never works like that," Kristi argued.

   The Boss sighed. "That's how the Corporate people want it to operate."
   "I place stuff in folks' hands, they place it right back on the shelf."
   "We need to try this, alright?"
   "It's only music. Not like we're peddling skin, you know?"
   "What?"
   "Then GUEST would mean Get Undressed - Excite - Satisfy - Take their money."
   "I'd shop here!" John added.
   The Backroom went silent. All of us filed out to the Floor.
   The GUEST program never really delivered as promised. We were tested on what the GUEST letters stood for all the time.
   Kristi's version was the one most employees recited.

Coworkers: Part 50 - Listening Center

2006-11-30T10:05:00.000-06:00

   The Listening Center blew. Time - money - patience. My God, it was popular, though. And it brought in customers.
   Fresh faces plopped their asses daily and shoved a stack of CD's toward the hapless employee assigned to that post. There had to have been secret guidelines attached for Store Managers only, or The Boss displayed genius, because only the more agreeable, friendly employees were scheduled to work that area. He rarely worked it, neither did Stacey or myself. Others groused, but they were stuck. João, in particular, took personal offense.
   Everyone could relate.
   Blockbuster's slick television commercial showed happy, smiling customers bobbing their heads, grooving to the latest, greatest tunes. Energetic clerks bounced around on mini trampolines. The slogan was, The Power To Hear It All, which the marketing herd assumed translated as, You Hear It Here, You Gonna Buy It Here.
   Reality check.
   Folks sat down, dropped a CD onto the counter in front of the clerk. No word, no smile. Hey, monkey, serve me. Correction, if you were helping another customer, then Ole Stoneface would start rapping the CD on the counter. Louder and louder till the case cracked. We'd walk down to them ...
   "I don't like it. Only one good song." Then they clammed up and plunked another CD down, that they would never, ever purchase.
   The Power To Hear It All translated into Thank God, I Heard This Suckfest Before I Bought It. We were encouraged (ahem, ordered) to place discs in people's hands. Most shoppers redeposited them on the counter and moseyed away. Sometimes they lied, "I'll be back later." Think, next century. Usually, they hurried to a cheaper competitor. Or they simply consigned that "one rockin' tune" album to the "don't buy" garbage can.
   All the redesigned Sound Warehouse locations shared similar stories.
   Managers noted increased foot traffic, lots of foot traffic, only the new customers weren't buying.
   This was hour after hour, day after day, money losing, blood drain. We began to label Regulars who came in weekly, listened to the same CD, and never bought. It was their lunch break. Or they had a tough day behind their desk. Or their wife wouldn't let him buy music anymore. Waaaa.
   Maybe Blockbuster understood those Listening Centers would be Loss Centers. We doubted it. Visiting Block-Heads (Did I say that? How terrible.) corporate flunkies all scrolled dollar signs in their eyes. Their studies were solid, Loss Centers ... er ... Listening Centers would generate big time profits ... eventually.
   Why would any store level associates want to work the LC area? Two main reasons.
   One: A lot of coworkers despised cash register. They got bored, they feared they'd get shortchanged and get fired, they worried some thief was gonna shoot 'em dead. Whatever. They just didn't like it. Pat - Mandy, in particular, both would sooner set their hair on fire.
   Two: Playstack. Whoever was closest to the CD player got to reload a new disc when one finished. Previously, it was whoever was nearby or whoever was quickest. Lately, it seemed to be Mandy. Her taste in music was nursery school level. Mandy was a workhorse with product, yet she simply didn't know the underground, club raves, cool oldies, cult bands. She knew "radio." Stale radio, overplayed hits. Worst of all, she loaded the carousel unit with six discs and punched SPIRAL.
   SPIRAL meant Track 01 of CD One, Track 01 of CD Two, Track 01 of CD Three, etc ... SPIRAL was lazy, they wouldn't get sniped on for airing lame tunes. No one got the feel for an album. Customers made comments, employees complained. Half the crew wanted her fired. Inside a week, SPIRAL was banned.
   Except one stubborn employee didn't get the message. Again. A week of accidents and "sorry" went by. Then The Boss warned officially. SPIRAL meant losing work hours for the offender.
   Then and there, the practice was snuffed out permanently at our location. Praise the Lord.

   About this time, Ken and Tim hired on. No, this wasn't the glorious return of "The Tim."
   Ken was an old friend of The Boss. Hard core music collector, freelance music critic, jammed around in garage bands. Blockbuster was a night job for extra money. He worked days for a cheapskate company, and the Reserves. Ken slotted into the crew nicely. Quality moment one night when the store grabbed a shoplifter, Ken automatically launched Queen's Another One Bites The Dust.
   Tim was also a musician, more dedicated. Tim was busy chasing the music dream. His previous band, Cream Of Mushroom, had recently folded, and he still hadn't formed Grand Street Cryers. We were a pit stop.
   Onstage, Tim was a passionate, inspired, front man. In the store, however, whether he meant to or not, he swerved out of his way to piss off the girls. Maybe he was going through relationship difficulties.
   When a customer requested a title, he'd shove past Kristi or Missy with, "I'll get it for you, I know where it is." Which the girls interpreted as "You helpless, little women could go back to knitting and diaper ironing."
   To his annoyance, them womenfolk would play Cream Of Mushroom, then cut it off mid-song. They'd place dark metal in rotation, he'd follow that with Carpenters or madman William Shatner.
   Tim was a guy after my own heart. Yet I didn't have a lot of dealings with him. In many ways, he was another version of Todd. Hell, both guys were similar to me. Like peering into a slightly distorted mirror. Skinny, cynical, self absorbed, hard surfaced. I was older, I was worse; maybe they would mature beyond where I was.
   So we're debating in the Listening Center. Mocking vintage heavy metal bands. What constituted the lowest common denominator. We honed in on popularity combined with buffoonery. Tim was well versed in all the cliches.
   "Uriah Heep," he suggested.
   I began singing Stealin', then bridged into Easy Livin'. "I had friends who loved those guys. Band never knew who they were. Prog, heavy metal, or dragon bait," I joked. "Grand Funk. From Flint, Michigan. Lead singer always affected a fake peckerwood drawl like he oozed up from the Mississippi swamp."
   "Good one. How about Bachman-Turner Overdrive?"
   "Ha ha ha. Fattest band of all time." I thought a second. "Autograph," I replied quietly.
   "Oh, God," he laughed. "That band had the ugliest members on the planet." He paused. "Rainbow."
   "Hell, yeah," I laughed. "Man On The Silver Mountain. Sounded like a howling rat on fire."
   "One of the stupidest songs ever!"
   "Hey!" An older man interrupted us. "You fellers too busy to help an old timer like myself?"
   "Hello, Chuck," Tim smiled. "You want to hear the usual?"
   "If you don't object."
   The man was old, wrinkled and overweight. I'd seen him from time to time. Never knew his name was Chuck. Never cared. It was enough that I knew he was delusional.
   Tim accepted his CD, opened it, popped it in the unit. Handed the case and booklet back, "There you go, Chuck."
   Mister Chuck was in an exclusive group of crazy Regulars. He swore on a stack of Bibles he'd been lead singer in the Sons Of The Pioneers, Country 'N Western vocalists popular from the 30's - 50's.
   There were always weirdos like this.
   "I was lead singer in Bloodrock, you know?"
   "Let me tell you what it like drumming in Three Dog Night."
   "I was with Stevie Ray Vaughan and Mick Jagger." (That came from a female.)
   Every big music store had characters who reminded you they once were, and still were, big shots.
   It was especially enjoyable when the artist they impersonated was long dead.
   Like claiming to be Napoleon.
   Sons Of The Pioneers was founded in 1933 by Roy Rogers. Nineteen thirty-three. Original members had gone over the mountain long ago.
   Our customer finished his listening siesta, and returned the case to Tim. Tim never bothered to ask him if he wanted to buy the CD. Why would he? The man, as an original member, surely had all the recordings. He just didn't have a set of headphones.
   "Any word on a new album, Chuck?" Tim prodded.
   "Roy's still in talks with the record moguls," the man frowned. "Timing is crucial, you understand. Charts and airplay."
   "How about any upcoming tours?" Tim persisted.
   "Opportunities seem inclined to favorable," Mister Chuck mused. "Looks like we might tour with this George Strait cowboy, that Jones guy, and Hank Williams."
   "Hank? Junior or senior?" I asked.
   "Oh, senior, of course. Boy of his is too wild. Be like being in a circus rodeo. None of us wants that."
   Tim nodded sympathetically.
   "Well, guess I better roll on," Chuck stood up. "See if my little woman is done at that drug store."
   "See you, Mister Wagon," Tim waved.
   "Adios, pardners," and he wobbled away.
   God keep me safe. Don't let me get crazier than I am.
   I was about to resume our discussion by referencing Quiet Riot -- then -- Wagon?
   I turned to Tim.
   "Chuck ... Wagon?" I shot him a look.
   "I thought you'd notice that."
   Then both of us broke down laughing.