Coworkers: Part 62 - Don't Tread On Me

     "I'm warning you, I'm not in the mood for this today."
     Ken bristled from the Listening Center, ramrod straight, eyes blazing.
     "Keeping Democracy safe with dummy target practice?" The Boss jibed.
     "Don't mess with me today," Ken repeated. 'This is not the day for your shit."
     "Why not, you only wing those body targets?" The Boss continued.
     The Boss was a diehard, Berserkely survivor. Late 60's fires burned still. Stick it to the man! He retained an anti establishment, anti Military Industrial Complex attitude.
     Mind you, Blockbuster was "the man." Ours might have been a rebellious location, where the staff slowly, determinedly, shifted the style back to the Sound Warehouse era. Yet, we were part of a huge chain. We obeyed a dress code, new hires passed drug tests, mandatory layouts ensured one store resembled another. Corporate suits called the shots. Like it or not, all of us were ... The Man. Or worse, pawns.
     When possible, The Boss vented on military and authority types.
     A cruel irony existed. Many of the store ex coworkers had enlisted in the armed forces or had found employment with law enforcement. Like the parents of my generation, The Boss undoubtedly wondered where he had failed.
     Whenever any alumni, who had donned the uniform, visited Camp Bowie, The Boss heckled them. Joked about killing, riot control, prison camps, indoctrination, whatever popped in his brain. He couldn't help himself.
     Enlisted was not exclusive. Any government agency was fair game. "How much tax dollars have you spent on mind control this year?"
     Some souls never even worked for him. They were someone's boyfriend or girlfriend. They were marks, nevertheless.
     Ken was the convenient whipping boy. He was National Guard.
     Some members of the Guard were patriotic types, others wanted extra income. Ken worked two jobs and he did freelance writing, in addition to his National Guard activities. I suspected a need for cash.
     The Guard, the military, none of that disturbed me, nor most of the crew. I had been in ROTC for three years before realizing I was much too the wayward soul to follow. That was me, though. For others, OK. Besides, there was a chain of command. Above the military or law enforcement were political leaders. Elected by us. The mob. Responsibility always laid ... with us. We were The Man.
     Anyway, The Boss kept pouring it on Ken that morning. Ken had just spent a month on Guard maneuvers. Shooting babies. Women & bayonets. Blindly following orders.
     "Hey, you know what?" Ken muttered. "We're done."
     "Huh?"
     "Quit. Finished. I'm done working here."
     He untied his apron. Placed it on the counter. Clocked out, started walking.
     "Hey, c'mon, I was only -- "
     "Don't bother calling me for awhile, either."
     Marched out the door.
     The Boss turned to me, attempted more humor. I was already heading towards the schedule to see who we could phone for coverage.
     Ken returned ten days later for his check. He and The Boss remained close friends.
     He never worked in the store again.

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Coworkers: Part 64 - My Darling Boy

     "My darling boy, please come over here and tell me what that divine cologne is."
     Chris dropped his face in his hands and began laughing.
     "Oh, that smile, I could swoon," I gushed louder.
     Joe approached. "You and Chico need a little alone time?"
     "I'd have to stand in line, Dude," I joked and headed towards the front. Joe would pick up where I left off and torment Chris. Such were the pitfalls of being cute and working with bastards.
     A trio of otherwise competent coworkers became distracted lizz-bots when Chris worked. Angela and Sarah flirted shamelessly, dropping innuendo, adjusting their tops, bringing small gifts. If either drank too much caffeine they soared off the scale. Competition heightened the friendly rivalry. Female customers behaved likewise. Chris grinned and confirmed pulling girls had always been super easy. If he honored offers, he was discreet about it.
     The bonus hat trick was Payton. Book manager.
     Books were the latest stupefying business maneuver, courtesy of Blockbuster. We were a music store, not a book store. What were HQ penguins thinking? Trying to compete with national booksellers? Could they be any more obvious? Or half-hearted? The section was minuscule, eight rows of bestsellers. Four months on, over 90% of stores reported flat or negative profits.
     Our location, however, was one of the shining exceptions.
     Because of Payton.
     He hired on directly from Barnes & Noble, where he had been frustrated with their insane, chain of command, management hierarchy. Every store was layered with bureaucracy. Job satisfaction seemed a nonexistent fantasy.
     Still, Payton knew book retail. The Boss gave him free rein in the section. Payton arranged his own end-caps, tweaked the layout, constantly rotated stock. Helped also, that our book nook went in just after nearby Taylor's Books went out of business. For customers on our side of town, who didn't want to deal with cross city commute, we were perfect.
     Payton knew books, and he knew what he liked. He liked Chris. No one as good looking as Chris could possibly be straight.
     He suggested they go out for drinks, mentioned movie theaters, weekend parties. A new and exciting scene beckoned. Fun music! At our store, the type of "fun music" only I played, and got razzed for doing so. Girlpop and mindless dance.
     Chris became plastic duck in the shooting arcade. Ditzy store females chasing the love. Payton, offering the love. Joe, Stacey, me, a couple other guys, lobbing rocks.
     "So, you going clubbing tonight with Pay-Load?" Joe heckled.
     "Mmm, he buy you that cologne, darling boy?"
     Payton frequently referred to Chris as his darling boy.
     "Shut up, you don't even have a sense of smell."
     "Mmm, smells like ... Love."
     "If all them ladies find out about you and Pay-Load ... "
     Angela and Sarah already knew about Payton's fixation. Neither of them worried for a heartbeat. They thought it the funniest thing ever.
     Then ... the Psycho Gurls.
     Quick definition for this pair, large & in-charge. Not fat, but they'd never refused extra fries in their lives. Seventeen, maybe fourteen, hard to gauge what age they were. These nymphs were pushy and aggressive. They had no social check switch, and their behavior was completely out of control. Chris was their bigger than life play doll, whom they yanked off the rack and played medical exam.
     Psycho Gurls worked as a team. Cornered Chris in the back Budget corner. Grabbed, held, squeezed for a hug, a kiss, or something more saucy. He tried to slip away, they gripped his hand and slipped it to party town. Adolescent boys often nursed the nympho fantasy. Psycho Gurls were Nymphos from Hell. He fled once to the customer's restroom, where they all but broke the door down.
     In-store girls cooled their Chris flame, undoubtedly fearing the Psycho Gurls would noisily bite their heads off. Payton redirected his attention to Sonnorson, a sullen, brooding, new hire, and blew Chris the farewell kiss.
     Psycho Gurls never bought anything. Pat finally kicked them out of the store. Stacey kicked them out, then banned them. The Boss banned them, threatened to summon the police. No effect. They were insane, crazy, underage jail bait.
     One afternoon, they quit coming in. In fact, they never came in again.
     Space aliens must have teleported them away.
     Anyway, the store became quieter for a period. A handful of employees missed the Psycho Gurls. A few even placed crank phone calls to Chris impersonating the Psycho Gurls, but those employees weren't so nice.

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Customers: Part 14 - In Store‏ / Tejano All Stars

     Two months earlier, our store held a simulcast with KLTY, a leading Christian radio station. No groups, no performances, but foot traffic was steady. The radio announcers insistently encouraged guests to, "Take a look at those prices!"
     Visitors browsed Christian and Gospel, but they also guiltily trawled Rap and Rock, as well. Temptation, Devil's mischief. Most of those people were first timers, they normally bought music at specialized bookstores. I wondered how those bookstore owners and employees felt, knowing the radio station they'd supported for years now urged their clients to shop elsewhere.
     Probably how music stores felt after the local newspaper gushed loudly when that chain bookseller, with token music racks, opened their local branch.
     We enjoyed a spike in Christian pop sales, and margins increased, but we couldn't hold those people. Even if we were playing George Strait or Elvis Presley, they didn't like it. If we were playing Rock or Rap, they flinched like we'd offered sandwiches with tequila soaked jerky, marijuana leaves, and minced sheets from the good book.
     This came after a year of inactivity from Corporate marketing Einsteins. Christian radio was their first step towards re-launching in-store events.
     Next, big thinkers at Corporate cast their net towards another demographic.
     The Latin market.
     We were scheduled for a Tejano meet 'n greet. Six leading performers, including Ram Herrera, Mazz, Los Musicales, Shelly Lares, were coming to Camp Bowie.
     The front of the store was reconfigured, with tables flanking the front windows. The DC dropped five brick packs for each artist. Musicians were coming to autograph CD's, we would sell CD's. Corporate offered zero guidance, so The Boss told me to sale price the lot. Face it, we wanted to sell product. Bought a cooler, bags of ice, several cases of soft drinks and corn chips. Undoubtedly the same crap those poor bastards ate at every event, but again, we received no guidance. Scheduled extra help for that afternoon, hired four cops for three hours. Braced ourselves for the approaching mob.

     The vans failed to show as scheduled. Their jet arrived late. Or they'd gotten lost. Or they'd stopped for lunch. Or something else. Back in the day, it would have been the dog ate my gym shorts. Grade school excuses.

     Pat loaded Selena into the player, I added Maná. We cranked the volume and played that music until the Tejano All-Stars arrived.
     Stacey snaked the crowd into DVD's, through Soul, Rap,.Latin, out from Soundtracks, over to the other side of the store. The crowd was tremendous and more poured in. Within an hour the store was packed. The crowd was massive and impatient. Many had skipped work, others dragged the kids out of daycare. When the Tejano All-Stars finally arrived, everyone surged to the front. Order was lost.
     Mandy switched music to tunes from our guests, punched "spiral," and away we went.
     I had volunteered to man register backup. All those masses of folks wanting to buy CD's for autographs, don't you know. Sales were dismal. No, sales were nonexistent. Fans offered their own discs to autograph, old vinyl, napkins. Any flyers laying about were snatched up. A yellow legal pad disappeared. Girls rolled up their tops and asked for belly signatures. Or turned tail and offered cheeks. Point was, customers weren't buying. Registers were silent.
     Told my counter colleague to ring or holler if she needed backup. Then went to help Stacey, she was having a time.
     The crowd wasn't purchasing, and wasn't moving. Shelves were emptying, though. Sections were bare. No alarms had triggered, however. People had grabbed merchandise, studied pictures, set it down. Wherever. They were bored. Product was strewn on the floor, kicked under bins. DVD's looked like they had been swiped by Hurricane Claudette.
     Up front, massed against the tables, the scene packed dense. No one budged. Fans got their autographs, shook hands, told a singer how their life had altered because of that, "Baby, I love you, baby," chorus.
     Then they stood there, immobile. Or milled around ... waiting. For what? To join the band, get invited to the after party, get married.
     "Baby, I love you, baby."
     Didn't know, didn't care. Move out, guys.
     We tried to be polite at first. Asked guests to depart or step aside. Instead we got tossed the ignorance plea. "No sey ... No hablar Ingles ... No savvy, lo siento." So many, many individuals had arrived, asking if this was the place, where was the line, were there TV cameras? Now, tragedy struck, as once bi-lingual talkers forgot English nouns and verbs in the overwhelming excitement. Luckily for them, John was completely fluent, others of us knew a smattering of words, and none of us were sympathetic. Walking up with a uniformed policeman speeded departures.
     None of the musical dignitaries spoke with store employees or District reps. Worse, people in line grumbled that Shelly Lares wasn't Shelly Lares. She was a fake. The woman wore sunglasses and never removed them. Maybe she'd walked into a door. She also never spoke to a single fan. Signed the napkins or scratch paper without comment, without a smile.
     One by one, guest stars stood up, waved goodbye, strolled away with companions. None of the persistent groupies were invited to the after party.
     District honchos eagerly demanded a quick inventory. We had received thirty bricks of product. Thirty CD's per brick. 900 CD's.
     We'd sold 17.
     Nothing had been stolen. No one even wanted to steal the discs.
     That was our first ... and, as it turned out, last ... major in-store meet and greet during the Blockbuster era.

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Coworkers: Part 65 - Chicks With Whips‏

     "Hold still. I think you have something on your chest."
     Joe looked down. Now what? Food spill? Or a bug. What if it was a spider? Not the Brown Recluse Spider!
     Sarah reached out to brush something away. Then she grabbed his nipple, squeezed hard and twisted it cruelly.
     "Oww! What the hell are you doing?" he yelled.
     Joe tried to back away, but bumped into the wall of customer listening CD units.
     Sarah struck a second time for the unprotected nipple. Same maneuver. Grip and rip.
     "Oww! Damn, stop!"
     "Ha ha ha," she laughed, then walked off.
     I wasn't sure how Joe merited such punishment, but I suspected it was deserved. Coworkers treated each other shamelessly. Responses were often physical and painful.
     Especially from the girls against the guys.

     Greg was one of the most agreeable of individuals. So how come, after he endured an agonizing operation, Trina and Amster decided to prop him up for a little photo? Greg, his face all bandages and blood, stretched unconscious under white sheets. Nearby, in their sweetest bedside, nursie manner, Trina and Amster grinned away. Had they thought of it, they would have waved baseball bats and tire irons.
     The picture was quickly reproduced and stapled inside the store.

     Guy got hired. Named Marco or Omar. Only child. The chosen, special son. Completely dismissive and discourteous to the females. If customers asked a question, he interrupted and shanghaied the client. Once he even commented, "Oh, she won't know. She's only a woman." No merit badge for him.
     Marco's cash drawer was often a trifle off. Dollar here, dollar there.
     Anyway, he finally pissed off Diana. The Skinny Witch.
     Behind that sweet face and innocent looking smile, lurked a crafty individual. Diana set a trap.
     She counted out Marco's drawer in front of The Boss and John. The drawer was $10.00 over.
     Marco came into the Money Room, counted down the cash till. Not a peep.
     Four hours later, change of shift, Marco recounted his drawer, which was even steven.
     The extra $10.00 had vanished.
     Ten minutes later, Marco's name had vanished from the schedule.

     It was dangerous for guys to play jokes on the females. Sexual harassment could be misconstrued so easily. Still, some couldn't care less.
     Julie used to smoke cigarettes during bathroom breaks. Probably against the law. No one paid attention. Hell, no one noticed. Except Rob.
     One afternoon he stuffed a tiny dynamite stick, like you find at joke stores, into one of her smokes. Replaced it back in the pack. Every time she visited the bathroom, he followed like a stalker.
     Busy Friday night, running around like mad answering bells, complaining customers, the usual. Julie ran into the back, headed toward the bathroom. Rob waited and actually heard the loud pop, followed by a louder, "FUCK!"
     Julie burst out of the bathroom near tears. Rob had tears too but his were from laughing. Julie laughed her ass off, and swore she would get even with Rob, but I don't think she ever did. Someone else would, however.

     Larra suspected Rob of cheating on her. To retaliate, she asked a friend to phone the store, pretending to be a representative from the County Health Department. The voice contacted Rob, then warned him that his girlfriend had recently been blood tested. The results were HIV positive. County Health, by law, had to contact all suspected partners, and urge them to have blood work done as soon a possible. Time, what little remained of it, was of the essence.
     Rob completely freaked out.

     Dan teased Tawnya whenever he could. Trying to get her to unload her private life. Tawnya had already shared her history one time too many with profound consequences. She was wary of Dan's earnest wheedling. After awhile, she simply smacked him anytime he attempted to probe.
     At first, these were moderate punches to his arm. Dan persisted. Thereafter, she hammered him in his stomach. When he doubled over in pain, Tawnya advised him to quit being such a pussy.
     After several more strikes, Dan ceased his needling questions.

    Much of the in-store signage hung from the ceiling. The larger ones, like banners and huge posters, were too heavy for fishing line. Straight metal rods carried the weight from joist to drop. Rods were three to four feet long, quarter inch in diameter.
     These were one of Stacey's favorite weapons.
     Stacey had no qualms about reducing guys to tears.
     Jesse was a good, part time employee. Showed up on time, never dumped any crap. Solid. Talked too much for Stacey's inclination, however. Shucking and jiving bravado to front his eighteen years.
     Jesse leaned across the Listening Center counter, boasting about his big plans, his great future, his balls. That afternoon, wearing khaki cargo shorts.
     Stacey walked by. In less than a second, the rod whisked across the air, smacked him against his legs.
     No reason. Jesse hadn't done anything.

     Just ... cuz.

     "Hey, Joe!" Sarah still approached Joe, and still tried to nail him unawares.
     Most of the time, however, Joe adopted the coffin corpse defense. Crossed him arms, hands on opposite shoulders, protecting his tortured chest.
     Not always.
     "Oww!"

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Coworkers: Part 66 - Cracker Diplomacy‏

     There were fewer and fewer Country experts working the store. Kristi was the last, hard core aficionado, but she had left for the greener financial pastures of the brokerage world. Pat was more than qualified with mainstream, Top 20 hits, and her favorite artists. Sharon emerged as the dark horse. Without question, she was the sharpest with R'nB, but that cowboy expertise came as a surprise.
     Trouble was, many Country types were middle of the road types, both in listening habits and personalities. Sharon was an unpredictable firecracker.

     The woman had come in requesting some Gar Brook tune. The song in question was by Brooks & Dunn, climbing the charts.
     Sharon ought to have known better. She was attempting to assist the customer and educate. Big mistake.
     "Listen! I know this song," Sharon told her. "Radio was playing it when I drove to work."
     "I looked through all the Gar Brook CD's and don't find it."
     "That's because it was Brooks & Dunn. And the other singer's name is Garth Brooks, not Gar."
     "No, it's really Gar. He was named after a pond catfish," the woman corrected her. "Everybody knows that."
     Sharon doubled over laughing. "What? You're saying his real name is Gar Pond."
     "I read that in the grocery checkout lane."
     "Stick with the National Enquirer, not those copycat rags. You'll get ink all over your clothes."
     "Gar changed his last name from Pond cause some lawsuit. But Brook is close enough to Pond. They both mean running water."
     "A pond is still. A brook flows."
     "Doo what?"
     "Look," Sharon held out the Brooks & Dunn disc, "this is the song you requested. Here. See?"
     "I want the Gar Brook version."
     The woman was late 30's. Wore bright green stretch pants, which were stuffed to maximum, and a billowy peach blouse, sized for a baby elephant. She looked like a waffle cone, pinched on the bottom, overflowing at the top.
     Just then, two of the woman's children rushed up. She entered with three kids who had charged all through the store, screaming and fighting. This was a school day. When that mother made it to check out, I planned to ask why none of them were in school. I already had a good idea.
     Besides, Sharon beat me to it.
     "These your kids? Why aren't they in school?"
     "They are in school. We home school. I'm their teacher."
     "But ... this is the middle of the day," Sharon spoke the obvious.
     "Oh ... uh ... outing. This is a field trip."
     "An outing to buy some music?"
     "Yeah, Gar Brook."
     "I'm trying to help you. You don't even know what you want."
     "I know what I want. I ain't no ignorantus like you. Why my kids are home schooled and gonna grow up right."
     Sharon stared at her.
     "And if I wanted help from a piece of trash," the woman continued, "I'd pick through the sewer dumpster."
     The argument had grown loud. Mandy and Stacey looked up from the Listening Center. The Boss hurried to defuse the situation.
     Too late.
     "Screw you, lady." Sharon walked off.
     I think she said "screw". Could have been another word, often used to describe a similar activity.
     The woman went wild. Stamped up and down, twirled like a noisy top. Wanted us to phone the police. She would call the landlord, Action News At 6:00, her Congressman. She threatened to contact District.
     That last one seemed the most serious. Most of the store did not think she would follow through. She wouldn't phone, and she sure as hell wouldn't write a letter, no matter how stellar her teaching qualifications. I mean, surely home school teachers had to get the same degrees and credentials as ordinary teachers.
     The Boss, anticipating the worst, blundered.
     He phoned the District Manager with a preemptive call. Tried to explain the situation. The DM was even more concerned, and co-opted the decision.
     Sharon was released.
     The furious customer, by the way, never bought Brooks & Dunn, Garth Brooks, or Gar Brook. Never bought anything. Never wrote that letter, either.
     Sharon's dismissal turned into probation. Six months later, she was rehired.
     Still our Country expert.

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Coworkers: Part 67 - Receipt Rolls

     Receipt rolls, not dinner rolls.
     Actually they were empty spools, and I was treating them like Christmas ornaments.
     This was a prank months in the making. Object? The Professor.
     Started back when Chris still worked.

     "I've just been totally, totally grossed out!" Chris groaned.
     "Pack your own lunch again?"
     "What? No! It's The Professor."
     "Told you, Dude. Always knock on that bathroom door instead of waltzing in. He never locks."
     "What!"
     "Catch him with his pants down? Was he cursing or chanting?"
     "You are beyond ill."
     "In other words, are we talking Vesuvius or Mt. Kraka -- "
     "Stop!" Chris interrupted me. "This just happened at the Listening Center."
     "Oh. Why didn't you tell me?" I asked, innocently.
     "Because you distracted me. Anyway, I was helping this girl back in Soul. Shoulder length brown hair."
     "Did The Professor just happen to be in the area? Asked if she needed help?"
     "I was standing right there!" Chris exclaimed.
     "Ha ha ha," I laughed.
     "We chased him off. But he still kept hovering. All the way to the register."
     "I remember her. Yellow dress."
     "Name was Summer. Gave me her number."  Chris waved a slip of paper. "Anyway, The Professor waits by the door. Then he leans all the way over, so when she steps in her car, he's looking straight up her dress."
     "What? That's fucked up. What is he? Junior fucking high? What a dick. Did she catch him?"
     "No, but I did, and I chewed him out."
     "Damn straight."
     After that, The Professor became fair game for anything.

     If insane street people entered, we pointed out The Professor. Suggested they ask about free cigarettes. When he lunched, someone slipped in a Tele-Tubbies soundtrack into his classical mix. Stacey found the CD remote for the Classical Room and changed tracks or halted the player midway. The Professor went nuts.
     One afternoon Joe came in to visit his mother, Pat. He had worked at Camp Bowie a few years earlier, now worked at Hulen as Assistant. The Professor had never met him. We whispered with Joe, who shifted his baseball cap sideways, then began shopping the store, ducking down and swiveling his neck like a furtive shoplifter. The Professor instantly recognized the Latino bandito. His brain flamed. He tracked him all over the floor, gathering damning evidence. Finally, he urged us to summon the police, but then Joe walked out.
     Here and there, employees left small stacks of pennies. The Professor always found them, especially if we left them on the Classical counter.
     "These are messages! Gang members are leaving coded messages with these pennies. Something's going on!"
     I had been collecting receipt rolls for months. There was no reason. This was just me. I was weird. Anytime a roll ran dry, I pitched the plastic spool into a file cabinet. After awhile, other employees did likewise. They figured I was up to something.
     It was The Professor's day off. I took fishing line and boxes of those spools into the Classical Room. There were hundreds. I began making strings, like Christmas popcorn decorations. Placed them on the fake trees. Draped them off the counter. Hung them from the ceiling, the walls, endcaps. The room was covered and looked completely ridiculous.
     Next day, The Professor came in and had a complete fit.
     "Who put these up here? Why are they up here?"
     Everyone was on page.
     "Dunno, man. Some corporate people did that," I shrugged.
     "Oh my God! Someone from District was here?" he asked, terrified.
     "Yeah, it's a promotion of some sort," John answered, straight faced.
     "All Classical managers got some memo," I added.
     "Did you lose yours?" Stacey asked. "Do you want us to phone another store and ask them for the instructions."
     The Professor would never, ever, phone another "classical expert" for any reason. We knew that.
     And so the plastic spools stayed up there.
     Day after day. Week after week.
     Customers strolled in, beheld the lunacy, eyed The Professor, and made the logical connection.
     Danger - Crazy Man Alert.
     After a month or so, The Boss ordered us to take them down.

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Coworkers: Part 68 - Payback Time

     Saturday morning, the store had opened two hours earlier. The Ticketmaster computer had malfunctioned and I tried to reboot without phoning their helpline for (non)support. Chris knelt across the floor, removing expired items from the HOLD box.
     "See those two guys?" Sonnorson walked up. " I ordered them to leave. Started asking me questions in Spanish. I don't have time for that shit," he sneered. Sonnorson was as dangerous as warm beer.
     "Dude, they probably wanted to know where the Tejano section was. Send them to me. I can mangle Spanish."
     "Screw 'em, they were just a pair of wetbacks. They never have any money." He grimaced.
     "What did you say?"
     "I know, there's Mexicans and there's wetbacks, not that there's any difference."
     I stood there, speechless.
     "Oh, sorry, man," Sonnorson shifted behind the counter and noticed Chris, "nothing personal."
     "What is the fucking matter with you?"
     "I can't believe you just said that!" Chris was upset. He was stunned, so was I.
     Sonnorson jutted his chin out. "Look, I said I was sorry," he frowned, then sauntered away.
     "Did you -- I still can't -- I mean, I'm really -- " Chris struggled for words.
     "Fuck that. Watch the front."
     I trailed Sonnorson, walked right past him at the Listening Center, walked into the Back Office.
     I was a cold person, disconnected, and I handled problems quietly. This instance, however, demanded a personality with a hotter temper. The Boss. I completely ratted out Sonnorson. As predicted, The Boss dropped everything and charged out of the Office. Sonnorson confessed and apologized ... again. He made it clear, however, the incident was no big deal, which propelled The Boss towards Jupiter.
     The Boss wrote him up on the spot. One strike. I co-signed.
     I should have felt satisfied. I wasn't.
     Confession: I lived in the Mexican section of town, the barrio, my favorite neighborhood in the city. I liked Chris. I had known him since he was ten. That didn't stop me from tormenting him, but I badgered most people.
     Sonnorson ... I did not like. He was a strutting bully with a chip on his shoulder. He was vain, boastful, angry. How on earth had he passed Blockbuster's acclaimed psych test? His agreeability quotient was zilch. He was sullen, forever convinced he'd been cheated. Cheated of what? I didn't know. Life's free prize.
     Following the reprimand he swerved out of his way to suck up nicely to everyone. That was worse. Even a simple compliment was delivered as if he was choking out vomit. Towards the girls, his behavior plummeted.
     Sonnorson fired up the old redneck charm. Heather and Sarah were prime targets. He deployed the whining, pleading, begging technique for requesting dates. Wonder how many females out there rated that method as favorite?
     Sarah went out with him once, and hated herself afterward. Explained she felt sorry for him, until he spent most of the evening slamming old girlfriends, jilted dates, and slag bunnies in general. Sonnorson had sour notions about females. He lived alone with Mom.
     He enjoyed better success with Heather, who partied with Sonnorson for two weeks and drank herself into a fencepost every time. She never commented; if asked, she shook her head like she'd seen a cockroach colony. He never repeated details, either. Nothing happened, or something disappointing.
     After he struck out with the few store hotties inclined to pity him, he attempted customers. Failed. Female clients entered pre-dowsed with boutique pest spray, Sonnorson Repellent. Still, there remained the great salvation for the discontented, the broken hearted, the rejected.
     The Internet.
     Sonnorson began corresponding with a California model. Who starred in motion pictures. He showed us photos.
     "Looks like Miss Novem-Ber," Joe said knowingly.
     Barely clad centerfold from a gentleman's monthly. Sonnorson had not scored a model. The image was bogus. In reality, she could have been a chubby, overweight MALE convict with a skin rash. Nobody gave Sonnorson their second opinion, or warned him. Three months on, he and his love starved pickle drove west. Destination, Southern California. The Valley.
     "Didn't you used to live in Los Angeles, Worth Dogg?" someone asked.
     "Yes ... million years ago. Only one type of movies filmed in the Valley now. San Fernando Valley, porn capitol USA."
     "Huh. So Sonar-Conn might be doggy riding in triple X."
     "Maybe. Straight, gay, bi. You takes your drugs and assumes your positions."
     Three weeks later, Sonnorson returned to work. Frowning.
     Miss November was not a model, was not an actress. Instead, he found a flabby 30 something single mother with two "dumb-as-chicken-nuggets" kids. The kids had different dads, too.
     "She just really wasn't my type," he scowled. "I'd been bait and switched."
     "What kind of switch did you get, Sonar-Conn?"
     "Well, I was there. I drove all that way, after all. And one ham sandwich looks the same as another."
     He uttered that classic line in front of one of the girls who dropped her jaw. I told myself to remember that winner.
     "So, yeah, I stayed a week. Slept in my car in her driveway. Kids went to school, fire in the hole."
     Sonnorson came back because he ran out of money. Otherwise, he and Miss Ham Sandwich ...

     When he returned, he went back to flaming out with unappreciative women-folk. Then struck up an unlikely friendship with Payton, the book manager. This was strange because Payton was gay, liberal, and intelligent. Sonnorson, on the other hand ...
     Anyway, Sonnorson started going to clubs with Payton. Gay clubs. Sonnorson was completely unaware or innocent. Didn't grasp that the clubs were 100% male, or wonder why all the males danced shirtless. He danced shirtless, too. Brought us photos. Unlike the shots of Miss November, we could easily recognize Sonnorson and Payton, shaking their booties.
     I confronted Payton once, asked him what he was thinking.
     "Oh," he sighed, "this is harmless. This isn't going anywhere. Don't give me a hard time, please."
     Payton was alright in my book. With everyone. We accommodated him.

     The Boss apparently suffered a mental breakdown. What else would explain why he promoted Sonnorson into a manager vacancy?
     Unless it was a trap. The Boss could be pretty damn devious sometimes. And newly elevated managers with keys were classic shrink suspects.
     Sonnorson got busted within two weeks. Everyone kept their eye on him, but Joe and Chris nailed the evidence on camera.
     There was a prolonged, agonizing back room discussion with The Boss and Stacey, as Sonnorson wove a confused explanation of his mother, a life or death medical operation, gangsters, insurance agents, blackmail, the CIA.
     Tangled nonsense.
     Turned in his keys, left under stormy circumstances.
     Never saw him again.
     Likewise for Chris. Soon thereafter he enlisted in the Army. Said he wanted to get on with his life. Quit drifting aimlessly.
     Of course, I always suspected payback on Sonnorson made the exit sweeter.

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