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."
"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.
.
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