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!"

.

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.

.

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.

.

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.

.

Customers: Part 15 - Babushka‏

     "You Dachshund eater!"
     I looked over at the exit door and bowed my head slightly.
     "Nazi lover," she spat out angrily.
     "Thank you," I replied with a smile.
     "Jew lover."
     I disregarded the slight contradiction between being called a Nazi lover and a Jew lover.
     The customer, an elderly woman in a heavy black skirt, dark sweater, and floral shawl, was completely batty.
     I had helped this old bird for years. For awhile, I thought I had successfully off loaded her to The Professor. No chance. One, she bought cassettes, which he was even more dismissive of than I. Two, The Professor's attempts to educate her on composers or conductors never leached into her brain since her hearing aid was always switched to low volume. When customers wouldn't make the step to pupils, he became scornful. Three, she was off her rocker. Ooh, I already mentioned that.
     The woman looked ninety, was more likely in her seventies. Gray and white hair knotted in a tight bun. Stereotyped Babushka. No cane, no glasses. Just layers of clothing even though it was 80 outside. Always bought Classical, budget cassettes, basic repertoire. Beethoven, Chopin, Tchaikovsky. If we spoke, the conversation was minimal. Grandchildren, the weather, bus schedules, whatever floated to the surface in that rattling brain of hers.
     I could be patient with Babushka, I would undoubtedly wind up like her. I didn't care for most senior citizens. Most were sorry survivors of poor planning. Improper diet, budget mismanagement, dreadful choices. The opportunity of a lifetime, squandered. There were glorious exceptions, but most of humanity mucked about until expiration time. We had no clue what our purpose was. We flailed in darkness.
     Babushka had bought a Brahms Piano Concerto and a Rachmaninoff Symphony. I gave her the 3 for $5.00 price, even though she only bought two tapes. The store could swallow a 50¢ loss and this might dodge any potential arguments. The concept of buying three to achieve a discount was beyond many people. I rang her up, gave her her change, her bag.
     And she stood there.
     Mind frying away.
     Another quality moment brought to you by the Alzheimer's League. No telling, either, what her pharmaceutical dosage was. Better living through chemistry was the old slogan. When my generation shuffles out of nursing homes, unfortunate observers will dismiss most of us as suffering LSD flashbacks, or spilling bong water on ourselves again. I ignored Babushka and continued receiving New Releases for tomorrow.
     That deadline loomed and I didn't know if either Kristi or Matt would show up for their shift. The week previous, he had asked her out, she agreed, then stood him up. The woman's prerogative, magnified in blondes. Now they weren't playing nice. I worked to ram as much product into the database while I manned front register. Odds were high that Kristi or Matt or both would phone in "sick" and the store would be short handed for the afternoon.
     Don't date coworkers.
     "What did you say to me?"
     "Pardon?" I looked up. Babushka stood just past the counter, teeth clenched, glaring at me.
     "I heard you," she snapped. "You said I ought to be sale priced!"
     "No, no, no," I gestured in the air. "I have fifty CD's of this title coming out tomorrow. It's not sale priced and it should be. I was talking to myself, not you. Can I help you with anything?"
     "I'm not some fifty cent piece!"
     Shit. Granny imploded at the exit door. Confused and furious.
     "You're a Jew hater, you are!"
     Hell, that could so easily be misinterpreted.
     "Ma'am ... "
     "You Dachshund eater!"
     I looked over at the exit door and bowed my head slightly.
     "Nazi lover," she spat out angrily.
     "Thank you," I replied with a smile.
     "Jew lover."
     I disregarded the slight contradiction between being called a Nazi lover and a Jew lover.
     "Thank you," I answered loudly, and tossed the Queen's wave.
     John walked past, then slowed to a crawl to more appreciate the merriment of a bonkers old lady giving me an ass kicking.
     "German Jew Nazi dog eater!"
     "Thank you!" I echoed with my fake disc jockey voice I answered the phone with. John moved to the far counter and trembled with suppressed laughter.
     "Burning dogs and fifty cents and camps and whores ... and ... and ... "
     "Thank you!"
     Babushka stood silently for a minute or two. Staring outside, fixing me with the evil eye, gazing around the store. Wild fury spent. She was still angry, but she had forgotten what she was upset over.
     Shoot me now, before I get old.
     Seconds later, her brain successfully sent a message to her feet and she tottered out the door.
     "What was that all about?" John asked, wiping tears from his eyes.
     "Oh, she was trying to get a threesome going with The Professor and me. I declined."
     Shouldn't have said that. John went into convulsions.

.

Coworkers: Part 69 - Recker

     Recker floated into the store after 2:00. He looked a mess. I acknowledged him with a basic, "Recker."
     Recker worked day shift - - as in mornings. Time was 2:17 PM.
     "Don't talk to me, man! I gotta concentrate."
     With that, he tried repeatedly to clock in. For any other employee, this would have been second nature, especially since his name and password were identical.
     R-E-C-K-E-R.
     Still, no one else was on Recker's level.
     The stratosphere.
     Eventually, he figured out how to spell his name twice in a row, and moseyed to the back, arms swinging limply at his sides.
     The daily schedule was posted up front, but for whatever reason, Recker decided to check the one in the back.
     Where The Boss was working.
     "Hey, man, sorry I'm a couple of minutes late ... "
     "Go home, Recker."
     "Aww, man, it's only a couple of minutes -- "
     "One, it's five hours, Recker. And two, it's your day off."
     Wasn't the first time Recker had tottered into work on his day off.
     His physical appearance was the pits. Refugee from a fire in a rainforest. Clothes damp and rumpled, like he'd mowed the lawn with the sprinkler going. Face covered in soot. Spring cleaning? Chimney sweeping?
     After he clocked back out I asked him.
     "Dude, what's with the look? You toasting marshmallows on the coffee table again?"
     "What?" he rubbed his face, looked at his filthy hands, "Aww, man ... "
     Disappeared into the bathroom for about twenty minutes. Doubtless shooting the breeze with that stranger across the sink, in that shiny, square looking glass.
     Recker, the complete pothead. Later ...
     "So, like, I got some really killer weed, man. And there was this - - no, like I couldn't - - Someone stole my pipe, man."

     Recker owned 237 pipes, bongs, hookahs. Except, if they weren't sitting clearly on the table beside the sofa, they were considered stolen. Usually, they'd be piled on the floor, strewn on the kitchen table, in the refrigerator, scattered beside the bed, in the bathtub, next to the telephone, in his car. Or buried in the sofa, under his backside, while he looked at the empty table, muttering, "Aww, man."
     "I was at this party once, you know? And Belinda tossed the pipes in the pool, so we couldn't use them cause they were wet. But Donny made a pipe out of an empty paper towel tube. Which worked great, man. We got so fucked up."
     I listened patiently. I used to be Recker.
     "I didn't have any paper towels, so ... I got this killer weed, you know? Oh, toilet paper! I didn't have an empty roll, see? And it took me a long time to figure out where to store the paper when I pulled it off the roll. Have I told you this before? So, I put it - - and it was a full roll, man ... "
     Recker droned on. He'd wasted twenty minutes in the bathroom, he still looked like sirloin, charred. Stacey walked from the customer's bathroom, spread her arms wide, and shot me the W-T-F look. I could only imagine the state he left the room in.
     " ... anyway, I put some grass in the cardboard tube."
     "What about foil?"
     "Huh?"
     "Foil, Dude. Otherwise the tube will burn." I made a quick sketch. "You got your tube, see. Cut a hole near the end. Wrap the tube in aluminum foil, make a depression where the cut is, pack the reefer in there. Fire up."
     Once a stoner, always a stoner.
      Recker's eyes were red, watery, and glassy. I might have been explaining rocket science.
     "I filled the tube, OK? Not too heavy, you know, cause I wanted it to catch. Next, the whole fucking tube is in flames! I was by the faucet, only I didn't want to ruin the weed - - this was bad ass shit, man - - by getting water, so I huffed it hard, smoke and all."
     Maybe I was never that stoned.
     "Smoke detector went off - - After I got the - - Killed my ears - - I decided - - Ceiling fan, you know? - - Walked to Fantasy Imports to buy a new pipe. But - - then I remembered it was time to come to work, you know? The store's only a block away. So here I am. Except the day was wrong. Not my fault, man."
     "Tomorrow morning, Hoss," I pointed to the schedule. "9:00 AM. You, me, Mandy."
     I knew, absolutely knew, tomorrow would only be Mandy and me. 

*
     Recker showed up five days later. Tuesday. He'd completely blown the weekend.
     The Boss was ... it was not a happy place.
     "Hey, man, so you got my check, man?"
     "Today's Tuesday, not Friday, Recker."
     "Really? No! So no paycheck? C'mon, m -- "
     "Where were you all weekend?" The Boss demanded.
     "Was this that Daylight Savings Thing going on?"
     The Boss's eyes disappeared into his head, "Are you telling me, you missed an entire weekend because you forgot to change your clock? Is that the best excuse you have?"
     "Man, I don't even have a clock," he started chuckling.
     "Recker ... you're fired."
     "Aww, man, can't we talk this over? Let's be reasonable, alright?"
     "Goodbye, Recker."
     With that final exchange, Recker, the heaviest stoner I ever attempted to work with, was history.

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Coworkers: Part 70 - Revamping The Layout

     The Boss and Stacey quarreled and bickered like an old married couple. For the hundredth time, they were altering the store floor plan. Joe alone tossed in his two cents worth of advice. Other employees interfered at their own peril.
     Blockbuster's original design was but dimly remembered, it had been modified so many times. Visiting Overlords or new District Managers commented or sputtered helplessly. Those neat rows of aisles breathed ordered elegance. They were also exploited by thieves for maximum concealment. Unless staff patrolled constantly, shady characters tucked themselves away in the far corner and determinedly massaged security keepers.
     There had been a Manager's Booth in the Sound Warehouse era, two feet off the Floor and centrally located. CD bins were also lower. Lines of sight were straight and clear. Even from the front door registers, a cashier could scan across the store, into Cassettes, into Video. Now, there was the Classical Room, with its outer walls. Moreover, new CD bins were easily a foot higher. With header cards, some of the bins were over five feet tall. Too tall.
     Shoving CD bins so that more lanes could be viewed from the Listening Center was a huge undertaking. Bins had to be emptied into shopping carts. After racks were shoved into the new layout, a new problem was often revealed. Reset. Employees got dirty, tired, and grumpy, especially The Boss. Invariably, whenever we rearranged, one customer would demand a title buried deep in a cart. If they approached Mandy or Sharon, arguments arose.
     The Professor was a big man, who steadfastly shirked grunt work. He was much too important for physical labor. Besides, Ludwig never busted rocks, Johann never cut toothpicks from logs.
     Winston was the largest male, but lately he was rolling in pain. Throbbing cavities. An object lesson in improper oral hygiene.
     New hire, Tarryton, had been drafted into duty. He was funny, a nonstop motormouth. Yet working with him, one felt trapped in Hell's audition chamber while he rehearsed some stand-up comedy routine.
     "If I rip my groin, it'll be a hernia. Shouldn't it be a himea?
     "Ever notice one group is The Rolling Stones, the other is not The Yes's.
     "For my girlfriend, that time of the month is always four weeks long.
     "I dub this bin - - a has bin.
     "How have you bin, by the way?
     "If we shift this one more time, I'm gonna seek a sex change.
     "Oops. Just put the axe and the dent into accident.
     "Last time I bent over like this, my doctor showed me Mister Hand."
     There were like 147 more. Hell ... 447 more. All lame. We really tried to tune the guy out. During lunch, Tarryton drained two cups of coffee. Verbiage worsened. Winston, clamping his jaw, threatened to hurl him off the back door lift.
     "Lift? Lift yourself up, neighbor. Neigh and boar, reminds me of that horse pig stag film I watched in the Dew Drop Inn."
     Even The Boss wearied and advised he'd heard enough already.
     "Enough already? That's my girlfriend's favorite line. Not two hours later, but the minute I take off a sock.
     "How about we sock it to this bin?
     "Knuckle down, Bin-Sockie, knuckle down.
     "Sorry, that's bin a long time comin'."
     Tarryton was still new. We could kill him and tell the police he never showed up for work. Tarryton? Never heard of him.
     End of the day, Rap, Soul, and Country pointed directly into the Listening Center.
     Twenty empty keepers were found in the Classical Room the next morning.

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