The Animal Control officer was leaning against the passenger door of his truck. I tossed a cigarette at his chest and he caught it and flipped it into his mouth. I lit mine then leaned over to light his. He puffed on it for second.
"Damnedest thing I evah seen," he said in a hayseed drawl. "Been chasin that fucker around Cheesman park the last couple days. Son a' bitch et up a little terrier yesterday. When I got there, the little fucker had his guts spread over a couple squar' yards. The owner was this dandy little fella, all he could do to keep from cryin in fronta me."
I squinted at the animal control officer. His name badge said C. Mayhew. I imagined his first name was Cleetus. He looked like a Cleetus. All elbows and knees, dirt under the fingernails, pure corn-fed inbred. He had a skinny blonde cop mustache and dirty blonde hair. His eyes were set pretty close together, but he wasn't really an ugly man, you could just tell that at some point his family tree didn't have very many branches.
"It's hard to lose a pup, I guess I don't blame him," he continued. "But his dog had no ways defendin himself 'ginst that fucker over there." He gestured towards the now dead rotweiler. "Yer friend's some kinda guy, goin up against a full grown rotty like that. Sher wish we coulda got to him before he got all tore up like that." I nodded gravely. "I figur' he must a been hidin out back here where all them dumpsters were, eating on all the shit you guys been throwin out. I've been tryin to chase that mutt around like ah said for two, three days now, mmmhmmm. That fucker coulda bit the top of your friend's head clean off. If he got his neck, he coulda crushed the windpipe, your friend'd be a dead fucker."
"I wouldn't have let that happen, man," I mumbled. Cleetus snorted and spit. "Huh? You think you'd ah changed that rotty's mind huh?" He was looking me up and down. "Your friend got lucky."
"It's just a fucking dog, man. Why do you think we're on the top of the evolutionary ladder, top of the food chain?"
"What the hell you talkin 'bout?"
"I'm saying humans can kill dogs fairly easily, if that weren't the case the world would be ruled by dogs rather than people because they're physically and mentally superior to us humans."
Cleetus took a huge drag of the cigarette and blew it out of his nose. He was eyeballing me suspiciously as if I knew of a secret superior race of dogmen that were planning to take over the world.
There was quite a crowd gathered in back of the old King Soopers. Cleetus and I turned to survey the people simultaneously, somewhat wordlessly agreeing that our conversation had lapsed into an uncomfortable silence of sorts.
There was a full on fire crew, two squad cars, an ambulance and Cleetus' animal control vehicle along with half the staff of the grocery store and a couple of passerbys that were circling about in the dock area. Dean was talking to the officers at one squad car and started walking over towards us.
"Are you Carl?" Dean asked.
Cleetus said, "Yep."
So his name was Carl. "What are we going to do about the body," Dean was obviously grossed out.
"What do I look like?! Does this look like a rendering truck to you?!" Cleetus seemed offended. I was wondering what a rendering truck was.
"Well, your not just going to leave it here?!" Dean was wincing.
"Keep your britches on, porky. We gotta special truck for that. We gotta go test the fucker for rabies and such."
"Dean..." I said.
"Well do you think that you could maybe move it out of sight or something?"
"Helllll no. I gotta wait for the cops to take pictures, there's a whole procedure, sir."
"Dean, I'm taking the rest of the day off." Dean turned and focused on me.
"Christ. That means I'll only have Mona in the deli."
"She'll be fine." I walked off, nodding at Cleetus.
"Later on, Carl," I said and strolled over to the ambulance, flicking my cig to the ground. Dade was sitting just inside the doors. Most of his head was bandaged up already. "How are you doing killer?" He smiled through the bandages.
"Better since they started me on a little morphine drip. You know, you're not really an asshole."
"Yes, I am."
"No really. You're okay with me, buddy." He started laughing, "I'll never forget that you were first on the scene as a top rate cheering section. You know, they say I'm gonna need some pretty extensive plastic surgery.
"Chicks dig scars."
"Workman's comp is gonna be sweet. Hey..." He handed me a slip of paper. "Call my aunt and tell her what happened, and tell her to pick up Chloe at 3:45, she's exciteable, tell her I'm fine."
"Sure thing. I'll visit tomorrow."
"No, don't bother."
"Fuck off."
"Okay, so don't forget, okay?" He rearranged a bandage to get a better look at me. I grabbed his hand, the good one, and looked at him seriously and nodded.
I hopped out of the ambulance and walked over to Jamie who was smoking a cigarette next to the dead rotweiler. She was looking at it with some morbid curiosity. I stood there for quite awhile studying her studying the bloody corpse of the dog. I remember thinking how surreal and horrifically beautiful the whole scene was.
"I didn't know you were in a band," I said. She was still staring at the dog.
"How did this happen? I mean, poor Dade. What was that thing doing back here?"
"The Animal Control guy said it was a stray that had been running around this area for a couple of days. It tore up another dog yesterday." She looked at me with wide eyes. "Cleetus over there thought it had been eating out of this dumpster when Dade surprised it and, well, the rest is history. What's your band's name? Cat Power?"
"Kitty Mistress," she said dismissively and turned her eyes toward the bloody heap on the ground. "Look," she whispered. "It has it's tags still. I wonder what type of person would own such a dog." She nudged the dog with her foot, and recoiled slightly as if it were still alive. An officer from across the alley yelled something unintelligeble about a crime scene and returned to his conversation with two other officers. Just then Jaime grabbed me sharply by the shoulders. Our height difference made it look almost like she was going to kiss me. My heart fluttered. Instead she spun me around and placed me directly in front of the officers' view of her and she quickly bent down and started to take the dog's collar off.
"What the hell are you doing..." I was unamused.
"I want to know who the people were who owned this mongrel, now shut up and look natural," she whispered.
"Jaime.." But she was already done, she had tucked the collar into the front of her apron. She smiled at me. It was the smile of a little girl who had a secret. It was quite arousing. She pulled me close to her and whispered in my ear. "You have to tell me what happened back here, I'm dying to know."
I liked this intimate posture that we had taken. I grabbed her waist and cupped her the side of her face and whispered into her ear, "I'm going home."
"Ohhh no."
"What about drinks tonight?" I asked. She purred into my ear and laughed a little. Tiny prickles all over my body. "We can discuss that little clue you found."
"Pick me up at 6:30, okay?" With that, she spun around and walked towards the dock doors all pony tail and ass shake."
"Where?" I called after her.
"Here." She said simply. I then proceeded to slow time down as she walked away. It's too bad I didn't remember to do it while were in that psuedo embrace, but that'sthe way it is. You forget to pull the trigger sometimes. It would seem, however, that pulling the trigger with Jaime was in the mail, postmarked for her bedroom in the very near future. I couldn't believe my luck today.
I had a boner. A big boner.
My mind was racing, planning the next four or five hours until our next meeting. I still had to call Dade's aunt, maybe jerk off a few times. (Just in case. Heh. Heh. Heh.) Yeah, today was looking up. I might be spending the night without that damn hole in my chest, without that hollow longing for something, anything....
Friday, August 28, 2009
Tuesday, August 25, 2009
Chapter 4 "Face Tearing Incident"
Deli sandwich here, a little slicer action over there. Roast beef, lemon pepper turkey, ham, turkey ham, bologna, olive loaf and all the wonderful meat that somehow still leaves a distinctive odor on my hands despite the little plastic gloves. I wonder what Jaime's hands smell like when she gets off work.
I had some polite conversation with my co-workers. The two I had working with me on this day, Dade and Mona, are by far my favorite people to work with. Mona is an older lady from Kansas. She has the mouth of trucker and the forearms of a wrestler. Dade I would almost consider my friend.
We go out for drinks after work at least once a week, but the talk is usually about work or Dade's pathetic life. I'm using his words. He considers his life an abject failure on all fronts. If there was an award for the pity-party self depreciating monologue, he would receive it.
At least he's good at that. Talking to him often makes me consider my own useless existence. I am probably more usless than he is. He has been divorced and has a beautiful little girl named Cloe who he dotes on. Dade is only 27, and is the most loving father you could ever meet. He got custody of the child when his stripper wife went down the tubes with a cocaine addiction. He talks about it constantly.
I am of the opinion that he has more to live for than I do. I try to tell him this, but it's like speaking to a house cat. The expression of attention is written on the face, but he's still going to claw at your rug. We were in back of the deli, in the prep area washing some of the stainless steel stuff that we use on a daily basis when I was compelled to speak of Jaime. She had been on my mind all day.
"So, I actually talked to Jaime today."
"What's that thing you and your brother say? Ass helmet? Ass hammer?" He wasn't listening. "Choad wheel?"
"Yeah those are all pretty good ones," I said.
"What about spooge spoon?" I laughed at that one. "Or butt rug, I know, how about cunt sock?"
I let out a hearty chuckle. "You've been practicing," I giggled. My brother and I have a game we used to play. It's has to do with making a new insult out of a dirty word, and a rather mundane and pedestrian word, creating a super word. It's quite a popular thing to do now, at least amongst my circle in Denver, but the joke has somewhat run its course with me. I've always been a little more partial to the good old "motherfucker". Although last night I used "choad wheel" on Nelson. "Listen, I talked to Jaime today."
"About what?"
"I just made myself known, you know. I helped her with some stuff in the walk-in this morning."
He turned around and studied me for a second. You could tell Dade was quite a powerful fire-hydrant of a guy when he was a little younger. A few years of a marriage and depression had put on a nice layer of fat, but he still had fierceness left in his eyes. You caught it every now and then. He smirked.
"She'll probably prop you up and shoot you down, she seems like the ball-busting type."
"I don't think so," I pondered for a moment. "There seems to be this softness about her, like she's almost a little shy."
"Did you know she's the bassist in an all female punk band?" This, I did not know at all. "Shy my ass," Dade scoffed.
"Anyway, when I went by her in the prep room this morning, I just lightly touched her waist and she seemed like she was giving me the vibes, man." Dade's thick black eybrows went up and down, almost twitched. He ran his hands through his spikey black hair. I noticed he had a pretty small forehead, and at that, pretty small thick hands too.
"Hmmmm. Well, I guess you ought do something about that. If you want my advise, my friend, stay away from the co-workers. Life is stupid enough without trying to fuck your love life and your work life all in one swell fuckin foop. And she's hot too. I'm sure she knows it, and all hot girls area pain in the ass, just because they're getting naked for you, they feel like they're doing you a favor." He was getting more and more intense. "Take my ex for example..."
"Don't start on her, I'll puke."
"Yeah, how do you think I feel? That little slut robbed me of my early to mid twenties! Now, I'm fucked. Fucking fucked. I should have gone to school and dated college girls and all this other living life kind of shit. Now I don't do dick, and I'm locked into not doing dick for the rest of my life."
"Man, not this shit again," I sighed.
"Look man, I'm just warning you about life's little pitfalls. What am I saying? Life's gigantic chasms, with shit crusted spikes at the bottom."
"Can we get back on topic?" I asked. He took a deep breath. "She's in a band, huh? I'm going to use that. I could show up at one of her shows, or something like that."
"Or you could just ask her out."
"That's always awkward and weird. Hi! I've worked with you for over a year now, and now I must confess my festering love for you. No. That won't do at all. What's her band's name?"
"Boo Boo Kitty Fuck or some shit like that. Cat Power, Kitten, Kitten Shat, Little Kitty Poo Poo. Something like that. Pussy Galore. Pussy Poo Poo."
"Kinky." I mused.
"Yeah. There might be a little something to your little burger babe after all." I was scratching my head pondering the idea of finding her band in the local paper, or internet. (Nelson's card.)
"Look at you. You're all twiterpated. Man, I wish I wasn't so damaged, I could actually feel excitement for you."
"Dade, you are an incredibly morose son of a bitch sometimes."
"Sometimes it's just the way it is. You can't change it. you just have to live it, but I don't really have to be happy about the cards I was fuckin delt in life."
"You know I'm fond of saying that everything in my life is my fault. Be it good or bad, I did it. I am the only constant in my life, hence, fuck all. I mean, you got into a relationship with a stripper, she must have shown signs of mental instability, yet you had a kid, and all this shit happened and now you complain about the cards you were delt? Why don't you think about it as you were holding every card in the deck to begin with? Then you threw away a shit load of cards, and now the hand you're left with isn't so good."
I was sorry I had said that, but sometimes the truth just drips out of my mouth. It's hard to stop. He walked over to me and pulled a huge trashbag out of one of the trash cans, he glowered at me with deep set peircing grey eyes.
"You're an asshole."
"I'm not saying that you can't pick some of those cards up again, man," I tried to smooth it out. He turned away and headed towards the back door with the trash bag.
"You're still an asshole, fucking prick," he mumbled.
I brushed my hands over my face and sighed. I heard him go out the back door. "Lighten up, fucker," I said to no one in particular.
I sat there for a minute or so, thinking that I really had no right to lay it out like that to Dade when I'm the guy with the hole in his chest. I decided I'd go talk to him. We'd have a smoke outside near the dumpsters.
Just then, I heard the most amazing warscream/battlecry I had ever heard. I knew it was Dade. It was a mix of agony and extacy and rage. It pierced the cement and steel walls of King Soopers and reverberated through the warehouse and assaulted my ears with such force that before I knew it I was sprinting past dumbfounded co-workers towards the back door.
When I rounded the dock heading toward the dumpsters, the scene was so surreal that to this day, I often wonder if I actually saw it take place. Our dumpsters have two doors on them, they have the huge floppy plastic ones on the top, and there is a sliding metal door on the front that is about three feet square. Dade had obviously decided to use that sliding door on the front and was presently fighting a large rotweiler that was sticking half in the dumpster. The business end of the rotweiler was firmly attatched to Dade's arm. With a mighty pull the massive dog disappeared into the dumpster with Dade's arm. Dade's head rebounded off the side of the dumpster with a hollow "SPANG!"
I was still hurtling towards the scene and I started to notice Dade's face was covered in blood. He began laughing and swearing maniacally. "FUCK YOU, HA HA! I'LL KILL YOU! SO HELP ME GOD!! YOU FUCK!!" He heaved and did that same battlecry I heard earlier and did like a wrestling move and pulled the mammoth dog completely out of the dumpster. The beast was snarling and shaking Dade's arm about. The rotweiler had almost pulled Dade over when in some feat of wrestling dexterity Dade shot his legs around the dog's torso and flipped it over on it's back!
I had arrived at the scene, but kind of hopped around on the perimeter of the fight as if my presence was going to contain the melee. I remember thinking, "What now?" The carnage of Dade was completely gruesome. Part of his ear was hanging off. It dangled near his shoulder and there was another huge gash in his cheek going up to his forehead. His left arm was mangled and still in the beast's jaws. I started yelling at the dog. I remember saying, "Bad dog!" No shit, huh?
Dade was cursing and gurgling, and laughing. It was quite a fucking scene. Dade was strattling the dog and squeezing with his knees. Then he started hitting it right in the face with his free hand. "Kill that fucker!" I screamed. Every hit, to Dade's credit, was a neutron bomb. It was survival inspired with brute force and deadly accuracy.
The dog let go of Dade's arm. Dade rose both hands over his head and hammer clubbed the dog about the head and chest more times than I could count, all the while screaming and laughing, "I AM THE KILLER! I AM YOUR FUCKING DEMISE!" The dog was shreiking and growling. Dade got up off of his knees and the dog was quick to up end itself, but seemed punch drunk.
It staggered and turned to face me. "Come on you fucking mutt!" I was ready to kick some doggy ass. Before I could even solidify that thought into action, Dade had found a broken 2x4 from one of the pallets at the dock and layed a serious nine iron shot to the dog's head lifting it off the ground and sprawling it into the dumpster.
That was it for the dog.
For good measure, however Dade calmly walked over to the dog's limp body and nudged it with his foot. He dropped the 2x4 and picked up a cinder block next to the dumpster. Again with deadly accuracy and brute force, he administered the coup d' grace.
He turned to look at me. He was a bloody mess. He laughed, but it wasn't the maniacal laughter, it was jovial, almost really light hearted. He said, "Now how was that in anyway MY FAULT?"
I had some polite conversation with my co-workers. The two I had working with me on this day, Dade and Mona, are by far my favorite people to work with. Mona is an older lady from Kansas. She has the mouth of trucker and the forearms of a wrestler. Dade I would almost consider my friend.
We go out for drinks after work at least once a week, but the talk is usually about work or Dade's pathetic life. I'm using his words. He considers his life an abject failure on all fronts. If there was an award for the pity-party self depreciating monologue, he would receive it.
At least he's good at that. Talking to him often makes me consider my own useless existence. I am probably more usless than he is. He has been divorced and has a beautiful little girl named Cloe who he dotes on. Dade is only 27, and is the most loving father you could ever meet. He got custody of the child when his stripper wife went down the tubes with a cocaine addiction. He talks about it constantly.
I am of the opinion that he has more to live for than I do. I try to tell him this, but it's like speaking to a house cat. The expression of attention is written on the face, but he's still going to claw at your rug. We were in back of the deli, in the prep area washing some of the stainless steel stuff that we use on a daily basis when I was compelled to speak of Jaime. She had been on my mind all day.
"So, I actually talked to Jaime today."
"What's that thing you and your brother say? Ass helmet? Ass hammer?" He wasn't listening. "Choad wheel?"
"Yeah those are all pretty good ones," I said.
"What about spooge spoon?" I laughed at that one. "Or butt rug, I know, how about cunt sock?"
I let out a hearty chuckle. "You've been practicing," I giggled. My brother and I have a game we used to play. It's has to do with making a new insult out of a dirty word, and a rather mundane and pedestrian word, creating a super word. It's quite a popular thing to do now, at least amongst my circle in Denver, but the joke has somewhat run its course with me. I've always been a little more partial to the good old "motherfucker". Although last night I used "choad wheel" on Nelson. "Listen, I talked to Jaime today."
"About what?"
"I just made myself known, you know. I helped her with some stuff in the walk-in this morning."
He turned around and studied me for a second. You could tell Dade was quite a powerful fire-hydrant of a guy when he was a little younger. A few years of a marriage and depression had put on a nice layer of fat, but he still had fierceness left in his eyes. You caught it every now and then. He smirked.
"She'll probably prop you up and shoot you down, she seems like the ball-busting type."
"I don't think so," I pondered for a moment. "There seems to be this softness about her, like she's almost a little shy."
"Did you know she's the bassist in an all female punk band?" This, I did not know at all. "Shy my ass," Dade scoffed.
"Anyway, when I went by her in the prep room this morning, I just lightly touched her waist and she seemed like she was giving me the vibes, man." Dade's thick black eybrows went up and down, almost twitched. He ran his hands through his spikey black hair. I noticed he had a pretty small forehead, and at that, pretty small thick hands too.
"Hmmmm. Well, I guess you ought do something about that. If you want my advise, my friend, stay away from the co-workers. Life is stupid enough without trying to fuck your love life and your work life all in one swell fuckin foop. And she's hot too. I'm sure she knows it, and all hot girls area pain in the ass, just because they're getting naked for you, they feel like they're doing you a favor." He was getting more and more intense. "Take my ex for example..."
"Don't start on her, I'll puke."
"Yeah, how do you think I feel? That little slut robbed me of my early to mid twenties! Now, I'm fucked. Fucking fucked. I should have gone to school and dated college girls and all this other living life kind of shit. Now I don't do dick, and I'm locked into not doing dick for the rest of my life."
"Man, not this shit again," I sighed.
"Look man, I'm just warning you about life's little pitfalls. What am I saying? Life's gigantic chasms, with shit crusted spikes at the bottom."
"Can we get back on topic?" I asked. He took a deep breath. "She's in a band, huh? I'm going to use that. I could show up at one of her shows, or something like that."
"Or you could just ask her out."
"That's always awkward and weird. Hi! I've worked with you for over a year now, and now I must confess my festering love for you. No. That won't do at all. What's her band's name?"
"Boo Boo Kitty Fuck or some shit like that. Cat Power, Kitten, Kitten Shat, Little Kitty Poo Poo. Something like that. Pussy Galore. Pussy Poo Poo."
"Kinky." I mused.
"Yeah. There might be a little something to your little burger babe after all." I was scratching my head pondering the idea of finding her band in the local paper, or internet. (Nelson's card.)
"Look at you. You're all twiterpated. Man, I wish I wasn't so damaged, I could actually feel excitement for you."
"Dade, you are an incredibly morose son of a bitch sometimes."
"Sometimes it's just the way it is. You can't change it. you just have to live it, but I don't really have to be happy about the cards I was fuckin delt in life."
"You know I'm fond of saying that everything in my life is my fault. Be it good or bad, I did it. I am the only constant in my life, hence, fuck all. I mean, you got into a relationship with a stripper, she must have shown signs of mental instability, yet you had a kid, and all this shit happened and now you complain about the cards you were delt? Why don't you think about it as you were holding every card in the deck to begin with? Then you threw away a shit load of cards, and now the hand you're left with isn't so good."
I was sorry I had said that, but sometimes the truth just drips out of my mouth. It's hard to stop. He walked over to me and pulled a huge trashbag out of one of the trash cans, he glowered at me with deep set peircing grey eyes.
"You're an asshole."
"I'm not saying that you can't pick some of those cards up again, man," I tried to smooth it out. He turned away and headed towards the back door with the trash bag.
"You're still an asshole, fucking prick," he mumbled.
I brushed my hands over my face and sighed. I heard him go out the back door. "Lighten up, fucker," I said to no one in particular.
I sat there for a minute or so, thinking that I really had no right to lay it out like that to Dade when I'm the guy with the hole in his chest. I decided I'd go talk to him. We'd have a smoke outside near the dumpsters.
Just then, I heard the most amazing warscream/battlecry I had ever heard. I knew it was Dade. It was a mix of agony and extacy and rage. It pierced the cement and steel walls of King Soopers and reverberated through the warehouse and assaulted my ears with such force that before I knew it I was sprinting past dumbfounded co-workers towards the back door.
When I rounded the dock heading toward the dumpsters, the scene was so surreal that to this day, I often wonder if I actually saw it take place. Our dumpsters have two doors on them, they have the huge floppy plastic ones on the top, and there is a sliding metal door on the front that is about three feet square. Dade had obviously decided to use that sliding door on the front and was presently fighting a large rotweiler that was sticking half in the dumpster. The business end of the rotweiler was firmly attatched to Dade's arm. With a mighty pull the massive dog disappeared into the dumpster with Dade's arm. Dade's head rebounded off the side of the dumpster with a hollow "SPANG!"
I was still hurtling towards the scene and I started to notice Dade's face was covered in blood. He began laughing and swearing maniacally. "FUCK YOU, HA HA! I'LL KILL YOU! SO HELP ME GOD!! YOU FUCK!!" He heaved and did that same battlecry I heard earlier and did like a wrestling move and pulled the mammoth dog completely out of the dumpster. The beast was snarling and shaking Dade's arm about. The rotweiler had almost pulled Dade over when in some feat of wrestling dexterity Dade shot his legs around the dog's torso and flipped it over on it's back!
I had arrived at the scene, but kind of hopped around on the perimeter of the fight as if my presence was going to contain the melee. I remember thinking, "What now?" The carnage of Dade was completely gruesome. Part of his ear was hanging off. It dangled near his shoulder and there was another huge gash in his cheek going up to his forehead. His left arm was mangled and still in the beast's jaws. I started yelling at the dog. I remember saying, "Bad dog!" No shit, huh?
Dade was cursing and gurgling, and laughing. It was quite a fucking scene. Dade was strattling the dog and squeezing with his knees. Then he started hitting it right in the face with his free hand. "Kill that fucker!" I screamed. Every hit, to Dade's credit, was a neutron bomb. It was survival inspired with brute force and deadly accuracy.
The dog let go of Dade's arm. Dade rose both hands over his head and hammer clubbed the dog about the head and chest more times than I could count, all the while screaming and laughing, "I AM THE KILLER! I AM YOUR FUCKING DEMISE!" The dog was shreiking and growling. Dade got up off of his knees and the dog was quick to up end itself, but seemed punch drunk.
It staggered and turned to face me. "Come on you fucking mutt!" I was ready to kick some doggy ass. Before I could even solidify that thought into action, Dade had found a broken 2x4 from one of the pallets at the dock and layed a serious nine iron shot to the dog's head lifting it off the ground and sprawling it into the dumpster.
That was it for the dog.
For good measure, however Dade calmly walked over to the dog's limp body and nudged it with his foot. He dropped the 2x4 and picked up a cinder block next to the dumpster. Again with deadly accuracy and brute force, he administered the coup d' grace.
He turned to look at me. He was a bloody mess. He laughed, but it wasn't the maniacal laughter, it was jovial, almost really light hearted. He said, "Now how was that in anyway MY FAULT?"
Thursday, August 20, 2009
Chapter 3 "Jaime"
I have this problem. When I am hungover, it's as if there are lingering pockets of liquid courage that get used up over the course of the day. I have done the most courageous things when hungover, and that scene with Dean was a fine example. I have confessed attractions, asked complete strangers out, and told people where to stick it and exactly how far when my body was ridding itself of the awful poison of alcohol.
Punking Dean was menacing, fun, but somewhat cruel. I immediately started feeling bad about it. I felt bad for myself, mostly. Dean can fire me under certain circumstanses and making an enemy is the last thing anyone should do at their job. There was a small human side of me that felt bad for Dean, though. I sauntered over to my locker. Dean probably had people doing stuff like that to him all of his life. My utter spite for him wouldn't let me fully feel for him and his life. Some of his problems in life are surely self inflicted. I was just somewhat surprised by the fact that I still had a conscience about such things.
I mean, this is Dean, right? When I switched from night stock person to the deli, this is the the guy who had me work graveyards and then come in to train during the day until they found a replacement for me at night. This is guy who never has given me a full weekend off in four years. This is the guy who cut my pay 8 cents an hour, when he found out there was a slight pay differential between working nights versus working day deli shift. His clock thing, the wheezing, the sniffing of my lunch and proclaiming it smells good, the nitpicking of my time sheet ... yes, this was Dean. A foul man, indeed.
I might have to explain this little altercation to the store manager, Gerard. Gerard Jackson was a much better human than Dean. Gerard was a little over sixty years old, and was a pretty shrewd and hardened old guy. He didn't like Dean, but trusted him enough to make decisions, and would generally stand behind decisions that Dean made, as long as the decisions were fair and just. Luckily for me, Gerard wasn't in today. I could fuck with this little problem tommorrow.
I strapped on my apron, pulled a new hairnet over my head and walked over to the back of the deli. In front of my entrance to the deli was a pallet of several 25lb boxes of meat. I sighed. I looked to my left into the walk-in refrigerator that the deli and the butcher shared. Oh and there she was. Jaime. In the year and a half that she has worked here I think she's said two words to me. She was squatting over a couple of heavy boxes about to lift them, behind her apron she was only wearing a ribbed black tanktop. I traced over her shoulders and back with my eyes. She was flawless, really. Well, aside from the plastic gloves with ground beef stuck all to them.
I think I could classify her as a nice looking goth girl. She didn't wear make up. Her skin was smooth and milky, yet rippled with sinous mass. Her hair was black, straight and fine. It was like if it were to fall over your naked skin it would feel like a shower of the rarest silk. She had beautiful lips, and the whitest teeth I have ever seen.
I heard her laugh once, she was talking to her boss a few months ago and when she laughed it was like an erruption of hearty music. There was a horseness to her laughter that I found completely captivating. It had this husky Kathleen Turner quality with the abandon of a child. I had decided to love her from that point on.
She grabbed the boxes and strained a little. I heard her let out a tiny gasp. I thought I'd die right there. She straightened out and began to lumber the boxes out of the walk-in. I piped up, "Here Jaime, let me help you with that." (OH, BAD JUDGEMENT...WHAT ARE YOU ABOUT TO MAKE ME DO?!) I moved over and grabbed the top box as she went through the door. She turned and faced me. She looked at me quizzically and then blew a few wisps of hair out of her face with an exasperated sigh.
"Thanks," she breathed. "But it looks like you got enough to lift today," she nodded at the pallet on the floor next to my feet.
"Why don't you let me worry about that."
"Don't worry, I will. But you don't need to help me with this stuff. Put it back on top. Here." She said and tried to scoop my box with hers.
"Just show me where it goes, tough stuff,” I growled at her. She smiled and krinkled up her nose a little. I was becoming aware of the fact that in about 24 hours I had grown a pair of whiskey balls and I liked it. It must have been another pocket of leftover Maker's Mark swirling around in my body, or maybe it was the Jessica Simpson dream. Maybe I had just grown sick of the way things were.
"Okay, follow me." And there I was following the beautiful Jaime into the warehouse and around to the prep area for the fresh meat department. Fresh meat. Two funny words.
I can do something that no one else can do. I can slow down time with my mind. I can only do it for short periods of time, but I can do it. When I do it there is one purpose, and one purpose only. That purpose is to remember every single detail of a series of moments in time. I did this while I was following Jaime. I remember thinking I'd follow her anywhere. It must of took a whole hour to walk thirty to fifty steps. Every step heartbreaking in slow motion. I could go into vast detail about her little low-rise khaki pants with the silver zipper on the right butt pocket. I could tell you that though she was carrying a heavy load her buttocks still swayed and locked gently in the rhythm of her perfect gait. Her shirt had come up and stuck lightly to small of her back, exposing the sensitive flesh residing there. I could speak volumes on the incedental touching of her waist as I moved past her to return to my deli, and the quiet almost inaudible, "Thank you," that she muttered. Oh, my heterosexual brothers, I could go into detail.
I won't, though. I'll keep that memory for myself.
The rest of the day was rather uneventful except for the dog attack, face tearing incedent.
Punking Dean was menacing, fun, but somewhat cruel. I immediately started feeling bad about it. I felt bad for myself, mostly. Dean can fire me under certain circumstanses and making an enemy is the last thing anyone should do at their job. There was a small human side of me that felt bad for Dean, though. I sauntered over to my locker. Dean probably had people doing stuff like that to him all of his life. My utter spite for him wouldn't let me fully feel for him and his life. Some of his problems in life are surely self inflicted. I was just somewhat surprised by the fact that I still had a conscience about such things.
I mean, this is Dean, right? When I switched from night stock person to the deli, this is the the guy who had me work graveyards and then come in to train during the day until they found a replacement for me at night. This is guy who never has given me a full weekend off in four years. This is the guy who cut my pay 8 cents an hour, when he found out there was a slight pay differential between working nights versus working day deli shift. His clock thing, the wheezing, the sniffing of my lunch and proclaiming it smells good, the nitpicking of my time sheet ... yes, this was Dean. A foul man, indeed.
I might have to explain this little altercation to the store manager, Gerard. Gerard Jackson was a much better human than Dean. Gerard was a little over sixty years old, and was a pretty shrewd and hardened old guy. He didn't like Dean, but trusted him enough to make decisions, and would generally stand behind decisions that Dean made, as long as the decisions were fair and just. Luckily for me, Gerard wasn't in today. I could fuck with this little problem tommorrow.
I strapped on my apron, pulled a new hairnet over my head and walked over to the back of the deli. In front of my entrance to the deli was a pallet of several 25lb boxes of meat. I sighed. I looked to my left into the walk-in refrigerator that the deli and the butcher shared. Oh and there she was. Jaime. In the year and a half that she has worked here I think she's said two words to me. She was squatting over a couple of heavy boxes about to lift them, behind her apron she was only wearing a ribbed black tanktop. I traced over her shoulders and back with my eyes. She was flawless, really. Well, aside from the plastic gloves with ground beef stuck all to them.
I think I could classify her as a nice looking goth girl. She didn't wear make up. Her skin was smooth and milky, yet rippled with sinous mass. Her hair was black, straight and fine. It was like if it were to fall over your naked skin it would feel like a shower of the rarest silk. She had beautiful lips, and the whitest teeth I have ever seen.
I heard her laugh once, she was talking to her boss a few months ago and when she laughed it was like an erruption of hearty music. There was a horseness to her laughter that I found completely captivating. It had this husky Kathleen Turner quality with the abandon of a child. I had decided to love her from that point on.
She grabbed the boxes and strained a little. I heard her let out a tiny gasp. I thought I'd die right there. She straightened out and began to lumber the boxes out of the walk-in. I piped up, "Here Jaime, let me help you with that." (OH, BAD JUDGEMENT...WHAT ARE YOU ABOUT TO MAKE ME DO?!) I moved over and grabbed the top box as she went through the door. She turned and faced me. She looked at me quizzically and then blew a few wisps of hair out of her face with an exasperated sigh.
"Thanks," she breathed. "But it looks like you got enough to lift today," she nodded at the pallet on the floor next to my feet.
"Why don't you let me worry about that."
"Don't worry, I will. But you don't need to help me with this stuff. Put it back on top. Here." She said and tried to scoop my box with hers.
"Just show me where it goes, tough stuff,” I growled at her. She smiled and krinkled up her nose a little. I was becoming aware of the fact that in about 24 hours I had grown a pair of whiskey balls and I liked it. It must have been another pocket of leftover Maker's Mark swirling around in my body, or maybe it was the Jessica Simpson dream. Maybe I had just grown sick of the way things were.
"Okay, follow me." And there I was following the beautiful Jaime into the warehouse and around to the prep area for the fresh meat department. Fresh meat. Two funny words.
I can do something that no one else can do. I can slow down time with my mind. I can only do it for short periods of time, but I can do it. When I do it there is one purpose, and one purpose only. That purpose is to remember every single detail of a series of moments in time. I did this while I was following Jaime. I remember thinking I'd follow her anywhere. It must of took a whole hour to walk thirty to fifty steps. Every step heartbreaking in slow motion. I could go into vast detail about her little low-rise khaki pants with the silver zipper on the right butt pocket. I could tell you that though she was carrying a heavy load her buttocks still swayed and locked gently in the rhythm of her perfect gait. Her shirt had come up and stuck lightly to small of her back, exposing the sensitive flesh residing there. I could speak volumes on the incedental touching of her waist as I moved past her to return to my deli, and the quiet almost inaudible, "Thank you," that she muttered. Oh, my heterosexual brothers, I could go into detail.
I won't, though. I'll keep that memory for myself.
The rest of the day was rather uneventful except for the dog attack, face tearing incedent.
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Chapter 2 "Jessica Simpson"
That night I had a dream that I was in a rock band with Jessica Simpson. I truly loved singing and playing with her because our vocal harmonies were the best. I can remember her and I watching another band play from offstage. We were both wearing baseball caps and sunglasses so that no one in the audience would recognize us. She was wearing a Boston Red Sox fitted baseball cap. I love the Red Sox. Something about the underdog that I just love. Jessica and I were holding hands and walking around through the audience. Now, I know you're thinking that this could turn pornographic at any moment. It was completely platonic... she just seemed, in the dream, like a very good friend. I woke up with a very warm feeling for Jessica Simpson. Strange dream.
I also woke up with a mid-grade hangover. It was about a 4.5 on the hangover scale. 1 being mild and 10 being dead. I was somewhere in the middle. Just above intense thirst and just below pounding headache. Above hazy memories, below total blackout. Above the desire for bacon ham sausage and scrapple, below the desire to stick my fingers down my throat and just get it all out. My mouth tasted like cat shit, and when I got up to sit on the edge of my bed the room took it's sweet ass time catching up with my head. My head floated just above my neck with the sickening motion of a bobble head doll. I looked down at my feet. Both shoes were off, but only one sock. I was still in my clothes from last night.
I one-socked it into the bathroom and found a huge movie theater cup half filled with dead Sprite. I dumped it out and began to fill it with water. The water from the sink came out rusty brown at first. I dumped it and waited for the clear water and started over. I opened the medicine mirror and pulled out my industrial size bottle of asprin. I swear this thing is as big as a freaking Bell jar. I chuckle at it every time I pull it from its home in the mirror. I took out three little white pills and swallowed them down with about half a 64oz cup full of water. A good drinking habit requires hydration... and asprin. Not Tylenol or Motrin or Aleve ... fucking old fashioned ASPRIN...I I swear by it. I closed the medicine mirror.
And there was my face ... not too bad ... although I did have some grayish circles under my eyes. That happens quite easily to me. I have very fair skin. I'm a red-head. And yes, the carpet matches the drapes if you know what I mean. Too be quite honest I do have that kind of "Opie" look. Complete with the freckles. A genetic homage to my pastey Scottish and Irish ancestors. I'm fairly tall though. At least I've got that going for me. I'm nearly 6'4", and I have a good back and shoulders. I can be, and have been, quite phyically imposing on occasion, but I'm mostly a pussycat. To spite this my hands and feet are kind of small for my size and now as I look at myself naked in the mirror, I could use a bigger penis, but I'm thinking most guys think that. An unhealthy fascination with this has appeared in my life as the intake and proliferation of pornographic materials has increased. An ex-girlfriend once told me that I was a grower, not a show-er. Whatever the fuck that means. We had quite an active and fulfilling sex life, so I guess it's just one more thing to be paranoid about around the ladies.
I love my shower. The plumber who installed and designed the shower set-up of my Capitol Hill apartment in the 1920s, well, let's just say his hand was touched by God's own. The nozzle must put out as much water as a backyard swimming pool every couple of minutes and the water never gets cold. It has it's little fluctuations in temperature. For instance, it can go from hot to super fucking hot in about half a second, but I've toughened myself to that since moving in. All that wonderful water...
I had about thirty minutes before I had to be at work. It was going to be another close one today. While I was showering I couldn't help thinking about Jessica Simpson, and that caring intamacy I had felt for her in my dream. It was love without the need and the jealousy that comes with "girlfriend love". It didn't hunger, it wanted for nothing. It was just there. This present and warm orange cloud between us. I really enjoy my dreams sometimes. I sleep more than most people I know.
I live on Josephine and Colfax in Denver. Dear reader, I don't really expect you to know where that is, but for the sake of detail, for the sake the of the movie in your mind, I will describe. I have a ground level apartment on the corner of these two streets with a cement patio that faces a 7-11. There is a large high school across the way. This area of town is quite colorful. The 7-11 attracts all manner of folk who live in and around Denver.
First of all, the drug and whore trade are alive and well. There have been more than a few mornings over the past couple of years where I have roused a sleeping indigent or drug addict from my front porch, and more than a few evenings where the pleasant din of my front porch was disturbed by crackheads and hookers. To be honest, I actually don't mind all that much. I even know a couple of the "regulars" in the neighborhood. As a matter a fact, I have been known to buy them malt liquor every now and then and hang out with them on my porch. (Probably why many of them consider my porch "friendly territory".)
Once, an old crackhead named Benny was running from the police and ran headlong into my open screendoor screaming, "Homebase! Homebase! No tag backs!" The police didn't buy it.
There are also a couple of trendy bars in the neighborhood. This brings some of the rich, college age kids from the suburbs into my seedy little Capitol Hill neighborhood. Lastly, add to the mix the East Highschool students and 20-something losers like myself, and you have a regular old war zone of a neighborhood.
I own a 1978 Lincoln Town Car. It is the biggest car ever made, or damn near. It reaks of mafiosa, or senior citizen style. It is maroon, has red valour seats, gets 8 miles to the gallon, (that is not an exaggeration) and has a problem vapor locking on really hot days. Other than that, the huge V-8 purrs.
We have a love/hate relationship. I love the car, because it is huge, roomy, powerful and distinctive. I hate it because gas is really expensive, it's hard to park and maneuver in the city, and I can't figure out the vapor lock problem. I named him Guido when I got him back in 1999. One owner, 68,000 or so original miles, 650 dollars. Quite possibly the best 650 dollars I've ever spent. Six years later, he still runs like a champ, except for the vapor locking.
I was coasting along to work, feeling better from the shower and the asprin, and humming along to the radio when my thoughts traced back through the haze to Nelson. What exactly was going on there? I remembered the whole exchange, it was later in the night where my actions begin to get hazy in recollection, but the intensity of Nelson's conversation had escaped me at the time. Now, I was beginning to get curious about his fancy swingers club. I'd have to do a little investigating. Well, no time for that. I'm almost late for work.
My job sucks. I'm an assistant manager at a local King Soopers Deli. I'm the guy who hands you samples of meat with a gloved hand, and while you masticate on said meat, I try not to look disgusted as you mull over your choices. Then you buy a pound of this and a pound of that and you marvel at how I can get within a few hundredths of a pound just by eyeballing it. I'm that guy with the apron and the hairnet and the little name tag. I'm that guy with a college degree who now works with and for high school graduates, partially because a sociology degree means fuck all to ones future. I'm that guy who blames his career laziness on his choice of degree.
Yes, I am that guy.
To spite this, there are certain perks to the job. Health insurance, paid vacation, union membership and a competetive salary are all benefits I enjoy. Also, the particular King Soopers that I work at seems to have the highest per capita ratio of babes to non-babes as clientele. Speaking of clientele, my King Soopers is nicknamed "Queen Soopers", because of the local patrons. It lies on the corner of 9th and Downing in a neighborhood that is famous for it's gay male population. Hence the nickname. The neighborhood also has quite a few college to college graduate type apartment buildings, and other such affordable housing. Hence the babes. It's a little nicer than my shithole neighborhood.
I got to work with about two minutes to spare. Two minutes according to my pager, (yes...I have a fucking pager) which is standard satelite time, set by some atomic clock in some cave that measures the time it takes for a chunk of cesium to degrade into a less harmful chunk of lead. The assistant store manager, Dean, goes by his own time. He is of the opinion that if he sets all the clocks in my supermarket ahead five to ten minutes that he somehow controls the time that the the rest of the world is accustomed to. He's fond of saying,"If you're five minutes early, you're ten minutes late!" Fuck that.
So, I parked Guido in back of the store near the loading dock, and hopped into the back of the store. Sure enough as I rounded some pallets full of produce heading for the punch clock with my employee badge in hand, there was Dean, in all his sniveling glory.
If you imagine every faceless asshole manager you ever had, hurled them at a wall at about 300 miles per hour, scraped the peices that stuck to the wall into a bucket, and shoved the bucket into some kind of douche bag incubator, if you waited a few minutes, Dean would pop out, fully grown.
I was about 40 yards away from him in the warehouse, and he was closing that distance at full waddle. Dean was an extremely pear-shaped man. Disgustingly so. His shoulders and arms were only about half as wide as his hips and ass. His head was fat and pasty and soft, like a baby's head, but with blunt yellow teeth and little white peices of spittle at the corners of his mouth. He was probably borderline diabetic. His tiny unexpressive eyes sat magnified behind large, square, plastic rimmed glasses that were constantly affixed to him via a flourescent tie strap that
sometimes allowed the glasses to hang around his pudgy, sack of crap neck. He had a full head of hair, but it was usually greasy and messy. How he got this far in life, I'll never know.
"You know you didn't finish all of your cleaning last night." He started in immediately. He was still quite a few paces behind me, and I was walking fast.
"Darrell still had to use the slicer when I left, Dean."
"As an assistant manager, you are still responsible for the people under you."
"Yes, Darrell is a butcher, and I am in the deli, I fail to see how that is in my jurisdiction."
"You are responsible for your work area!" I was almost at the punch clock.
"I can only do what I can when I'm here, Dean."
"Well, maybe you should try a little harder, you know you're under review pretty soon, and I am one of the people who you should be trying to impress." I stopped abrubtly at the time clock, and Dean plowed into me like a feather pillow, wheezing from the exertion. I looked down at his big fat baby head and got real close to his face. The sight was revolting and his cheesy, stale odor started to get my stomach rolling. I was still fighting a hangover, and for a moment I played with the image of launching a stream of vomit all over his pastey, fat face. I even inched a little closer and sniffed. He flinched.
"Excuse you," I whispered. He was frozen. I slowly backed away from his head and looked him in the eye. I usually avoid looking Dean directly in the face because I have the desire to stick my fingers into his cheeks and chins and mold his head like cookie dough. This was no exception. He was sweating.
"Oh, uh so now your a, uh tough guy, he stammered.
"You're in my way," I said motioning to the punch clock. I wasn't going to let him break eye contact.
"You're six minutes late."
"Prove it," I swiped my card in the punch clock. He looked over at it. 8:OOAM on the nose.
He backed away two steps and staightened his tie.
"I've got my eye on you, try not to be such a darn ninny," he whined. I streched my hand out and he went to shake it, but instead I grabbed a Sharpie from his pocket protector.
"Can I borrow this, thanks."
He snorted and waddled off.
I also woke up with a mid-grade hangover. It was about a 4.5 on the hangover scale. 1 being mild and 10 being dead. I was somewhere in the middle. Just above intense thirst and just below pounding headache. Above hazy memories, below total blackout. Above the desire for bacon ham sausage and scrapple, below the desire to stick my fingers down my throat and just get it all out. My mouth tasted like cat shit, and when I got up to sit on the edge of my bed the room took it's sweet ass time catching up with my head. My head floated just above my neck with the sickening motion of a bobble head doll. I looked down at my feet. Both shoes were off, but only one sock. I was still in my clothes from last night.
I one-socked it into the bathroom and found a huge movie theater cup half filled with dead Sprite. I dumped it out and began to fill it with water. The water from the sink came out rusty brown at first. I dumped it and waited for the clear water and started over. I opened the medicine mirror and pulled out my industrial size bottle of asprin. I swear this thing is as big as a freaking Bell jar. I chuckle at it every time I pull it from its home in the mirror. I took out three little white pills and swallowed them down with about half a 64oz cup full of water. A good drinking habit requires hydration... and asprin. Not Tylenol or Motrin or Aleve ... fucking old fashioned ASPRIN...I I swear by it. I closed the medicine mirror.
And there was my face ... not too bad ... although I did have some grayish circles under my eyes. That happens quite easily to me. I have very fair skin. I'm a red-head. And yes, the carpet matches the drapes if you know what I mean. Too be quite honest I do have that kind of "Opie" look. Complete with the freckles. A genetic homage to my pastey Scottish and Irish ancestors. I'm fairly tall though. At least I've got that going for me. I'm nearly 6'4", and I have a good back and shoulders. I can be, and have been, quite phyically imposing on occasion, but I'm mostly a pussycat. To spite this my hands and feet are kind of small for my size and now as I look at myself naked in the mirror, I could use a bigger penis, but I'm thinking most guys think that. An unhealthy fascination with this has appeared in my life as the intake and proliferation of pornographic materials has increased. An ex-girlfriend once told me that I was a grower, not a show-er. Whatever the fuck that means. We had quite an active and fulfilling sex life, so I guess it's just one more thing to be paranoid about around the ladies.
I love my shower. The plumber who installed and designed the shower set-up of my Capitol Hill apartment in the 1920s, well, let's just say his hand was touched by God's own. The nozzle must put out as much water as a backyard swimming pool every couple of minutes and the water never gets cold. It has it's little fluctuations in temperature. For instance, it can go from hot to super fucking hot in about half a second, but I've toughened myself to that since moving in. All that wonderful water...
I had about thirty minutes before I had to be at work. It was going to be another close one today. While I was showering I couldn't help thinking about Jessica Simpson, and that caring intamacy I had felt for her in my dream. It was love without the need and the jealousy that comes with "girlfriend love". It didn't hunger, it wanted for nothing. It was just there. This present and warm orange cloud between us. I really enjoy my dreams sometimes. I sleep more than most people I know.
I live on Josephine and Colfax in Denver. Dear reader, I don't really expect you to know where that is, but for the sake of detail, for the sake the of the movie in your mind, I will describe. I have a ground level apartment on the corner of these two streets with a cement patio that faces a 7-11. There is a large high school across the way. This area of town is quite colorful. The 7-11 attracts all manner of folk who live in and around Denver.
First of all, the drug and whore trade are alive and well. There have been more than a few mornings over the past couple of years where I have roused a sleeping indigent or drug addict from my front porch, and more than a few evenings where the pleasant din of my front porch was disturbed by crackheads and hookers. To be honest, I actually don't mind all that much. I even know a couple of the "regulars" in the neighborhood. As a matter a fact, I have been known to buy them malt liquor every now and then and hang out with them on my porch. (Probably why many of them consider my porch "friendly territory".)
Once, an old crackhead named Benny was running from the police and ran headlong into my open screendoor screaming, "Homebase! Homebase! No tag backs!" The police didn't buy it.
There are also a couple of trendy bars in the neighborhood. This brings some of the rich, college age kids from the suburbs into my seedy little Capitol Hill neighborhood. Lastly, add to the mix the East Highschool students and 20-something losers like myself, and you have a regular old war zone of a neighborhood.
I own a 1978 Lincoln Town Car. It is the biggest car ever made, or damn near. It reaks of mafiosa, or senior citizen style. It is maroon, has red valour seats, gets 8 miles to the gallon, (that is not an exaggeration) and has a problem vapor locking on really hot days. Other than that, the huge V-8 purrs.
We have a love/hate relationship. I love the car, because it is huge, roomy, powerful and distinctive. I hate it because gas is really expensive, it's hard to park and maneuver in the city, and I can't figure out the vapor lock problem. I named him Guido when I got him back in 1999. One owner, 68,000 or so original miles, 650 dollars. Quite possibly the best 650 dollars I've ever spent. Six years later, he still runs like a champ, except for the vapor locking.
I was coasting along to work, feeling better from the shower and the asprin, and humming along to the radio when my thoughts traced back through the haze to Nelson. What exactly was going on there? I remembered the whole exchange, it was later in the night where my actions begin to get hazy in recollection, but the intensity of Nelson's conversation had escaped me at the time. Now, I was beginning to get curious about his fancy swingers club. I'd have to do a little investigating. Well, no time for that. I'm almost late for work.
My job sucks. I'm an assistant manager at a local King Soopers Deli. I'm the guy who hands you samples of meat with a gloved hand, and while you masticate on said meat, I try not to look disgusted as you mull over your choices. Then you buy a pound of this and a pound of that and you marvel at how I can get within a few hundredths of a pound just by eyeballing it. I'm that guy with the apron and the hairnet and the little name tag. I'm that guy with a college degree who now works with and for high school graduates, partially because a sociology degree means fuck all to ones future. I'm that guy who blames his career laziness on his choice of degree.
Yes, I am that guy.
To spite this, there are certain perks to the job. Health insurance, paid vacation, union membership and a competetive salary are all benefits I enjoy. Also, the particular King Soopers that I work at seems to have the highest per capita ratio of babes to non-babes as clientele. Speaking of clientele, my King Soopers is nicknamed "Queen Soopers", because of the local patrons. It lies on the corner of 9th and Downing in a neighborhood that is famous for it's gay male population. Hence the nickname. The neighborhood also has quite a few college to college graduate type apartment buildings, and other such affordable housing. Hence the babes. It's a little nicer than my shithole neighborhood.
I got to work with about two minutes to spare. Two minutes according to my pager, (yes...I have a fucking pager) which is standard satelite time, set by some atomic clock in some cave that measures the time it takes for a chunk of cesium to degrade into a less harmful chunk of lead. The assistant store manager, Dean, goes by his own time. He is of the opinion that if he sets all the clocks in my supermarket ahead five to ten minutes that he somehow controls the time that the the rest of the world is accustomed to. He's fond of saying,"If you're five minutes early, you're ten minutes late!" Fuck that.
So, I parked Guido in back of the store near the loading dock, and hopped into the back of the store. Sure enough as I rounded some pallets full of produce heading for the punch clock with my employee badge in hand, there was Dean, in all his sniveling glory.
If you imagine every faceless asshole manager you ever had, hurled them at a wall at about 300 miles per hour, scraped the peices that stuck to the wall into a bucket, and shoved the bucket into some kind of douche bag incubator, if you waited a few minutes, Dean would pop out, fully grown.
I was about 40 yards away from him in the warehouse, and he was closing that distance at full waddle. Dean was an extremely pear-shaped man. Disgustingly so. His shoulders and arms were only about half as wide as his hips and ass. His head was fat and pasty and soft, like a baby's head, but with blunt yellow teeth and little white peices of spittle at the corners of his mouth. He was probably borderline diabetic. His tiny unexpressive eyes sat magnified behind large, square, plastic rimmed glasses that were constantly affixed to him via a flourescent tie strap that
sometimes allowed the glasses to hang around his pudgy, sack of crap neck. He had a full head of hair, but it was usually greasy and messy. How he got this far in life, I'll never know.
"You know you didn't finish all of your cleaning last night." He started in immediately. He was still quite a few paces behind me, and I was walking fast.
"Darrell still had to use the slicer when I left, Dean."
"As an assistant manager, you are still responsible for the people under you."
"Yes, Darrell is a butcher, and I am in the deli, I fail to see how that is in my jurisdiction."
"You are responsible for your work area!" I was almost at the punch clock.
"I can only do what I can when I'm here, Dean."
"Well, maybe you should try a little harder, you know you're under review pretty soon, and I am one of the people who you should be trying to impress." I stopped abrubtly at the time clock, and Dean plowed into me like a feather pillow, wheezing from the exertion. I looked down at his big fat baby head and got real close to his face. The sight was revolting and his cheesy, stale odor started to get my stomach rolling. I was still fighting a hangover, and for a moment I played with the image of launching a stream of vomit all over his pastey, fat face. I even inched a little closer and sniffed. He flinched.
"Excuse you," I whispered. He was frozen. I slowly backed away from his head and looked him in the eye. I usually avoid looking Dean directly in the face because I have the desire to stick my fingers into his cheeks and chins and mold his head like cookie dough. This was no exception. He was sweating.
"Oh, uh so now your a, uh tough guy, he stammered.
"You're in my way," I said motioning to the punch clock. I wasn't going to let him break eye contact.
"You're six minutes late."
"Prove it," I swiped my card in the punch clock. He looked over at it. 8:OOAM on the nose.
He backed away two steps and staightened his tie.
"I've got my eye on you, try not to be such a darn ninny," he whined. I streched my hand out and he went to shake it, but instead I grabbed a Sharpie from his pocket protector.
"Can I borrow this, thanks."
He snorted and waddled off.
Thursday, August 13, 2009
Chapter 1 "Goosetown Tavern"
"What's up fuck stick?"
Nelson was the type of guy who used odd phrases to put you on your guard, or maybe it was just to get a chuckle out of you. Either way I didn't really want to hear his voice at this point in my night. It was like listening to a plastic bag full of shit slap against a wall what with all the hard consonants. Who says "fuck stick" anyway?
I was drinking alone at the Goosetown and I was trying to keep somewhat of a low profile. It was one of those nights where the moments keep dragging so that my thirst was unbearable. It was not only the thirst for alcohol, but a hole in my chest the size of a fist that spurns me to do anything but stay at home and watch Seinfeld reruns. If it weren't for whisky, I probably wouldn't sleep at all tonight. I was perfectly content in mulling over my less than original thoughts until the alcohol did its work. Once I'm drunk, I'm fucking brilliant.
Like cloud of methane, Nelson walks in with his "fuck stick". Nelson is a salesman of some sort. I never asked him what, because I don't really care, but I think it's those pre-fab steel buildings. He's a little pudgy and stocky with thinning greasy hair and a grey, dead front tooth. Rather unremarkable on all fronts. I guess his personality is better than a blow to the head with a tack hammer, but maybe I give him a little too much credit.
"What's up choad wheel?" I replied. I too was good at the off color insult. I added, "What do you use in that sparsity you call your hair ... fucking Crisco?" Maybe I was a little more buzzed than I thought. I'm normally not very witty.
"Ha fucking ha, ass wagon ... did you see that bitch at the first booth? I totally want to eat her butt like this..." He made a motion with his hands like he was squeezing two ass cheeks together and licking and biting the crease. I'll admit that while crass, the thought of licking a girl’s ass like that was also quite arousing... especially the girl in the first booth. I hadn't had sex in quite a while. He did this pantomime of ass eating for quite a long time. It was so long I was beginning to get a little uncomfortable, but then he said, "Waddya drinkin?" as if he just didn't spent the better part of a minute acting out.
"Whiskey rocks," I said flatly.
"Two Crown rocks," he motioned to the bartender. Well the night's looking up, I thought. I was drinking bar whiskey. It's kind of a self imposed torture.
"Make it Maker's!" I yelled across the bar to the bartender. With that, I put a toast up to Nelson and drained the rest of my glass. I managed a smile and winked at him. He didn't seem to mind.
"Maker's is stronger anyway,” I mumbled. "More bang for your drinking dollar. What's the occasion, Nels?" Normally Nelson is a tightwad.
He was quiet for a second until the drinks came and the barkeep left; then he became kind of serious. "I hooked in to something on the internet that is unlike anything I have ever done. It's fucking amazing."
"What is it?"
"It's kind of hard to explain," he was acting somewhat bewildered.
"Assfistfuck.com?" I was trying to lighten the mood.
"No."
"It's like this society of like party-ers. Dude, do I look like I've been up for four days?"
Odd question.
"Your hair does." I replied. I sipped at my drink.
"No really."
"Not really, actually you look pretty fresh. No discernable odor..."
"Yeah, I feel fantastic, man. It's like I'm living for the first time. The people I've met, and the things I've done over the past few days are totally beyond description."
I was becoming acutely aware that Nelson, from the bar, didn't really have any friends to talk to, and that I was perhaps one of his better acquaintances. I lit a cigarette and pondered my whiskey. I thought that even though I didn't pay for it, I was going to end up paying for it in the long run. I slowly turned the glass in my hand on the bar.
"Fuck, man ... I was fucking two chicks last night, and they were totally into me." He was looking deeply at me. He poked his own chest, "ME! Fucking Nelson Davis..." I never knew his last name. "And they were hot, I mean stripper hot..."
I'm a good judge of whether somebody is bullshitting me and looking at Nelson, I could tell that he wasn't. This was actually something that happened to this greasy loner, and I was most likely the first person to be regaled with the story. I thought it to be a little sad. It was sadder still that I hadn't run into the type of luck that involves consensual ménage a' trois with stripper hotness.
I acted dubious, "Are you drunk?"
"You wish," he said raising an eye brow. I threw back my drink, winced and signaled the bartender by pointing at the glass.
"So you wanna explain how the internet made you stay up for four days and get laid by stripper hotness, and how do I sign up? They don't take your credit card number do they? Ah fuck it, I don't even have a credit card," I chuckled to spite myself.
"A guy at work got me into it, I thought it was like an e-dating thing or something like that ... at first, but then it turned out to be so much more. Look!" He pointed down to his jacket pocket where there was a stitched chevron. It didn't really register with me. I sucked at my cigarette and took a closer look.
“So?”
"It's the symbol for the members, it's how you know when you see someone that's in it."
"Dude, it just looks like your jacket stitching. How am I supposed to know you from a can of baked beans with this?"
"People know," he said and he handed me a card.
I was kind of reeling from the can of baked beans comment. Sometimes I really crack myself up. I focused on the card. It was a little smaller than a business card and shiny silver. There was a red lettering under a red chevron in a really tight futuristic looking font. I squinted at it in the not-so-ample lighting of the Goosetown Tavern. It said www.666666999999.org/denver.
I shrugged, "Looks like you got yourself involved with some fancy swingers club, buddy."
"It's way more than that. Unfortunately, no one can be told what the Matrix is, you have to see it for yourself," he did his best Morpheus impression and smiled. I took a glug of whiskey with some ice and half choked. The fucking bartender switched me back to bar whiskey! If I could only fart laser beams that fucker would be a pile of ashes and melted polyester. Fucking retro-shirt cock-ass! For some reason I was trying to figure out the name of the actor who played Morpheus in the Matrix...Fishburn something. Nelson was still talking. The whiskey was taking hold. I ordered an Old Style, and was trying to concentrate on Nelson, but he was somewhat less interesting than the girl with the butt at the first booth. He kept pointing at the card on the bar and telling me to visit the site and how he's only allowed to refer one person and that I should be happy and blah blah blah. I nodded and stuck the card in my shirt pocket.
And just like that, he was gone. He didn't even touch his whiskey. So I had to make up for his terrible lack of respect for such good hooch. I slugged it on down.
It's amazing how the littlest things, a chance meeting, can irrevocably change your life. How out of sheer boredom and loneliness one's life path can be so altered. Who cares when you got a good drunk kicking on a Monday night?
Out into the night air. Colfax Avenue. Shitty one bedroom apartment. Restless sleep, with a hole in my chest and a ticket to a war in my shirt pocket.
Nelson was the type of guy who used odd phrases to put you on your guard, or maybe it was just to get a chuckle out of you. Either way I didn't really want to hear his voice at this point in my night. It was like listening to a plastic bag full of shit slap against a wall what with all the hard consonants. Who says "fuck stick" anyway?
I was drinking alone at the Goosetown and I was trying to keep somewhat of a low profile. It was one of those nights where the moments keep dragging so that my thirst was unbearable. It was not only the thirst for alcohol, but a hole in my chest the size of a fist that spurns me to do anything but stay at home and watch Seinfeld reruns. If it weren't for whisky, I probably wouldn't sleep at all tonight. I was perfectly content in mulling over my less than original thoughts until the alcohol did its work. Once I'm drunk, I'm fucking brilliant.
Like cloud of methane, Nelson walks in with his "fuck stick". Nelson is a salesman of some sort. I never asked him what, because I don't really care, but I think it's those pre-fab steel buildings. He's a little pudgy and stocky with thinning greasy hair and a grey, dead front tooth. Rather unremarkable on all fronts. I guess his personality is better than a blow to the head with a tack hammer, but maybe I give him a little too much credit.
"What's up choad wheel?" I replied. I too was good at the off color insult. I added, "What do you use in that sparsity you call your hair ... fucking Crisco?" Maybe I was a little more buzzed than I thought. I'm normally not very witty.
"Ha fucking ha, ass wagon ... did you see that bitch at the first booth? I totally want to eat her butt like this..." He made a motion with his hands like he was squeezing two ass cheeks together and licking and biting the crease. I'll admit that while crass, the thought of licking a girl’s ass like that was also quite arousing... especially the girl in the first booth. I hadn't had sex in quite a while. He did this pantomime of ass eating for quite a long time. It was so long I was beginning to get a little uncomfortable, but then he said, "Waddya drinkin?" as if he just didn't spent the better part of a minute acting out.
"Whiskey rocks," I said flatly.
"Two Crown rocks," he motioned to the bartender. Well the night's looking up, I thought. I was drinking bar whiskey. It's kind of a self imposed torture.
"Make it Maker's!" I yelled across the bar to the bartender. With that, I put a toast up to Nelson and drained the rest of my glass. I managed a smile and winked at him. He didn't seem to mind.
"Maker's is stronger anyway,” I mumbled. "More bang for your drinking dollar. What's the occasion, Nels?" Normally Nelson is a tightwad.
He was quiet for a second until the drinks came and the barkeep left; then he became kind of serious. "I hooked in to something on the internet that is unlike anything I have ever done. It's fucking amazing."
"What is it?"
"It's kind of hard to explain," he was acting somewhat bewildered.
"Assfistfuck.com?" I was trying to lighten the mood.
"No."
"It's like this society of like party-ers. Dude, do I look like I've been up for four days?"
Odd question.
"Your hair does." I replied. I sipped at my drink.
"No really."
"Not really, actually you look pretty fresh. No discernable odor..."
"Yeah, I feel fantastic, man. It's like I'm living for the first time. The people I've met, and the things I've done over the past few days are totally beyond description."
I was becoming acutely aware that Nelson, from the bar, didn't really have any friends to talk to, and that I was perhaps one of his better acquaintances. I lit a cigarette and pondered my whiskey. I thought that even though I didn't pay for it, I was going to end up paying for it in the long run. I slowly turned the glass in my hand on the bar.
"Fuck, man ... I was fucking two chicks last night, and they were totally into me." He was looking deeply at me. He poked his own chest, "ME! Fucking Nelson Davis..." I never knew his last name. "And they were hot, I mean stripper hot..."
I'm a good judge of whether somebody is bullshitting me and looking at Nelson, I could tell that he wasn't. This was actually something that happened to this greasy loner, and I was most likely the first person to be regaled with the story. I thought it to be a little sad. It was sadder still that I hadn't run into the type of luck that involves consensual ménage a' trois with stripper hotness.
I acted dubious, "Are you drunk?"
"You wish," he said raising an eye brow. I threw back my drink, winced and signaled the bartender by pointing at the glass.
"So you wanna explain how the internet made you stay up for four days and get laid by stripper hotness, and how do I sign up? They don't take your credit card number do they? Ah fuck it, I don't even have a credit card," I chuckled to spite myself.
"A guy at work got me into it, I thought it was like an e-dating thing or something like that ... at first, but then it turned out to be so much more. Look!" He pointed down to his jacket pocket where there was a stitched chevron. It didn't really register with me. I sucked at my cigarette and took a closer look.
“So?”
"It's the symbol for the members, it's how you know when you see someone that's in it."
"Dude, it just looks like your jacket stitching. How am I supposed to know you from a can of baked beans with this?"
"People know," he said and he handed me a card.
I was kind of reeling from the can of baked beans comment. Sometimes I really crack myself up. I focused on the card. It was a little smaller than a business card and shiny silver. There was a red lettering under a red chevron in a really tight futuristic looking font. I squinted at it in the not-so-ample lighting of the Goosetown Tavern. It said www.666666999999.org/denver.
I shrugged, "Looks like you got yourself involved with some fancy swingers club, buddy."
"It's way more than that. Unfortunately, no one can be told what the Matrix is, you have to see it for yourself," he did his best Morpheus impression and smiled. I took a glug of whiskey with some ice and half choked. The fucking bartender switched me back to bar whiskey! If I could only fart laser beams that fucker would be a pile of ashes and melted polyester. Fucking retro-shirt cock-ass! For some reason I was trying to figure out the name of the actor who played Morpheus in the Matrix...Fishburn something. Nelson was still talking. The whiskey was taking hold. I ordered an Old Style, and was trying to concentrate on Nelson, but he was somewhat less interesting than the girl with the butt at the first booth. He kept pointing at the card on the bar and telling me to visit the site and how he's only allowed to refer one person and that I should be happy and blah blah blah. I nodded and stuck the card in my shirt pocket.
And just like that, he was gone. He didn't even touch his whiskey. So I had to make up for his terrible lack of respect for such good hooch. I slugged it on down.
It's amazing how the littlest things, a chance meeting, can irrevocably change your life. How out of sheer boredom and loneliness one's life path can be so altered. Who cares when you got a good drunk kicking on a Monday night?
Out into the night air. Colfax Avenue. Shitty one bedroom apartment. Restless sleep, with a hole in my chest and a ticket to a war in my shirt pocket.
Subscribe to:
Comments (Atom)
