I know you're broke and times are tough
And you must choose: gas or snuff?
Believe me, bub, I sympathize
With petrol prices on the rise
And wages hardly fit to live.
But when you ask what I can give
My answer's on a sour note
For we are in the same damn boat.
This is a business, not charity,
And when there is disparity
Between your wallet and your tab
Do not ask me my purse to grab.
I too have bills and obligations
Without paying for your libations.
You're an adult, learn to cope
For it does no good for you to mope.
Shop elsewhere if you feel you must
And in this you can surely trust:
You're just a number to this corporate whore
And your bitching has become a bore.
Though you complain and wax sorely pissed
Your business here will not be missed.
Wednesday, September 7, 2011
The Best of Dumber Than Advertised (The Gas Station Years, Part 3)
Doing shift change paperwork. In looking over the safe count reading I find that 2nd shift overlooked a brick of pennies which is clearly stamped by the bank, "PENNIES $25". *facepalm*
More fun with the mathematically illiterate. A woman had a $16 Lotto credit and after about a minute and a half of trying to figure out how many $2 tickets she could get for $16 she told me to give her "sixteen dollars' worth". When she came back in a few minutes later with $8 credit she merely pointed at the tickets she wanted and grunted.
GAH! ASSHOLES DO VEX ME!!! Someone drove off with $30 in gas during a rush. People cut the line and literally threw money at me for gas because they didn't want to wait in the queue like everyone else. Someone bitched vehemently about gas and cigarette prices, paused as though expecting sympathy &/or a discount, then continued bitching when they received neither. People who'd been standing in line for up to ten minutes waited until getting to the counter before slowly digging for money in their pockets. Someone threw a fit because no one sells money orders after 11 PM. Someone else complained because we don't take checks for cellular cards. Multiple people complained about getting carded. Someone wearing next to nothing bitched at me to hurry up because she was freezing, handed me a hundred dollar bill for $5 gas, then bitched about having to wait on the safe for her change. Someone left a used and unwrapped tampon on the bathroom floor next to the trashcan. And yet there was one douche bag who trumped all of these contenders:
A customer returned an un-opened pack of condoms because "it wasn't a good night". It's sad that he doesn't anticipate a better night any time in the next few years before the condoms expire. It's doubly sad that he was so tongue-tied with embarrassment that it took fifteen minutes for me to figure out if this was a refund or an exchange for different merchandise.
A customer wanted an atlas of Carrollton. He was specific in wanting an atlas rather than a map. (Note: Carrollton is maybe ten miles wide from end to end - one can drive across it in about five minutes, with lights.)
A young customer told me about exchanging shots with someone in the Wal-Mart parking lot a few minutes ago and how one of the bullets fell out of his gun and landed on his floorboard. He wanted to assure me that although he had pulled in to look for the bullet, he wasn't going to rob me. The only reason I didn't hit the panic button is because he was the same regular who offered to shoot my robber dead if I provided identifying information.
A customer lamented the cost of a six-pack of Heinekin but said he refused to drink domestic beer. "I could but it'd be like a one night stand - I'd hate myself in the morning."
After looking over the medicine section, a customer asked if we had any single-dose packets of DayQuil. I handed it to him and he wondered aloud why he hadn't seen it. "Probably because you need it," I answered, earning a laugh.
While giving another customer direction, one customer actually said, "You can't miss it, it's a little hole-in-the-wall town."
A customer had $5.24 to pay for the $5 gas he'd pumped and an $.82 can of soda. When I voided the soda he stared at me as though in shock.
I'm in Retail Purgatory. With the elimination of the Deli manager went her boombox. I have the option of eight hours of Muzak... or silence. *twitch*
Someone came in speaking either a variety of Pidgin English or else had an extremely thick accent which I couldn't place. Given the number of Katrina evacuees in the area my first guess is hard-core Creole; my second guess is South Carolina Geechie. Regardless, I couldn't understand a single word he said which only served to piss him off further and make his accent thicker. At least the other customers got a good show.
The Lotto machine goes down and it's the end of the fucking world. The barcode scanner stopped working and keying it in manually wasn't working, so I couldn't validate his ticket. I explained the problem and told him where else he could cash his ticket in the area before state-wide machine shut-down. "Well, that's just my luck," he muttered. "If I didn't have bad luck, I wouldn't have any at all!" I refrained from asking why he gambled if all he had was bad luck.
Mentally ill customer, stinky, talking to self, batting at the air, jerking around to see behind her, staring at the overhead lights, seems paranoid. Yikes. Reminds me of a cracked-out version of Willem from Clerks.
Found a pouch with a used crack pipe in it laying on the asphalt outside the store. Cops are on their way to retrieve it Yay.
More fun with the mathematically illiterate. A woman had a $16 Lotto credit and after about a minute and a half of trying to figure out how many $2 tickets she could get for $16 she told me to give her "sixteen dollars' worth". When she came back in a few minutes later with $8 credit she merely pointed at the tickets she wanted and grunted.
GAH! ASSHOLES DO VEX ME!!! Someone drove off with $30 in gas during a rush. People cut the line and literally threw money at me for gas because they didn't want to wait in the queue like everyone else. Someone bitched vehemently about gas and cigarette prices, paused as though expecting sympathy &/or a discount, then continued bitching when they received neither. People who'd been standing in line for up to ten minutes waited until getting to the counter before slowly digging for money in their pockets. Someone threw a fit because no one sells money orders after 11 PM. Someone else complained because we don't take checks for cellular cards. Multiple people complained about getting carded. Someone wearing next to nothing bitched at me to hurry up because she was freezing, handed me a hundred dollar bill for $5 gas, then bitched about having to wait on the safe for her change. Someone left a used and unwrapped tampon on the bathroom floor next to the trashcan. And yet there was one douche bag who trumped all of these contenders:
"Hey Jennifer, how you doing?" (My name is on my badge.)Some asshat drove off with $40 in gas. I tried to flag him down in the parking lot while getting his tag number and when he didn't stop, I called the cops. The cops escorted him back about ten minutes later. The driver claimed he thought his credit card had gone through at the pump, that he didn't see me chasing his vehicle, and that he's a commercial driver and would never knowingly put his license in jeopardy. I pointed out that I'd told him over the intercom that his card hadn't gone through and that he acknowledged this by hanging the pump back up and started over by selecting "Pay Inside" to get the pump authorized - would he like to see the video footage of all this? The cop raised an eyebrow; he mumbled something and paid cash, which is very strange if he knew his card was good. Yeah, my faith in humanity strengthens each day I'm on this planet.
"I'm good, and yourself?"
"You don't recognize me, do you?"
"No sir, sorry, I don't. Should I know you from somewhere?"
"You don't recognize me because I'm black."
"No, I don't recognize you because you're not one of my regulars."
"No, it's because I'm black! I used to come in here all the time!"
"Oh yeah? How long ago? What shift?"
"Late evening, about six months ago."
"Funny, because I wasn't working here then and this is the overnight shift. I guess all us honkies look alike, huh?"
"........."
"Yeah, that's what I thought. Have a good night and don't worry, I'll definitely remember you the next time you're in."
A customer returned an un-opened pack of condoms because "it wasn't a good night". It's sad that he doesn't anticipate a better night any time in the next few years before the condoms expire. It's doubly sad that he was so tongue-tied with embarrassment that it took fifteen minutes for me to figure out if this was a refund or an exchange for different merchandise.
A customer wanted an atlas of Carrollton. He was specific in wanting an atlas rather than a map. (Note: Carrollton is maybe ten miles wide from end to end - one can drive across it in about five minutes, with lights.)
A young customer told me about exchanging shots with someone in the Wal-Mart parking lot a few minutes ago and how one of the bullets fell out of his gun and landed on his floorboard. He wanted to assure me that although he had pulled in to look for the bullet, he wasn't going to rob me. The only reason I didn't hit the panic button is because he was the same regular who offered to shoot my robber dead if I provided identifying information.
A customer lamented the cost of a six-pack of Heinekin but said he refused to drink domestic beer. "I could but it'd be like a one night stand - I'd hate myself in the morning."
After looking over the medicine section, a customer asked if we had any single-dose packets of DayQuil. I handed it to him and he wondered aloud why he hadn't seen it. "Probably because you need it," I answered, earning a laugh.
While giving another customer direction, one customer actually said, "You can't miss it, it's a little hole-in-the-wall town."
A customer had $5.24 to pay for the $5 gas he'd pumped and an $.82 can of soda. When I voided the soda he stared at me as though in shock.
I'm in Retail Purgatory. With the elimination of the Deli manager went her boombox. I have the option of eight hours of Muzak... or silence. *twitch*
Someone came in speaking either a variety of Pidgin English or else had an extremely thick accent which I couldn't place. Given the number of Katrina evacuees in the area my first guess is hard-core Creole; my second guess is South Carolina Geechie. Regardless, I couldn't understand a single word he said which only served to piss him off further and make his accent thicker. At least the other customers got a good show.
The Lotto machine goes down and it's the end of the fucking world. The barcode scanner stopped working and keying it in manually wasn't working, so I couldn't validate his ticket. I explained the problem and told him where else he could cash his ticket in the area before state-wide machine shut-down. "Well, that's just my luck," he muttered. "If I didn't have bad luck, I wouldn't have any at all!" I refrained from asking why he gambled if all he had was bad luck.
Mentally ill customer, stinky, talking to self, batting at the air, jerking around to see behind her, staring at the overhead lights, seems paranoid. Yikes. Reminds me of a cracked-out version of Willem from Clerks.
Found a pouch with a used crack pipe in it laying on the asphalt outside the store. Cops are on their way to retrieve it Yay.
The Best of Dumber Than Advertised (The Gas Station Years, Part 2)
One of my regulars, a stripper, reached into the waistband of her jeans to pull money from her garter to pay for gas, then handed me an unused pair of pasties as a thank-you for my "dedicated service".
A customer handed me four singles for gas and a five dollar bill, which he wanted changed to singles. *blink*
This isn't something that just happened; it's just that I'm thinking of it now. Three of the women here are pregnant and the only male employee is going to be a father any day now. Our new hire just had a baby a few weeks ago. Sanity/intelligence check: 1) How do you support a family on this pay? 2) One of the pregnant women stays late so she doesn't have to deal with her existing kids - why is she having another one? 3) Another of the pregnant women didn't seem happy when she announced the news so I asked if I should congratulate her. "Everyone else is!" she snapped in reply.
A couple of drunks came in, bloodied up from a fight. They were rather rowdy and generally acting like asses. One of them asked if I had a boyfriend; I lied and said I had a girlfriend. "I'll be she's not as manly as me!" he boasted as he grinned and showed off his beer belly. "I certainly hope not, sir," I replied as I cashed them out.
A customer asked if I'd seen a gold Ford Explorer because he'd lent it to someone in his subdivision a week prior who claimed to be a preacher, and the alleged preacher hadn't yet returned it. He asked my advice on the situation and I suggested he file a police report. He was reluctant to do so because he'd loaned it to the guy and seemed shocked when I pointed out that borrowing without returning is theft.
A customer complained that he'd been waiting ten minutes for his pump to turn on and snapped that he would have left for another station if he weren't out of gas. I asked if he'd not heard me say twice over the intercom that he needed to pre-pay at that particular pump and he said that he hadn't because his hearing is bad. And yet he heard me just fine inside the store as I spoke in a normal volume and pitch, with other people talking around him and a stereo going in the background. Never mind that there are huge fuck-off signs stating pre-pay status on applicable pumps. He then asked if I were going to call the cops on him to report him as a drive-off. Apparently the entire concept of pre-pay eludes this man.
"It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not right!! Y'all are price gouging! Gas in Villa Rica is fourteen cents cheaper! Where do you get off charging $2.76?!?" My attempts at empathy, including telling her I'd just filled up in Douglasville because it's cheaper, failed to ease the situation. God, I love my job...
I suppose it's some sort of hideous testament to Carroll County that I can't tell if the locals are high, retarded, or suffering from a speech impediment. I eventually worked out that this guy was asking if I were related to the Huddlestons in Mount Zion. He was determined to not take "no" for an answer.
A customer was offended that I wasn't having "a big Easter" because I don't have kids. He was also disappointed that I wouldn't share an Easter egg with him. He was quite drunk.
A customer at pump 1 asked to pre-pay $5 so I set the pump for him. He then proceeded to move his car to the other side of the island and couldn't figure out why an entirely different pump than the one he'd pre-paid wouldn't turn on for him.
"Are you open?" - No, you moron, the doors are open and we're lit up like the 4th of July merely to taunt you with the illusion of service.
Putting away opened cartons of cigarettes from 2nd shift. There are 27 packs of Benson & Hedges Light 100's already in the rack, despite selling perhaps three packs a month. Some dork opened a new carton for one pack of these.
I hate people who try to take advantage. A woman came in with no ID, so she couldn't write a check. All she said she needed was a single-serve pack of Tylenol, which comes to $1.39 with tax. She had about $.75 so, in the spirit of generosity (and because she looked like hell), I made up the difference from my own pocket. She then asked if I could cover her for a pack of Motrin, too. She seemed taken aback when I told her "no". (This incident inspired a poem of which I'm rather proud, if I may say so.)
A middle-aged customer didn't know that the orange-handled pot is decaf; I thought that was universal in the States. Next he asked if he could fill his cup or if he only got half of its capacity. Then he asked if lids cost extra. To the best of my estimation, these were all legitimate questions. Is there some significance to the fact that he looked like a human-sized Bilbo Baggins?
As you all know, gas station attendants are the repository of all navigational knowledge. Someone just asked how long it would take to get from here to some obscure little town in Tennessee. We're at least four hours away from the Tennessee border.
This is a first. A guy came in wearing jeans hanging off his ass to show his boxers. That's not the new part. What's new is that he also had sweat pants on over the jeans, which were hanging down to his knees. Does not getting it make me a square?
(A few days after re-branding by the new parent company): A customer noticed my new shirt reading "Kangaroo Express" and asked if we weren't "Cowboys" anymore. I told him we were Australian cowboys. He took me seriously.
The assistant manager came in 20 minutes late and in an effort to speed up shift change she "saved" thirty seconds by running my end-of-shift reports herself. Amend that: by running the wrong reports herself. Running the correct reports after those ones printed added about seven more minutes... then she somehow managed to lock up the main till... great job, dumb ass. Thanks for helping.
The paper has an article about gas prices which they concluded with a local woman's idea on how to lower the cost at the pump: "If everybody bought just $10 worth, then there would be more gas available and the price would come down." That's so fucking retarded on so many levels that it's mind-boggling.
Lots of rednecks on their way to the races at Talladega. One young shining star threw a lit cigarette from the curb - which has an ash tray less than a foot from him - towards the gas pumps.
A customer looking for milk checked every door along the cooler wall except for the one on the far left. When asked, I told him the milk was behind "the cooler door all the way to the left". Despite the huge neon sign that says MILK right above this door, he still couldn't find it.
Another location of ours down the road closes at midnight. One of their clerks came in and displayed her idiocy. The customer ahead of her, whom she'd seen me start a ticket for, went out to his truck to get more money. Before I could hit "suspend" she flashed her candy in front of the scanner, thus adding to his ticket instead of hers and making me void the whole thing and start over. She'd grabbed two of the same item from our half-off candy bin and became upset when I rang one item at full price rather than ringing each one separately and manually overriding twice for half-off.
"When you work nights, does it seem like all you do is sleep and work?" - Yeah, pretty much, but isn't that true of any full-time job?
A customer asked for $20 in gas and some tobacco. He felt it necessary to specify that the tobacco would come out of the second twenty dollar bill.
It is my firm belief that if one is incapable of basic communication in any language, one has no business buying a pre-paid cellular card. This kid looked at me blankly during every point in the transaction. "Anything else?" Blank stare. "Twenty dollars, please." Blank stare, eventual fumbling for his wallet. "Thanks, have a good morning." Grunt that would have made a Neanderthal proud.
An intoxicated young man asked if I could guarantee that the Doritos with the new package design he'd picked up would taste the same as before. I told him he could spend a dollar in the name of science. He said the new packaging scared him. I told him to stay away from the Waffle House then - they just redid their menus. Man, I love screwing with the drunks.
A memo from the DM to the manager is on the bulletin board next to the schedule. It reads in part:
A customer handed me four singles for gas and a five dollar bill, which he wanted changed to singles. *blink*
This isn't something that just happened; it's just that I'm thinking of it now. Three of the women here are pregnant and the only male employee is going to be a father any day now. Our new hire just had a baby a few weeks ago. Sanity/intelligence check: 1) How do you support a family on this pay? 2) One of the pregnant women stays late so she doesn't have to deal with her existing kids - why is she having another one? 3) Another of the pregnant women didn't seem happy when she announced the news so I asked if I should congratulate her. "Everyone else is!" she snapped in reply.
A couple of drunks came in, bloodied up from a fight. They were rather rowdy and generally acting like asses. One of them asked if I had a boyfriend; I lied and said I had a girlfriend. "I'll be she's not as manly as me!" he boasted as he grinned and showed off his beer belly. "I certainly hope not, sir," I replied as I cashed them out.
A customer asked if I'd seen a gold Ford Explorer because he'd lent it to someone in his subdivision a week prior who claimed to be a preacher, and the alleged preacher hadn't yet returned it. He asked my advice on the situation and I suggested he file a police report. He was reluctant to do so because he'd loaned it to the guy and seemed shocked when I pointed out that borrowing without returning is theft.
A customer complained that he'd been waiting ten minutes for his pump to turn on and snapped that he would have left for another station if he weren't out of gas. I asked if he'd not heard me say twice over the intercom that he needed to pre-pay at that particular pump and he said that he hadn't because his hearing is bad. And yet he heard me just fine inside the store as I spoke in a normal volume and pitch, with other people talking around him and a stereo going in the background. Never mind that there are huge fuck-off signs stating pre-pay status on applicable pumps. He then asked if I were going to call the cops on him to report him as a drive-off. Apparently the entire concept of pre-pay eludes this man.
"It's not fair! It's not fair! It's not right!! Y'all are price gouging! Gas in Villa Rica is fourteen cents cheaper! Where do you get off charging $2.76?!?" My attempts at empathy, including telling her I'd just filled up in Douglasville because it's cheaper, failed to ease the situation. God, I love my job...
I suppose it's some sort of hideous testament to Carroll County that I can't tell if the locals are high, retarded, or suffering from a speech impediment. I eventually worked out that this guy was asking if I were related to the Huddlestons in Mount Zion. He was determined to not take "no" for an answer.
A customer was offended that I wasn't having "a big Easter" because I don't have kids. He was also disappointed that I wouldn't share an Easter egg with him. He was quite drunk.
A customer at pump 1 asked to pre-pay $5 so I set the pump for him. He then proceeded to move his car to the other side of the island and couldn't figure out why an entirely different pump than the one he'd pre-paid wouldn't turn on for him.
"Are you open?" - No, you moron, the doors are open and we're lit up like the 4th of July merely to taunt you with the illusion of service.
Putting away opened cartons of cigarettes from 2nd shift. There are 27 packs of Benson & Hedges Light 100's already in the rack, despite selling perhaps three packs a month. Some dork opened a new carton for one pack of these.
I hate people who try to take advantage. A woman came in with no ID, so she couldn't write a check. All she said she needed was a single-serve pack of Tylenol, which comes to $1.39 with tax. She had about $.75 so, in the spirit of generosity (and because she looked like hell), I made up the difference from my own pocket. She then asked if I could cover her for a pack of Motrin, too. She seemed taken aback when I told her "no". (This incident inspired a poem of which I'm rather proud, if I may say so.)
A middle-aged customer didn't know that the orange-handled pot is decaf; I thought that was universal in the States. Next he asked if he could fill his cup or if he only got half of its capacity. Then he asked if lids cost extra. To the best of my estimation, these were all legitimate questions. Is there some significance to the fact that he looked like a human-sized Bilbo Baggins?
As you all know, gas station attendants are the repository of all navigational knowledge. Someone just asked how long it would take to get from here to some obscure little town in Tennessee. We're at least four hours away from the Tennessee border.
This is a first. A guy came in wearing jeans hanging off his ass to show his boxers. That's not the new part. What's new is that he also had sweat pants on over the jeans, which were hanging down to his knees. Does not getting it make me a square?
(A few days after re-branding by the new parent company): A customer noticed my new shirt reading "Kangaroo Express" and asked if we weren't "Cowboys" anymore. I told him we were Australian cowboys. He took me seriously.
The assistant manager came in 20 minutes late and in an effort to speed up shift change she "saved" thirty seconds by running my end-of-shift reports herself. Amend that: by running the wrong reports herself. Running the correct reports after those ones printed added about seven more minutes... then she somehow managed to lock up the main till... great job, dumb ass. Thanks for helping.
The paper has an article about gas prices which they concluded with a local woman's idea on how to lower the cost at the pump: "If everybody bought just $10 worth, then there would be more gas available and the price would come down." That's so fucking retarded on so many levels that it's mind-boggling.
Lots of rednecks on their way to the races at Talladega. One young shining star threw a lit cigarette from the curb - which has an ash tray less than a foot from him - towards the gas pumps.
A customer looking for milk checked every door along the cooler wall except for the one on the far left. When asked, I told him the milk was behind "the cooler door all the way to the left". Despite the huge neon sign that says MILK right above this door, he still couldn't find it.
Another location of ours down the road closes at midnight. One of their clerks came in and displayed her idiocy. The customer ahead of her, whom she'd seen me start a ticket for, went out to his truck to get more money. Before I could hit "suspend" she flashed her candy in front of the scanner, thus adding to his ticket instead of hers and making me void the whole thing and start over. She'd grabbed two of the same item from our half-off candy bin and became upset when I rang one item at full price rather than ringing each one separately and manually overriding twice for half-off.
"When you work nights, does it seem like all you do is sleep and work?" - Yeah, pretty much, but isn't that true of any full-time job?
A customer asked for $20 in gas and some tobacco. He felt it necessary to specify that the tobacco would come out of the second twenty dollar bill.
It is my firm belief that if one is incapable of basic communication in any language, one has no business buying a pre-paid cellular card. This kid looked at me blankly during every point in the transaction. "Anything else?" Blank stare. "Twenty dollars, please." Blank stare, eventual fumbling for his wallet. "Thanks, have a good morning." Grunt that would have made a Neanderthal proud.
An intoxicated young man asked if I could guarantee that the Doritos with the new package design he'd picked up would taste the same as before. I told him he could spend a dollar in the name of science. He said the new packaging scared him. I told him to stay away from the Waffle House then - they just redid their menus. Man, I love screwing with the drunks.
A memo from the DM to the manager is on the bulletin board next to the schedule. It reads in part:
"The following people are currently not on direct deposit... I expect either a direct deposit form on these employees by Friday or a complete explanation, written by them, as to why they do not want to go direct deposit... It is a necessary thing for everyone to be on direct deposit as quickly as possible. It will be to their benefit to be on direct deposit, and will be detrimental if they are not on it... this does include police officers and they need to be on direct deposit also."My reply, in writing, was as follows:
"I find your recent memo regarding direct deposit offensive and insulting. What I do with my paycheck, including how I cash it, is solely at my discretion and how I handle my money is certainly none of your concern. For me there is no benefit to direct deposit as I would still need to go to the bank to withdraw my money; what difference does the extra thirty seconds to deposit the check make? Furthermore, this stinks of Big Brother. I have had the option of direct deposit at most of my jobs but you are the first to demand I take that option. I have had ample time to hand in the direct deposit form which came with my new hire paperwork. In choosing to not hand it in I have already indicated that I see no benefit from being on direct deposit. As for the implied threat of retaliation for those of us who do not comply with your dictates on this matter I ask to be provided by you, in writing, the reasons which supposedly necessitate this arrogant, intrusive, and Orwellian demand.
P.S. - If the cops are on the payroll, as you also state in your memo, please instruct them to patrol the store on a regular and frequent basis, particularly during 3rd shift. If they did something besides bullshit with the waitresses at the Waffle House all night, perhaps the criminal element would be less likely to rob our stores."(While I never did receive a written reply, the DM and RM both stopped by to speak with me before the week was out. Not only did I remain on paper checks until the day I quit, but I was also promoted to assistant manager a few months later.)
The Best of Dumber Than Advertised (The Gas Station Years, Part 1)
A trucker came in and asked for directions to "Carolton South Carolina" and insisted she wasn't far, she just couldn't find the road she needed. She seemed surprised when I informed her that she was in Georgia, almost to the Alabama border. The establishment and road she's looking for is about three blocks from my store which begs the question, how does a trucker mistake South Carolina for Georgia?
This happens all the time and thus reinforces my sentiment that those who play the Lotto are idiots: A customer asks for six of a single ticket, I ask them if they want anything else, they tell me "no", then they ask for six of a different kind of ticket.
A heavily tattooed customer has, among his many tats, two horns inked onto his forehead. In addition to looking stupid because they're 2-D he also has a few days' growth, making him look like a Chia-Demon. Sa-sa-sa-Satan!
A customer told me I was "too cool" for putting his beer in a bag with handles. I replied, "Well, if there's an epicenter for all the coolness in the world, I figure I must be it at least part of the time."
A customer unhooked the gas pump but didn't push the button for authorization, so he left it off the hook and came inside to see why it wouldn't start. I explained that he had to hang the pump back up if he wanted to pre-pay or he could just press the button and stop it himself at ten dollars. When I asked which he wanted to do he replied, "Yeah, sure, I'm in no hurry." And stood there.
It must be time to stalk and murder some sort of innocent animal again. I'm seeing an awful lot of people in hunter's camo today. Nothing really stands out apart from the statistical anomaly that camo = pituary retard. And man, are they predictable: an average of 5 bags of ice, between 2 and 4 six-packs of beer (why not buy a case, stupid?), one or more cans of chaw, some danishes, and an orange juice to round out their breakfast.
A coworker needed a calculator to double-check that 10 x 17 = 170.
Nothing makes me want to give stellar customer service like someone who will not acknowledge me when I speak to them. While some of my customers are knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing Homo Erectus throwbacks whose verbiage is limited largely to indecipherable grunts and noises that sound like "Bud" and "Skoal", there are others who come in the door speaking fluent English on cell phones and completely shut up when they get to the counter. I know I don't have the greatest job in the world, but come on!
Phone conversation:
How's this for a mastery of written English?
A customer wasn't looking where he was going, missed the poles with the reflectors, and got stuck in the ditch beside our driveway.
Exchange with a customer:
Two customers each had $6 in gas. When the first of the two got to the counter I asked if he were in the red or the white car. His resplendent answer was a vague, "That one over there," further clarified by, "Uh, three or four, maybe that's two..." The white car was on pump 1/2, the red car on 3/4. These pumps are on separate islands.
A customer came inside the store solely to inform me that this town has a strip joint.
A customer asked where to go nearby to get food. I suggested the Ingles because they're about three miles up the road and open 24 hours. "They've got food?" he asked in disbelief. I assured him that yes, as a grocery store, they had lots of food.
An assistant manager saw me smoking Camel Wides and asked me what the difference was to normal Camels. "They're wider than Camel Filters." She actually needed this statement clarified.
I hate stupid questions:
This happens all the time and thus reinforces my sentiment that those who play the Lotto are idiots: A customer asks for six of a single ticket, I ask them if they want anything else, they tell me "no", then they ask for six of a different kind of ticket.
A heavily tattooed customer has, among his many tats, two horns inked onto his forehead. In addition to looking stupid because they're 2-D he also has a few days' growth, making him look like a Chia-Demon. Sa-sa-sa-Satan!
A customer told me I was "too cool" for putting his beer in a bag with handles. I replied, "Well, if there's an epicenter for all the coolness in the world, I figure I must be it at least part of the time."
A customer unhooked the gas pump but didn't push the button for authorization, so he left it off the hook and came inside to see why it wouldn't start. I explained that he had to hang the pump back up if he wanted to pre-pay or he could just press the button and stop it himself at ten dollars. When I asked which he wanted to do he replied, "Yeah, sure, I'm in no hurry." And stood there.
It must be time to stalk and murder some sort of innocent animal again. I'm seeing an awful lot of people in hunter's camo today. Nothing really stands out apart from the statistical anomaly that camo = pituary retard. And man, are they predictable: an average of 5 bags of ice, between 2 and 4 six-packs of beer (why not buy a case, stupid?), one or more cans of chaw, some danishes, and an orange juice to round out their breakfast.
A coworker needed a calculator to double-check that 10 x 17 = 170.
Nothing makes me want to give stellar customer service like someone who will not acknowledge me when I speak to them. While some of my customers are knuckle-dragging, mouth-breathing Homo Erectus throwbacks whose verbiage is limited largely to indecipherable grunts and noises that sound like "Bud" and "Skoal", there are others who come in the door speaking fluent English on cell phones and completely shut up when they get to the counter. I know I don't have the greatest job in the world, but come on!
Phone conversation:
"Thank you for calling Cowboys, this is Jennifer. How may I help you?"There is something profoundly ironic about someone speaking in Ebonics bitching about how the Mexicans at work can't speak proper English.
"What are you doing?"
"May I ask who this is, please?"
"Eddie. What are you doing?"
"Working. And yourself?"
"Well, are you real busy right now? Can you talk for a moment?"
"I do have things that need to get done, yes. Can I help you with something?"
"I just wanted to see if you could talk for a bit."
"I'm sorry, but do I know you?"
"My friends and I came in about a week ago. You probably don't remember me."
"Okay..."
"Yeah, my friends wanted to see if I had the balls to call you up."
"Well, it seems you have, sir. Congratulations."
How's this for a mastery of written English?
Jennifer, please make sure you put up the stuff up in the totes in the back in front of the cooler. Thanks, Crystal. if you have any questions feel free to call me. My # is on the # list.A customer just told me she didn't know how to operate a gas pump, in that she didn't know how to get it to stop. This was after telling me she'd stop it at twenty so that she didn't have to go back outside to hang it up in order for me to pre-pay the pump.
A customer wasn't looking where he was going, missed the poles with the reflectors, and got stuck in the ditch beside our driveway.
Exchange with a customer:
"Are you pagan?"Earlier this shift, just before last call (you can't buy alcohol on Sunday in Georgia), a young customer got abusive because the only ID he had didn't have a birth date on it. It was some sort of military induction card, from the looks of it, which at best implied that he was over 18 years of age. Not long after last call I had another customer who was so drunk he was stumbling and who argued vehemently with me because he had no ID to purchase cigarettes. Never mind that his girlfriend had a valid ID and I sold them anyway - it was the principle of the thing, dammit... a dangerous stance to take against someone who was reared on the concepts of La Vendetta and the Gypsy Blood Feud. So, because it was all about the principle of the thing, I motioned inside the cop who'd pulled into the parking lot and told him the guy had been drunk and abusive and I thought the girl might have been drinking as well. He made like he was doing paperwork until they pulled off, then followed them up the road for a bit before pulling them over. Y'all come back now, ya hear?
"Nope, I'm Christian. That's why I wear the Satanic star upside-down."
Two customers each had $6 in gas. When the first of the two got to the counter I asked if he were in the red or the white car. His resplendent answer was a vague, "That one over there," further clarified by, "Uh, three or four, maybe that's two..." The white car was on pump 1/2, the red car on 3/4. These pumps are on separate islands.
A customer came inside the store solely to inform me that this town has a strip joint.
A customer asked where to go nearby to get food. I suggested the Ingles because they're about three miles up the road and open 24 hours. "They've got food?" he asked in disbelief. I assured him that yes, as a grocery store, they had lots of food.
An assistant manager saw me smoking Camel Wides and asked me what the difference was to normal Camels. "They're wider than Camel Filters." She actually needed this statement clarified.
I hate stupid questions:
"Do you work here?" - Asked while I'm in uniform and detailing the cooler doors with a toothbrush for an upcoming inspection.I now know how bartenders feel when drunks wax philosophical. Some lady was in here for at least an hour telling a perfect stranger (me) all about her recent move and how her boyfriend/fuck-buddy is essentially stalking her; but of course, she sees no problem with this even though he pistol-whipped a previous girlfriend. It's unusual for abject idiocy to be this entertaining. It's a nice change of pace.
"You probably don't know this, but..." - Hey, fuck you too. If I look too ignorant or just plain stupid to answer your question, why waste the time in asking me?
Monday, September 5, 2011
"Dumber Than Advertised" for 2007 May 19
There's nothing like arriving at work, fighting with loitering teenagers for a parking spot, fighting with customers who have to wait so we can change shifts, and receiving the following news in a breathless rush from a harried co-worker as she clocks out:
"Pre-pay on pump 2 does not stop. The card readers on pumps 6, 9, 10, and 12 won't read credit cards. We're out of medium soda lids, there's no more dark roast, I can't find any more Bud 18 long-necks, Coke still hasn't delivered yet and we're out of Vault, Coke, and Dr. Pepper. [Another co-worker] is ready to quit because [the district manager] refused to get on the phone with the Coke rep and ask where the hell our soda is and told her to hash it out with them. We're low on change and the safe is out of twenties. Oh, yeah, and I think the men's bathroom is out of paper. I've got to go - I'm supposed to be back at seven."
Edit: She was back at seven. Unfortunately, no one told her she was supposed to show up at another location. If these are examples of the communication which links this company together, I have no earthly idea how this company produces a profit. It does partially explain the high turn-over rate, however.
"Pre-pay on pump 2 does not stop. The card readers on pumps 6, 9, 10, and 12 won't read credit cards. We're out of medium soda lids, there's no more dark roast, I can't find any more Bud 18 long-necks, Coke still hasn't delivered yet and we're out of Vault, Coke, and Dr. Pepper. [Another co-worker] is ready to quit because [the district manager] refused to get on the phone with the Coke rep and ask where the hell our soda is and told her to hash it out with them. We're low on change and the safe is out of twenties. Oh, yeah, and I think the men's bathroom is out of paper. I've got to go - I'm supposed to be back at seven."
Edit: She was back at seven. Unfortunately, no one told her she was supposed to show up at another location. If these are examples of the communication which links this company together, I have no earthly idea how this company produces a profit. It does partially explain the high turn-over rate, however.
"Dumber Than Advertised" for 2007 May 16
("Dumber Than Advertised" was the title of a journal I kept specifically for the purpose of documenting my daily existence while working at the gas station in my mid-20s. Without it, I'm pretty sure my head would have exploded long ago. Over the years "Dumber Than Advertised" was expanded to include other jobs aside from retail.)
I used to watch The Animaniacs when they were first on the air and, like most sick individuals, I got a huge kick out of the show. I forget the context of the episode, but Yakko remarked of someone that they were "dumber than advertised". I thought that was great, and have used that phrase to describe a myriad of individuals over the years since that episode aired; considering that most of my paying experience as a productive member of adult society has involved retail, I use that phrase quite a bit. This journal will be a record of the dumb crap that's been said or has happened while on the job. Here are a few gems from last night:
1) A regular customer came in and said, "I need to use your ladies' room. Where is it this time?" I replied that the toilets were located in the same place they had been every other time she'd used them. This revelation seemed to astound her.
2) Another customer made a small purchase which totaled, after tax, to $.27. It is worth noting that I make it a point to speak up, enunciate, and to avoid using the regional dialect:
"Okay, twenty-seven."
"Uh . . . whuh?"
"Twenty-seven cents, please."
"Twenny-somethin'?"
"Well, twenty-seven is twenty-something, yes."
3) I'm not the only one who deals with folks who are a few clowns shy of a circus. One co-worker related to me the experience of working with yet a third co-worker who, in a fit of frustration, one day put up hand-made signs on the gas pumps which read, "If you don't know what pump you're on, neither do we." She still had to wrangle with customers who could not be bothered to find the large, neon yellow sticker at head-level with the big, black digits printed on them.
I used to watch The Animaniacs when they were first on the air and, like most sick individuals, I got a huge kick out of the show. I forget the context of the episode, but Yakko remarked of someone that they were "dumber than advertised". I thought that was great, and have used that phrase to describe a myriad of individuals over the years since that episode aired; considering that most of my paying experience as a productive member of adult society has involved retail, I use that phrase quite a bit. This journal will be a record of the dumb crap that's been said or has happened while on the job. Here are a few gems from last night:
1) A regular customer came in and said, "I need to use your ladies' room. Where is it this time?" I replied that the toilets were located in the same place they had been every other time she'd used them. This revelation seemed to astound her.
2) Another customer made a small purchase which totaled, after tax, to $.27. It is worth noting that I make it a point to speak up, enunciate, and to avoid using the regional dialect:
"Okay, twenty-seven."
"Uh . . . whuh?"
"Twenty-seven cents, please."
"Twenny-somethin'?"
"Well, twenty-seven is twenty-something, yes."
3) I'm not the only one who deals with folks who are a few clowns shy of a circus. One co-worker related to me the experience of working with yet a third co-worker who, in a fit of frustration, one day put up hand-made signs on the gas pumps which read, "If you don't know what pump you're on, neither do we." She still had to wrangle with customers who could not be bothered to find the large, neon yellow sticker at head-level with the big, black digits printed on them.
Nineteen Eighty-Four
(I wrote this on April 16, 2007. I was employed at a gas station back then but hadn't yet begun to keep a journal about my job. This was the event which prompted me to do so.)
One of the things I dislike about working with the public is that, every once in a while, I'll be in the delicate position of having to navigate around the socio-political beliefs of customers which do not mesh with my own. I have too much personal integrity to spontaneously change what I believe just so the Customer can Always Be Right; but at the same time, I try to be professional enough to not intentionally inflame them by outrightly disagreeing with them. It can be such a tight-rope balancing act at times that I'm often surprised to not hear a calliope playing in the background.
I was put on second shift yesterday. Second shift is like one eight-hour rush with thirty-second pauses for breath every few hours. I'm used to working third shift, where I'm virtually guaranteed the chance for an entire cigarette every two to three hours; if you're a smoker, you can imagine the kind of irritability I was suppressing around hour six without nicotine. If you're not a smoker, well, I'm just going to say that I was really champing at the bit and becoming short-tempered so that I can move on with the story.
I'm coming up on hour six of the shift when the next nameless face in the line comes to the counter. This nameless face is wearing military fatigues and brandishing a check book. He wishes to pre-pay twenty dollars in gas, and he insists on chatting as we go through the processing of his check. I'm going as quickly as I can, but I do have to verify name to face, address on check, and all those other things which take time and tend to piss off the people in line behind the one writing the check. It turns out the addresses on the check and driver's license differ, so I ask which one is correct:
"The check. Just got re-stationed again."
I'm noting this on the check when I absently ask if he likes it better here.
"It's, uh, it's different."
I'm now writing down the license number and state of issue, absently continuing the small talk: "Too soon to tell?"
"I'm just tired. Just got back from Iraq for the second time, and got two more years to go if they hold to their end of it."
Now he's got my attention. I look up, and really look at him. He's young, maybe twenty-two, and without any obvious injury. When I do bother to check out the daily propaganda, I also check it against the foreign propaganda, so I've got a better idea of what's really going on; and I can see this kid has been incredibly lucky so far. I'm no longer absent from the conversation. "I'm glad to see you've made it back alright. It'll be just a minute while I get an approval code."
The approval code doesn't come. Instead I'm instructed to not take the check due to a record of bounces. Company policy is that I'm not allowed to pass on this information to the customer; all I'm allowed to do is state that I cannot accept their check today, give them a slip of paper with an 800-number to call, and ask if they have another payment method.
"God damn it! I've been shot at every day for the last year, I'm back for three days, and I can't get any fucking gas?? This is bullshit!"
It's worth noting at this point that I live and work in a rather rural part of the Southeastern United States, smack-dab in the middle of Fox News Country. The nearest nationally-known city is about an hour and a half away from us. The closest thing approaching civilization is the University up the street from my place of business, which itself started out as an agricultural college not too long ago and is not the most cosmopolitan campus known to man, by a damn sight. The approximate demographic breakdowns of my area, based on my own observation, are that ethnically the area is split into thirds - White, Black, and Hispanic. Culturally, the area is split into about 70% Rubes, 20% Ghetto Rats, and 10% Everyone Else (pagans, new-agers, alien abductees, Art Bell listeners, academics, free-thinkers, etc.).
There's about ten people in line behind him, and now he's got their attention as well. I'm on stage, the sole act in the center ring, all spotlights trained on me as I'm on the high wire. I'm tired, I'm irritable, I'm nic-fitting, and I've really got to go pee. I'm not in the mood for performing, but I know there's no way out of it. I also know there's probably no way to perform without offending at least one person in line, so I decide to put his shit in the street:
"I'm sorry that you've been inconvenienced by this, sir, but I'm sure out of all the people in this store right now you are the one who understands best that the War on Terror is all about protecting our liberties here on American Soil. I'm sure you can also appreciate that our President, God bless him, has made it clear that American businesses such as this one are an essential part of our economy and that our economy must remain strong in the face of such immanent danger as you've personally fought against. You have your orders and I have mine, and if we don't all follow our orders, The Terrorists Will Win. I'm grateful to you for serving our country as you have and would hate to make your sacrifices meaningless by assisting the Terrorists in any way. Therefore, for your convenience, we also accept debit cards, all major credit cards, and good old American greenbacks. Which would you like to use today, sir?"
The look on his face suggested that this was the first time someone had not only resisted his use of the Military Card, but had done so using the Patriotism Card in such a way that he couldn't trump it without looking like a complete asshole. He mumbled an apology and headed out the door, ducking the glances of everyone else who'd been in line behind him.
To my immediate surprise, no one in line behind the soldier attempted to chastise me for this. As I rang each of them up, however, it became increasingly obvious that I had blown their minds and they didn't know what to think or how to react to what they had just witnessed. He had invoked "Support the Troops", something the predominantly White group of customers in the store at the time tends to strongly believe in. I had invoked "Homeland Security", something else these folks tend to strongly believe in. He had invoked "Military Elitism", which is related to "Support the Troops" but is not as bluntly disseminated to the masses as to be represented by a magnetic ribbon. I had invoked "American Jobs", which I know these people really believe in because I hear them complain daily about "those fuckin' Spics" who are stealing such coveted American jobs as cleaning toilets and planting hedges.
Not knowing how to react, we all just pretended nothing had happened and went about the business of purchasing gas, smokes, and booze. I had just about written all this off when one of the town's Unwashed Hippies got to the counter; he'd been at the back of the line when the semi-confrontation occurred. He was trying really hard to not crack up, and I figured he had a fit of the Weedy Giggles which I see so often.
"What can I get you, Paddy?"
"A pack of Victory Cigarettes, please."
I realized he was the only one in line who knew what I had just done. I handed him his chosen brand, barely managing to keep a straight face myself. "Doubleplusgood, Comrade. Three eighty-four."
The woman behind Paddy had missed the whole thing with the soldier and, not getting the literary references, asked us if we were Commies.
"Inside joke," I shrugged. She appeared unconvinced, and I mused that Ray Bradbury was right:
"You don't have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them."
Doubleplusgood, indeed.
One of the things I dislike about working with the public is that, every once in a while, I'll be in the delicate position of having to navigate around the socio-political beliefs of customers which do not mesh with my own. I have too much personal integrity to spontaneously change what I believe just so the Customer can Always Be Right; but at the same time, I try to be professional enough to not intentionally inflame them by outrightly disagreeing with them. It can be such a tight-rope balancing act at times that I'm often surprised to not hear a calliope playing in the background.
I was put on second shift yesterday. Second shift is like one eight-hour rush with thirty-second pauses for breath every few hours. I'm used to working third shift, where I'm virtually guaranteed the chance for an entire cigarette every two to three hours; if you're a smoker, you can imagine the kind of irritability I was suppressing around hour six without nicotine. If you're not a smoker, well, I'm just going to say that I was really champing at the bit and becoming short-tempered so that I can move on with the story.
I'm coming up on hour six of the shift when the next nameless face in the line comes to the counter. This nameless face is wearing military fatigues and brandishing a check book. He wishes to pre-pay twenty dollars in gas, and he insists on chatting as we go through the processing of his check. I'm going as quickly as I can, but I do have to verify name to face, address on check, and all those other things which take time and tend to piss off the people in line behind the one writing the check. It turns out the addresses on the check and driver's license differ, so I ask which one is correct:
"The check. Just got re-stationed again."
I'm noting this on the check when I absently ask if he likes it better here.
"It's, uh, it's different."
I'm now writing down the license number and state of issue, absently continuing the small talk: "Too soon to tell?"
"I'm just tired. Just got back from Iraq for the second time, and got two more years to go if they hold to their end of it."
Now he's got my attention. I look up, and really look at him. He's young, maybe twenty-two, and without any obvious injury. When I do bother to check out the daily propaganda, I also check it against the foreign propaganda, so I've got a better idea of what's really going on; and I can see this kid has been incredibly lucky so far. I'm no longer absent from the conversation. "I'm glad to see you've made it back alright. It'll be just a minute while I get an approval code."
The approval code doesn't come. Instead I'm instructed to not take the check due to a record of bounces. Company policy is that I'm not allowed to pass on this information to the customer; all I'm allowed to do is state that I cannot accept their check today, give them a slip of paper with an 800-number to call, and ask if they have another payment method.
"God damn it! I've been shot at every day for the last year, I'm back for three days, and I can't get any fucking gas?? This is bullshit!"
It's worth noting at this point that I live and work in a rather rural part of the Southeastern United States, smack-dab in the middle of Fox News Country. The nearest nationally-known city is about an hour and a half away from us. The closest thing approaching civilization is the University up the street from my place of business, which itself started out as an agricultural college not too long ago and is not the most cosmopolitan campus known to man, by a damn sight. The approximate demographic breakdowns of my area, based on my own observation, are that ethnically the area is split into thirds - White, Black, and Hispanic. Culturally, the area is split into about 70% Rubes, 20% Ghetto Rats, and 10% Everyone Else (pagans, new-agers, alien abductees, Art Bell listeners, academics, free-thinkers, etc.).
There's about ten people in line behind him, and now he's got their attention as well. I'm on stage, the sole act in the center ring, all spotlights trained on me as I'm on the high wire. I'm tired, I'm irritable, I'm nic-fitting, and I've really got to go pee. I'm not in the mood for performing, but I know there's no way out of it. I also know there's probably no way to perform without offending at least one person in line, so I decide to put his shit in the street:
"I'm sorry that you've been inconvenienced by this, sir, but I'm sure out of all the people in this store right now you are the one who understands best that the War on Terror is all about protecting our liberties here on American Soil. I'm sure you can also appreciate that our President, God bless him, has made it clear that American businesses such as this one are an essential part of our economy and that our economy must remain strong in the face of such immanent danger as you've personally fought against. You have your orders and I have mine, and if we don't all follow our orders, The Terrorists Will Win. I'm grateful to you for serving our country as you have and would hate to make your sacrifices meaningless by assisting the Terrorists in any way. Therefore, for your convenience, we also accept debit cards, all major credit cards, and good old American greenbacks. Which would you like to use today, sir?"
The look on his face suggested that this was the first time someone had not only resisted his use of the Military Card, but had done so using the Patriotism Card in such a way that he couldn't trump it without looking like a complete asshole. He mumbled an apology and headed out the door, ducking the glances of everyone else who'd been in line behind him.
To my immediate surprise, no one in line behind the soldier attempted to chastise me for this. As I rang each of them up, however, it became increasingly obvious that I had blown their minds and they didn't know what to think or how to react to what they had just witnessed. He had invoked "Support the Troops", something the predominantly White group of customers in the store at the time tends to strongly believe in. I had invoked "Homeland Security", something else these folks tend to strongly believe in. He had invoked "Military Elitism", which is related to "Support the Troops" but is not as bluntly disseminated to the masses as to be represented by a magnetic ribbon. I had invoked "American Jobs", which I know these people really believe in because I hear them complain daily about "those fuckin' Spics" who are stealing such coveted American jobs as cleaning toilets and planting hedges.
Not knowing how to react, we all just pretended nothing had happened and went about the business of purchasing gas, smokes, and booze. I had just about written all this off when one of the town's Unwashed Hippies got to the counter; he'd been at the back of the line when the semi-confrontation occurred. He was trying really hard to not crack up, and I figured he had a fit of the Weedy Giggles which I see so often.
"What can I get you, Paddy?"
"A pack of Victory Cigarettes, please."
I realized he was the only one in line who knew what I had just done. I handed him his chosen brand, barely managing to keep a straight face myself. "Doubleplusgood, Comrade. Three eighty-four."
The woman behind Paddy had missed the whole thing with the soldier and, not getting the literary references, asked us if we were Commies.
"Inside joke," I shrugged. She appeared unconvinced, and I mused that Ray Bradbury was right:
"You don't have to burn books to destroy a culture. Just get people to stop reading them."
Doubleplusgood, indeed.
The Accidental High
I'd known Eric casually for over a year. So, when he heard that I'd lost my job and offered to help me find gainful employment at his current place of business, it seemed like a good idea. The catch was that this gainful employment was over three hours away; I'd need to move. I'll spare the details, but there was a romantic interest tied up in this, and I wound up moving in with him.
Eric was living with family, and they were willing to have me there for a modest monthly stipend, which was good for me . . . except that I didn't know his family. So I asked him if there was anything I needed to know before I set off: topics to not bring up, family politics, etc.
"Everything's cool. Don't worry about it."
I knew I only had money enough for a one-way move, so I wanted to make sure this was a good idea. I asked him again, as open-endedly as possible, "Is there anything at all I should know about before I come down there?" He insisted there was nothing I should be concerned with. A week later I pulled up to the front of his house with less than a hundred dollars to my name, unpacked my things, unhitched my car, and returned the rental truck.
I met his family that night as we sat down to dinner. His step-father was congenial, his sister bubbly and cheerful, the pets playful. Most of the family smoked, and they smoked in the house - a blessing in southern Florida in the middle of a sticky, hot, humid summer. As we lit up cigarettes after dessert, I felt confident that this would work out rather well. We were all getting along, our personalities seemed to mesh, and we were rapidly growing comfortable around one another.
Looking back, I have to say I'm a bit flattered that Eric's step-dad felt comfortable enough that first night to show off his glass pipe, pack a bowl, and offer me the first hit. Stoners, in my experience, tend to be a pretty mellow bunch, but the intelligent ones are usually still a little hesitant about revealing their illicit tendencies to people they barely know. And Eric's step-dad was quite articulate and well-read.
Looking back, I think he thought Eric told me he chain smoked pot when he got tired of popping Vicodin for his various painful ailments, so he didn't think I'd freak.
But that's looking back. At the time, I was barely able to play it off as being no big deal. I was in my early twenties and had been relatively sheltered from drug culture in general. I had, at the time, these abstract academic ideas about drug use which led me to think that I'd be fine with people who used the more "minor" drugs like marijuana. The reality was a sharp contrast to my academic fantasy, however, and I suddenly got an idea of just how screwed I was.
I had no money whatsoever. I didn't yet have the job. I'd already returned the truck. I didn't have enough gas in my tank to leave, even if I abandoned my things. I knew no one else out there. I didn't want to find out what my alcoholic father would think of my predicament, and I didn't want to get an "I told you so" speech from my mother, the Queen of Bad Judgement; I was too proud to call my folks and ask them to bail me out. I was at the mercy of my hosts - a family of pot-heads whose only sober member hadn't seen fit to even hint that rampant drug use was a norm when I'd asked if there was anything I needed to know before moving in.
I kept my cool by looking towards the light at the end of the tunnel: The Job. I figured I could pick up the job, hoard my money, and bail as soon as I had a few weeks of pay under my belt.
I hadn't anticipated the monumental incompetency at Eric's job, however. I hadn't considered that even though I'd completed a telephone interview and had a tentative offer on the table, they would keep me waiting for over two weeks for the mandatory face-to-face interview. I breathed a sigh of relief when that interview finally came, but relief turned to dread when they handed me one final piece of paperwork to take care of.
A drug test.
While waiting to get to this point, I had been killing time by watching day-time t.v. and surfing the Internet, smoking cigs, and drinking cola from the comfort of a house equipped with central air conditioning. Due to the location and weather, the air was running 24-7, constantly re-circulating the air throughout the entire house. And cigarettes weren't the only thing Eric's family smoked in the house on a frequent basis.
I got back, drug paperwork in hand, and asked Eric's step-father where the local head shop was. He'd figured out by now that I wasn't interested in joining this particular hobby, so he had no idea why I'd want to go there. I explained that I wanted to get a detox kit; he asked why. I explained that the way I figured it, if one can get cancer from second-hand cigarette smoke, one can test hot on a drug test from second-hand pot smoke. Eric's step-dad assured me I could not. Eric's step-dad's friends assured me I could not. Eric's sister called me a dumb-ass. Eric said he'd never heard of anyone testing hot from second-hand exposure.
I told them all I was paranoid and to humor me.
An hour later I pulled up to a small shop decorated with psychedelic teddy bears, beaded curtains, and black lights. A cloud of heavy incense wafted from the front door as I entered. The clerk behind the counter was very discreet and professional throughout the entire transaction, even though it had to have been painfully obvious that I was incredibly out of my element in his establishment. I learned that in the Adult Novelty Industry, such products are called "body purifiers" and that they are used to "remove inadvertently ingested environmental pollutants". So that worked out perfectly for me. I wound up purchasing a pint bottle of chlorophyll-colored stuff which was guaranteed to remove "pollutants" from urine within four hours. It was also guaranteed to ensure such "pollutants" stayed out of urine for three hours. For forty dollars, I sure as hell hoped so. Ever the professional, the clerk even knew where the "pollutants" went, since they had to go somewhere, and was also nice enough to let me in on the side effects:
"This product moves ingested pollutants into the muscles, where they're quickly metabolized. Of course, you're encouraged to drink the water to help flush them out of your system more quickly. However, if there are enough pollutants in your body, you may feel ill as the purification occurs."
Translation: If I've got enough THC in my system, this stuff will actually make me high as a kite.
I paid my money, got to the parking lot, and opened the package. The directions recommended drinking the "purifier" chilled - and wouldn't you know, this establishment had possessed enough forethought to store these things in a cooler next to the soda pop. I twisted the cap and took a swig as I pulled into traffic.
I nearly rear-ended the traffic in front of me as I choked. This stuff was horribly disgusting, far worse than anything I'd tasted before or since. The only thing I can think to compare it to is the week-old water used to launder the Jolly Green Giant's jock straps.
I'd managed to force down the contents by the time I pulled back into the driveway. I rushed into the house and chased it with two more bottles worth of water from the tap to get the taste out of my mouth. I'd have had more, but I already felt like my stomach was far too full and I could only assume that regurgitating the diluted wash water would merely be a waste of my money. I hopped on the computer and chain-smoked cigarettes until I'd peed enough to make room for more water. Along the way I looked back at the directions.
In addition to the green stuff, I had to ingest at least eight more bottles of water. I was down by two, which meant six more to go. No matter how much more I drank, I still couldn't get the taste out of my mouth. I think it was my fourth go with the toothpaste when I heard the familiar belly laugh most folks associate with tinned string beans and corn nibblets. I sighed and refilled the bottle. I knew it was working because it was obviously cleaning the nicotine out of my system faster than I could replace it. Lighting up was akin to a sheet lightning enema; I took this to be a good sign.
By late afternoon, I was finally within that magic window when I could safely piss into a little cup and not be branded a junkie. I had finally finished the water as well, but had taken a store-brand bottled water for the sake of appearance. I mean, I'd been on other drug tests before, and every one at every test had a bottle with them. Distending one's bladder at a drug test is as American as apple pie.
And hey, apple pie sounds really good right about now . . .
I glanced at the clock radio, noted the time, and realized I'd not eaten since breakfast. I'd put off eating because I didn't want food to interfere with the detox, so it was no wonder I was hungry and starting to feel light-headed. I had plenty of time to pull into a drive-thru and grab a quick snack on the way to the lab, so I placed an order and waited my turn to hand the cashier my money.
"New glasses, huh? They suit you."
" . . . What?"
"They look good."
"Oh, uh, yeah, thanks . . ."
"Your eyes are still dilated. I guess you just got done, huh?"
I pulled up a few car lengths, went through the motions of checking my order, and then pretended to check my hair. I flipped open the little mirror on my sun visor and swallowed hard.
I didn't know pupils could open so wide that the iris disappeared. I looked like a Grey Alien.
I was horrified. Utterly horrified. I knew they look for stuff like this when you go in for these tests, and I just knew there'd be a note about this on my paperwork which would negate anything my crystal-clear pee had to say about it.
As I pulled off, my stomach rapidly filling with equal parts lead and french fries, I had a vision of a small plastic cup screaming up at the nurse, "I'm not a junkie!"
I snorted.
The cup started doing sobriety tests to prove its point.
I giggled.
The cup was staring nervously at a teddy bear as it pulled out its wallet.
I lost it.
I was five minutes from the lab, twenty minutes to close, at the point of no return, and stoned out of my mind. I was laughing so hard I was crying - amazing, considering I thought every last ounce of spare water in my body was at that moment exerting impressive amounts of pressure on my pelvis.
I managed to compose myself before walking in and decided that, if asked, I'd stick to the story of the eye exam. I wasn't asked. Instead I was handed a clip board and a skeptical glance and told to wait. I got another skeptical glance from another nurse when I went back for the test, but I managed to get through it. I left, got in my car, pulled out of the lot, and held it in for about a block before losing it all over again.
As it turns out, I passed the test, got the job, hoarded my pay, and left like a thief in the night a month and a half later. But that's a story for another time.
Eric was living with family, and they were willing to have me there for a modest monthly stipend, which was good for me . . . except that I didn't know his family. So I asked him if there was anything I needed to know before I set off: topics to not bring up, family politics, etc.
"Everything's cool. Don't worry about it."
I knew I only had money enough for a one-way move, so I wanted to make sure this was a good idea. I asked him again, as open-endedly as possible, "Is there anything at all I should know about before I come down there?" He insisted there was nothing I should be concerned with. A week later I pulled up to the front of his house with less than a hundred dollars to my name, unpacked my things, unhitched my car, and returned the rental truck.
I met his family that night as we sat down to dinner. His step-father was congenial, his sister bubbly and cheerful, the pets playful. Most of the family smoked, and they smoked in the house - a blessing in southern Florida in the middle of a sticky, hot, humid summer. As we lit up cigarettes after dessert, I felt confident that this would work out rather well. We were all getting along, our personalities seemed to mesh, and we were rapidly growing comfortable around one another.
Looking back, I have to say I'm a bit flattered that Eric's step-dad felt comfortable enough that first night to show off his glass pipe, pack a bowl, and offer me the first hit. Stoners, in my experience, tend to be a pretty mellow bunch, but the intelligent ones are usually still a little hesitant about revealing their illicit tendencies to people they barely know. And Eric's step-dad was quite articulate and well-read.
Looking back, I think he thought Eric told me he chain smoked pot when he got tired of popping Vicodin for his various painful ailments, so he didn't think I'd freak.
But that's looking back. At the time, I was barely able to play it off as being no big deal. I was in my early twenties and had been relatively sheltered from drug culture in general. I had, at the time, these abstract academic ideas about drug use which led me to think that I'd be fine with people who used the more "minor" drugs like marijuana. The reality was a sharp contrast to my academic fantasy, however, and I suddenly got an idea of just how screwed I was.
I had no money whatsoever. I didn't yet have the job. I'd already returned the truck. I didn't have enough gas in my tank to leave, even if I abandoned my things. I knew no one else out there. I didn't want to find out what my alcoholic father would think of my predicament, and I didn't want to get an "I told you so" speech from my mother, the Queen of Bad Judgement; I was too proud to call my folks and ask them to bail me out. I was at the mercy of my hosts - a family of pot-heads whose only sober member hadn't seen fit to even hint that rampant drug use was a norm when I'd asked if there was anything I needed to know before moving in.
I kept my cool by looking towards the light at the end of the tunnel: The Job. I figured I could pick up the job, hoard my money, and bail as soon as I had a few weeks of pay under my belt.
I hadn't anticipated the monumental incompetency at Eric's job, however. I hadn't considered that even though I'd completed a telephone interview and had a tentative offer on the table, they would keep me waiting for over two weeks for the mandatory face-to-face interview. I breathed a sigh of relief when that interview finally came, but relief turned to dread when they handed me one final piece of paperwork to take care of.
A drug test.
While waiting to get to this point, I had been killing time by watching day-time t.v. and surfing the Internet, smoking cigs, and drinking cola from the comfort of a house equipped with central air conditioning. Due to the location and weather, the air was running 24-7, constantly re-circulating the air throughout the entire house. And cigarettes weren't the only thing Eric's family smoked in the house on a frequent basis.
I got back, drug paperwork in hand, and asked Eric's step-father where the local head shop was. He'd figured out by now that I wasn't interested in joining this particular hobby, so he had no idea why I'd want to go there. I explained that I wanted to get a detox kit; he asked why. I explained that the way I figured it, if one can get cancer from second-hand cigarette smoke, one can test hot on a drug test from second-hand pot smoke. Eric's step-dad assured me I could not. Eric's step-dad's friends assured me I could not. Eric's sister called me a dumb-ass. Eric said he'd never heard of anyone testing hot from second-hand exposure.
I told them all I was paranoid and to humor me.
An hour later I pulled up to a small shop decorated with psychedelic teddy bears, beaded curtains, and black lights. A cloud of heavy incense wafted from the front door as I entered. The clerk behind the counter was very discreet and professional throughout the entire transaction, even though it had to have been painfully obvious that I was incredibly out of my element in his establishment. I learned that in the Adult Novelty Industry, such products are called "body purifiers" and that they are used to "remove inadvertently ingested environmental pollutants". So that worked out perfectly for me. I wound up purchasing a pint bottle of chlorophyll-colored stuff which was guaranteed to remove "pollutants" from urine within four hours. It was also guaranteed to ensure such "pollutants" stayed out of urine for three hours. For forty dollars, I sure as hell hoped so. Ever the professional, the clerk even knew where the "pollutants" went, since they had to go somewhere, and was also nice enough to let me in on the side effects:
"This product moves ingested pollutants into the muscles, where they're quickly metabolized. Of course, you're encouraged to drink the water to help flush them out of your system more quickly. However, if there are enough pollutants in your body, you may feel ill as the purification occurs."
Translation: If I've got enough THC in my system, this stuff will actually make me high as a kite.
I paid my money, got to the parking lot, and opened the package. The directions recommended drinking the "purifier" chilled - and wouldn't you know, this establishment had possessed enough forethought to store these things in a cooler next to the soda pop. I twisted the cap and took a swig as I pulled into traffic.
I nearly rear-ended the traffic in front of me as I choked. This stuff was horribly disgusting, far worse than anything I'd tasted before or since. The only thing I can think to compare it to is the week-old water used to launder the Jolly Green Giant's jock straps.
I'd managed to force down the contents by the time I pulled back into the driveway. I rushed into the house and chased it with two more bottles worth of water from the tap to get the taste out of my mouth. I'd have had more, but I already felt like my stomach was far too full and I could only assume that regurgitating the diluted wash water would merely be a waste of my money. I hopped on the computer and chain-smoked cigarettes until I'd peed enough to make room for more water. Along the way I looked back at the directions.
In addition to the green stuff, I had to ingest at least eight more bottles of water. I was down by two, which meant six more to go. No matter how much more I drank, I still couldn't get the taste out of my mouth. I think it was my fourth go with the toothpaste when I heard the familiar belly laugh most folks associate with tinned string beans and corn nibblets. I sighed and refilled the bottle. I knew it was working because it was obviously cleaning the nicotine out of my system faster than I could replace it. Lighting up was akin to a sheet lightning enema; I took this to be a good sign.
By late afternoon, I was finally within that magic window when I could safely piss into a little cup and not be branded a junkie. I had finally finished the water as well, but had taken a store-brand bottled water for the sake of appearance. I mean, I'd been on other drug tests before, and every one at every test had a bottle with them. Distending one's bladder at a drug test is as American as apple pie.
And hey, apple pie sounds really good right about now . . .
I glanced at the clock radio, noted the time, and realized I'd not eaten since breakfast. I'd put off eating because I didn't want food to interfere with the detox, so it was no wonder I was hungry and starting to feel light-headed. I had plenty of time to pull into a drive-thru and grab a quick snack on the way to the lab, so I placed an order and waited my turn to hand the cashier my money.
"New glasses, huh? They suit you."
" . . . What?"
"They look good."
"Oh, uh, yeah, thanks . . ."
"Your eyes are still dilated. I guess you just got done, huh?"
I pulled up a few car lengths, went through the motions of checking my order, and then pretended to check my hair. I flipped open the little mirror on my sun visor and swallowed hard.
I didn't know pupils could open so wide that the iris disappeared. I looked like a Grey Alien.
I was horrified. Utterly horrified. I knew they look for stuff like this when you go in for these tests, and I just knew there'd be a note about this on my paperwork which would negate anything my crystal-clear pee had to say about it.
As I pulled off, my stomach rapidly filling with equal parts lead and french fries, I had a vision of a small plastic cup screaming up at the nurse, "I'm not a junkie!"
I snorted.
The cup started doing sobriety tests to prove its point.
I giggled.
The cup was staring nervously at a teddy bear as it pulled out its wallet.
I lost it.
I was five minutes from the lab, twenty minutes to close, at the point of no return, and stoned out of my mind. I was laughing so hard I was crying - amazing, considering I thought every last ounce of spare water in my body was at that moment exerting impressive amounts of pressure on my pelvis.
I managed to compose myself before walking in and decided that, if asked, I'd stick to the story of the eye exam. I wasn't asked. Instead I was handed a clip board and a skeptical glance and told to wait. I got another skeptical glance from another nurse when I went back for the test, but I managed to get through it. I left, got in my car, pulled out of the lot, and held it in for about a block before losing it all over again.
As it turns out, I passed the test, got the job, hoarded my pay, and left like a thief in the night a month and a half later. But that's a story for another time.
Tuesday, October 27, 2009
When worlds collide.
I was driving along a major two-lane highway when I heard 'bang!-thump-thump-thump' come from the right passenger side. Great; a blow-out. I put on my hazards and began to ease over onto the shoulder.
I woke up with my forehead resting on the steering wheel. I gasped, adrenaline surging through me at the thought that I'd fallen asleep at the wheel. Ohmygod - where am I, did I hit anyone, is anyone hurt - and why can't I see anything out of my windshield?
I looked around me, looked out the side windows. Scrub grass, wild foliage, an occasional glimpse of dirt in clods the size and consistency of gravel. Okay; I ran off the road. Right, I was pulling over, and I must have run off the road. At least it doesn't feel like I'm hurt badly... Got the seat belt off and shoved my door open against all the wild growth, then began to skid downhill. Huh?
Once I got about thirty feet away, I was able to turn and see that the car had not only run off the road, but ended facing the highway - perpendicular to the lanes rather than parallel - and was on the bank of a hill at roughly a 35-40 degree angle. No wonder I'd skid. And holy shit... Oh crap what did I hit?!? The entire front end was crumpled like a piece of paper, the hood scrunched towards the cabin so that it was now only a quarter the length it should have been. The sides and back end weren't in great shape either, but nothing like the front. Whatever I'd hit, I figured I'd hit it head on and the rest of the damage came when I went off-road.
I was lucky to be alive, and even luckier to be able to self-extract from a wreck like this. I began to frantically look around for other vehicles, other wreckage, desperately hoping that anyone else involved had been covered by the same cosmic insurance policy I'd benefited from.
There were two other vehicles - a new, shiny black and silver pick-up which seemed to have been traveling the same direction I had been and who'd pulled over well before the accident, and an old green sports car that seemed modeled after the Delorian, only lower rent and hungry for rice instead of plutonium. They'd been traveling the opposite direction and were also on the shoulder, untouched.
"Hey! Hey!!" I began to wave my arms at the drivers of these vehicles. "Is anyone else hurt?"
The woman in the pick-up stayed in the cab, her ear glued to the phone. I wouldn't begrudge her that; maybe she was on the phone with 911, calling the State Patrol over to the scene. The man in the green car began to ease towards me from his end of the road. I could see that he'd moved the debris from the roadway and collected it into piles, probably at the risk of being run over. Rubbernecking out here meant flying past at about 70 miles per hour. Considerate.
"He's long gone," pseudo-Delorian began to explain once he reached my side of the tarmac. "I don't know how. Half of this-" he gestured to the automotive baubles, "-is his."
"I... Hit and run?" I blinked as my head whirled in confusion. Christ, what was it? A rig?
"Nope. Some red car, like a Firebird or Camaro or something. We didn't get a plate, but he can't be hard to miss."
"A red... car?" That just wasn't sinking in. "A car did this?"
"Yeah." Delorian Man approached the remains of my vehicle, reached a hand under the crushed passenger side fender, and peeled a large portion of the fiberglass body off the chassis as easily as if it had been a candy wrapper, or an orange peel. "See?" He held the skin of my car out to me. "Bright red, wadda they call it? Candy apple red?"
My eyes went unfocused and it became hard to breathe all of a sudden. I began to sink to the gravel underneath me as I passed out...
I woke up with a jerk, sitting upright so suddenly that my feet swinging over the edge of the couch almost kicked the dog in the head. I was breathing heavily and covered in a sheen of sweat. I looked around - home. I was at home.
Wow, what a fucked up dream. I mean, who could peel part of a car off like that? Rip it off and splinter the fiberglass if it had barely been hanging on, but peel it? C'mon... Feeling that instinctive need to reassure oneself that nightmares have no basis, I made my way to the windows facing the driveway and looked out at my car.
Which was nowhere in sight.
My stomach sank like a stone. Oh shit, where was my car?? Had I really been in an accident? Oh no, that meant my car was totaled out, I had no vehicle, how would I get to work-
I woke up on the couch. This time I stayed still, opting to stare at the ceiling as I forced my thoughts to stop circling around my brain. Was I awake? Asleep? At home? Hallucinating on an ER table somewhere?
I listened to the sounds around me to help me decide. A t.v. was on somewhere. So was country music. One roommate was asking the other to take the dogs outside to potty. Their son was asking if dinner were ready yet. Judging from the smell, they were cooking chili.
Okay. All reassuring signs that I was, in fact, at home. I slowly got up, noting distantly the odd sensation that I was moving before my body was, and that the dense physical shell was coming along reluctantly. I went to look out the windows.
My car was there, in its appointed place, with no evidence of mishap.
I went outside and lit a cigarette, pondering the theory about the world splitting off into separate reality tunnels each time a choice is made. Had I just visited one of these alternates, one in which there had been a catastrophic accident which had destroyed my car?
Nah. After all, who the hell can peel fiberglass like it's Velcro?
I woke up with my forehead resting on the steering wheel. I gasped, adrenaline surging through me at the thought that I'd fallen asleep at the wheel. Ohmygod - where am I, did I hit anyone, is anyone hurt - and why can't I see anything out of my windshield?
I looked around me, looked out the side windows. Scrub grass, wild foliage, an occasional glimpse of dirt in clods the size and consistency of gravel. Okay; I ran off the road. Right, I was pulling over, and I must have run off the road. At least it doesn't feel like I'm hurt badly... Got the seat belt off and shoved my door open against all the wild growth, then began to skid downhill. Huh?
Once I got about thirty feet away, I was able to turn and see that the car had not only run off the road, but ended facing the highway - perpendicular to the lanes rather than parallel - and was on the bank of a hill at roughly a 35-40 degree angle. No wonder I'd skid. And holy shit... Oh crap what did I hit?!? The entire front end was crumpled like a piece of paper, the hood scrunched towards the cabin so that it was now only a quarter the length it should have been. The sides and back end weren't in great shape either, but nothing like the front. Whatever I'd hit, I figured I'd hit it head on and the rest of the damage came when I went off-road.
I was lucky to be alive, and even luckier to be able to self-extract from a wreck like this. I began to frantically look around for other vehicles, other wreckage, desperately hoping that anyone else involved had been covered by the same cosmic insurance policy I'd benefited from.
There were two other vehicles - a new, shiny black and silver pick-up which seemed to have been traveling the same direction I had been and who'd pulled over well before the accident, and an old green sports car that seemed modeled after the Delorian, only lower rent and hungry for rice instead of plutonium. They'd been traveling the opposite direction and were also on the shoulder, untouched.
"Hey! Hey!!" I began to wave my arms at the drivers of these vehicles. "Is anyone else hurt?"
The woman in the pick-up stayed in the cab, her ear glued to the phone. I wouldn't begrudge her that; maybe she was on the phone with 911, calling the State Patrol over to the scene. The man in the green car began to ease towards me from his end of the road. I could see that he'd moved the debris from the roadway and collected it into piles, probably at the risk of being run over. Rubbernecking out here meant flying past at about 70 miles per hour. Considerate.
"He's long gone," pseudo-Delorian began to explain once he reached my side of the tarmac. "I don't know how. Half of this-" he gestured to the automotive baubles, "-is his."
"I... Hit and run?" I blinked as my head whirled in confusion. Christ, what was it? A rig?
"Nope. Some red car, like a Firebird or Camaro or something. We didn't get a plate, but he can't be hard to miss."
"A red... car?" That just wasn't sinking in. "A car did this?"
"Yeah." Delorian Man approached the remains of my vehicle, reached a hand under the crushed passenger side fender, and peeled a large portion of the fiberglass body off the chassis as easily as if it had been a candy wrapper, or an orange peel. "See?" He held the skin of my car out to me. "Bright red, wadda they call it? Candy apple red?"
My eyes went unfocused and it became hard to breathe all of a sudden. I began to sink to the gravel underneath me as I passed out...
I woke up with a jerk, sitting upright so suddenly that my feet swinging over the edge of the couch almost kicked the dog in the head. I was breathing heavily and covered in a sheen of sweat. I looked around - home. I was at home.
Wow, what a fucked up dream. I mean, who could peel part of a car off like that? Rip it off and splinter the fiberglass if it had barely been hanging on, but peel it? C'mon... Feeling that instinctive need to reassure oneself that nightmares have no basis, I made my way to the windows facing the driveway and looked out at my car.
Which was nowhere in sight.
My stomach sank like a stone. Oh shit, where was my car?? Had I really been in an accident? Oh no, that meant my car was totaled out, I had no vehicle, how would I get to work-
I woke up on the couch. This time I stayed still, opting to stare at the ceiling as I forced my thoughts to stop circling around my brain. Was I awake? Asleep? At home? Hallucinating on an ER table somewhere?
I listened to the sounds around me to help me decide. A t.v. was on somewhere. So was country music. One roommate was asking the other to take the dogs outside to potty. Their son was asking if dinner were ready yet. Judging from the smell, they were cooking chili.
Okay. All reassuring signs that I was, in fact, at home. I slowly got up, noting distantly the odd sensation that I was moving before my body was, and that the dense physical shell was coming along reluctantly. I went to look out the windows.
My car was there, in its appointed place, with no evidence of mishap.
I went outside and lit a cigarette, pondering the theory about the world splitting off into separate reality tunnels each time a choice is made. Had I just visited one of these alternates, one in which there had been a catastrophic accident which had destroyed my car?
Nah. After all, who the hell can peel fiberglass like it's Velcro?
Monday, October 26, 2009
Hucksters on parade.
I know this "Balloon Boy" crap has been everywhere lately and, if you're anything like me, you're sick of hearing about it by now. So I'll keep this short by saying only two things.
The first is that I learned about it while I was at work on the 15th during our bi-monthly paycheck meeting. We were about to leave when a nearly hysterical Nurse Aide barged in and sprung a prayer meeting on us. In a secular, corporate-owned nursing facility. With the Administrator present, who was content to not only say nothing about the inappropriateness of this, but to join in herself. Seriously. A fundamentalist, 'washed in the blood of the lamb' prayer meeting.
My first thought was, "Let's pra- are you fucking kidding me??"
My second thought, once the subject of the prayer sunk in, was, "Bullshit."
A separate, more detailed post on why I quit my job is forthcoming.
The second thing I will say about this circus is that I find the rapid spread of the internet memes surrounding it immensely entertaining. The best one I've seen yet (click pic to see full size)*:
Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net
*Even more entertaining when you remember that scene in 'Raiders of the Lost Ark' when Indie throws the Nazis overboard on the dirigible, and you replace the Nazis with Balloon Boy.
The first is that I learned about it while I was at work on the 15th during our bi-monthly paycheck meeting. We were about to leave when a nearly hysterical Nurse Aide barged in and sprung a prayer meeting on us. In a secular, corporate-owned nursing facility. With the Administrator present, who was content to not only say nothing about the inappropriateness of this, but to join in herself. Seriously. A fundamentalist, 'washed in the blood of the lamb' prayer meeting.
My first thought was, "Let's pra- are you fucking kidding me??"
My second thought, once the subject of the prayer sunk in, was, "Bullshit."
A separate, more detailed post on why I quit my job is forthcoming.
The second thing I will say about this circus is that I find the rapid spread of the internet memes surrounding it immensely entertaining. The best one I've seen yet (click pic to see full size)*:
Cyanide & Happiness @ Explosm.net
*Even more entertaining when you remember that scene in 'Raiders of the Lost Ark' when Indie throws the Nazis overboard on the dirigible, and you replace the Nazis with Balloon Boy.
Technobsession.
Another "what should I do?" letter sent in to Cary Tennis over at Salon, this time about a boyfriend obsessed with gadgets:
Without reading further, I can already tell your relationship is fucked. Any age gap more than four or five years is asking for trouble; and the younger you are, and the wider the gap is, the more trouble you'll experience. Unless you're in a nursing home and all your prospects are in the 70-100 year range. Then I don't think it matters so much anymore.
Translation: I have daddy issues, an inferiority complex, and a fear of being alone, all of which manifest as the need to be validated as a human being via my relationship status. I am addicted to the drama in our relationship because negative attention is better than no attention at all. Additionally, I am too (willfully?) naive to understand that my father figure/boyfriend gets off on mindfucking me.
This is one of your primary issues with him? 'Primary', from the root 'prime', meaning 'first', suggests that something else about him ties as tops on your list of Things That Piss Me Off. You would do well to inventory that list instead of trying to whitewash this guy by attempting to soften your language.
You don't mention how many hours a week he puts in at his job, so I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess that this might be the tie for 'Primary'. Because let's see... a full-time job is generally 35-40 hours per week, and it sounds like your law school is part-time. Figure six hours a week classroom plus another six to ten hours in homework, projects, etc, and you've got a second job to the tune of 12-16 hours per week. A grand total of 47-56 hours put in by you - not including your commutes, errand running, and any (all?) housework you're responsible for once you get home. Then you need time to unwind and decompress... So yeah, your time with him is at a premium and if he works fewer hours than you do, he should get his online time while you're away. One point in your corner, at least.
Damn it, quit mincing words! It's embarrassing. Look, just because someone's a technophile doesn't mean they get a free pass to be a socially moronic troglodyte. There's nothing wrong with having what Eddie Izzard calls 'techno-joy', but healthy technophiles have affinities, not attachments. That means they can not only put the gadgets down and completely unplug for a while, they might even enjoy doing so. Anyone who is to the point of 'attachment' and making you feel 'like a secondhand citizen to gadgets' has more problems than can be fixed through an advice column - and frankly, so do the people who put up with such shit.
This isn't affinity, or even attachment - this is addiction. Seriously, chica, listen to yourself! Replace the word 'iPhone' with 'alcohol' or 'heroin' or 'crystal meth' and you'd be a lot less inclined to dupe yourself, wouldn't you? Your boyfriend has an addiction, and like any other addiction, the addict will not change unless they want to change and have the tools to maintain the change over time. Seeing as your boy is around computers all day as a career... well, good luck with that.
(And besides, if he actually believes these 'lame scenarios' he uses to justify his joneses, then it's not just the scenarios which are lame. Protip: Neither I, nor anyone I know, would hire a lawyer whose significant other can be stereotyped as the creepy/pathetic Cheetoes-eating guy who wishes he lived on The Enterprise instead of in his mother's basement and cringes from soap, water, and 'The Daystar'.)
No.
Well, on second thought, yes. You're wrong to think his behavior is rude because 'rude' is not the proper category for this crap. The kid at McDonald's who is too busy texting the fry cook to take my order is rude. Anyone who talks on their cell while using the toilet is rude (not to mention incredibly disgusting). What you're putting up with is a maladaptive social disorder displayed by someone with stunted development and a completely selfish lack of respect for anyone other than himself. And in the context of what is purported to be a serious romantic relationship, it is also neglect - which is a form of abuse.
Doing violence to his toys would be a Pyrrhic victory at best - in fact, it would serve as an excuse to upgrade, and I'm sure that would only anger you further. The solution isn't getting rid of his toys, but getting rid of him. As it is, he doesn't need a girlfriend except, perhaps, as a status symbol (in the land of perpetual virginity, the man who gets laid is king). Oh, and the breasts? I'm pretty sure there's an app for that.
If you insist on trying to make this relationship work, may I suggest e-mail, IM services, Twitter, Facebook, and MySpace? It'll be a great litmus test - if you hit him up electronically and he still fails to give a shit about anything you're saying, then you know he simply doesn't give a shit and the technology has nothing to do with it.
Grrr... What did I say earlier about whitewashing and mincing words??
Yes, he is most likely addicted to the Web. The rub is 'Why?'. Why would he be addicted to the Internet? For the same reasons others become addicted to alcohol and other mind-altering chemicals:
Because the addict can't deal with reality and they want to escape from it.
And just as there are no answers in the bottom of a bottle or pipe, there are no true answers on the Internet, either - only (mis)guidance doled out by advice columnists who can be silenced with a quick click of a mouse. Even if Ms. Tennis' advice to you were worth a tinker's dam (and it's not - how far would doing nothing more than spending five minutes putting down the crack pipe heal a relationship? Exactly.), it would only stand a chance if you both were willing to put in the effort to address grievances like adults, mutually prioritize your paradigms, and follow through with compromises.
Go with your gut. If you know instinctually that he does not want to and will not change, then for the love of all that's holy do yourself a favor and get out. Don't rationalize it with crap like, 'But I'll be throwing away three years of my life!' because:
A) it's already past and you can't get it back;
B) you spent that time learning to be a doormat, which means you can deconstruct it and learn how to never let it happen to you again;
C) there's no shame in admitting defeat when winning is not a possibility;
D) if you don't cut your losses now you may not have the strength later to escape the event horizon of his self-destruction.
Have some dignity. For the sake of your mental and emotional health, and your professional image, DTMFA.
"I have been dating a man for more than three years. He just turned 40 and I am 30."
Without reading further, I can already tell your relationship is fucked. Any age gap more than four or five years is asking for trouble; and the younger you are, and the wider the gap is, the more trouble you'll experience. Unless you're in a nursing home and all your prospects are in the 70-100 year range. Then I don't think it matters so much anymore.
"The relationship has been up and down for our entire time together, yet we always seem to find our way back to one another after our frequent disagreements."
Translation: I have daddy issues, an inferiority complex, and a fear of being alone, all of which manifest as the need to be validated as a human being via my relationship status. I am addicted to the drama in our relationship because negative attention is better than no attention at all. Additionally, I am too (willfully?) naive to understand that my father figure/boyfriend gets off on mindfucking me.
"One of my primary issues with him is that he is constantly checking his iPhone and laptop."
This is one of your primary issues with him? 'Primary', from the root 'prime', meaning 'first', suggests that something else about him ties as tops on your list of Things That Piss Me Off. You would do well to inventory that list instead of trying to whitewash this guy by attempting to soften your language.
"I work full-time and attend law school in the evenings, so our time is limited to late evenings and weekends."
You don't mention how many hours a week he puts in at his job, so I'm gonna go out on a limb here and guess that this might be the tie for 'Primary'. Because let's see... a full-time job is generally 35-40 hours per week, and it sounds like your law school is part-time. Figure six hours a week classroom plus another six to ten hours in homework, projects, etc, and you've got a second job to the tune of 12-16 hours per week. A grand total of 47-56 hours put in by you - not including your commutes, errand running, and any (all?) housework you're responsible for once you get home. Then you need time to unwind and decompress... So yeah, your time with him is at a premium and if he works fewer hours than you do, he should get his online time while you're away. One point in your corner, at least.
"He is a software engineer by trade, so I do understand that he feels an attachment to technology that I don't necessarily share. But I am fed up with feeling like a secondhand citizen to gadgets!"
Damn it, quit mincing words! It's embarrassing. Look, just because someone's a technophile doesn't mean they get a free pass to be a socially moronic troglodyte. There's nothing wrong with having what Eddie Izzard calls 'techno-joy', but healthy technophiles have affinities, not attachments. That means they can not only put the gadgets down and completely unplug for a while, they might even enjoy doing so. Anyone who is to the point of 'attachment' and making you feel 'like a secondhand citizen to gadgets' has more problems than can be fixed through an advice column - and frankly, so do the people who put up with such shit.
"I can't count the number of times we go out for dinner and at the slightest pause in conversation he whips out his iPhone and begins surfing the Web, etc. When I ask him to put it away and focus on the human being sitting across from him, he tells me, "This is the wave of the future ... in 15 years we'll have chips in our eyes and be constantly linked to the Internet" or some other lame scenario. When we are relaxing in the evening, perhaps watching a show, he is compelled to be surfing the Web at the same time."
This isn't affinity, or even attachment - this is addiction. Seriously, chica, listen to yourself! Replace the word 'iPhone' with 'alcohol' or 'heroin' or 'crystal meth' and you'd be a lot less inclined to dupe yourself, wouldn't you? Your boyfriend has an addiction, and like any other addiction, the addict will not change unless they want to change and have the tools to maintain the change over time. Seeing as your boy is around computers all day as a career... well, good luck with that.
(And besides, if he actually believes these 'lame scenarios' he uses to justify his joneses, then it's not just the scenarios which are lame. Protip: Neither I, nor anyone I know, would hire a lawyer whose significant other can be stereotyped as the creepy/pathetic Cheetoes-eating guy who wishes he lived on The Enterprise instead of in his mother's basement and cringes from soap, water, and 'The Daystar'.)
"Am I wrong to think that this is extremely rude behavior?"
No.
Well, on second thought, yes. You're wrong to think his behavior is rude because 'rude' is not the proper category for this crap. The kid at McDonald's who is too busy texting the fry cook to take my order is rude. Anyone who talks on their cell while using the toilet is rude (not to mention incredibly disgusting). What you're putting up with is a maladaptive social disorder displayed by someone with stunted development and a completely selfish lack of respect for anyone other than himself. And in the context of what is purported to be a serious romantic relationship, it is also neglect - which is a form of abuse.
"I'm beginning to daydream about snapping his laptop in two across my knee or hurling his iPhone out of an open car window while driving obnoxiously fast ... I periodically tease him by saying, "If an iPhone had breasts, you wouldn't need a girlfriend."
Doing violence to his toys would be a Pyrrhic victory at best - in fact, it would serve as an excuse to upgrade, and I'm sure that would only anger you further. The solution isn't getting rid of his toys, but getting rid of him. As it is, he doesn't need a girlfriend except, perhaps, as a status symbol (in the land of perpetual virginity, the man who gets laid is king). Oh, and the breasts? I'm pretty sure there's an app for that.
"Communication has always been a problem area of ours, and this technology dependence seems to make our ability to communicate even worse. He doesn't remember little things I share with him because he's not really focused or listening."
If you insist on trying to make this relationship work, may I suggest e-mail, IM services, Twitter, Facebook, and MySpace? It'll be a great litmus test - if you hit him up electronically and he still fails to give a shit about anything you're saying, then you know he simply doesn't give a shit and the technology has nothing to do with it.
"I've raised my concerns with him. He becomes defensive immediately. I think he is intentionally not getting it because he doesn't want to change behavior. Or maybe he's addicted to the Web. What are your thoughts, Cary? FYI: He reads your column religiously ... I think he'd listen to you."
Grrr... What did I say earlier about whitewashing and mincing words??
Yes, he is most likely addicted to the Web. The rub is 'Why?'. Why would he be addicted to the Internet? For the same reasons others become addicted to alcohol and other mind-altering chemicals:
Because the addict can't deal with reality and they want to escape from it.
And just as there are no answers in the bottom of a bottle or pipe, there are no true answers on the Internet, either - only (mis)guidance doled out by advice columnists who can be silenced with a quick click of a mouse. Even if Ms. Tennis' advice to you were worth a tinker's dam (and it's not - how far would doing nothing more than spending five minutes putting down the crack pipe heal a relationship? Exactly.), it would only stand a chance if you both were willing to put in the effort to address grievances like adults, mutually prioritize your paradigms, and follow through with compromises.
Go with your gut. If you know instinctually that he does not want to and will not change, then for the love of all that's holy do yourself a favor and get out. Don't rationalize it with crap like, 'But I'll be throwing away three years of my life!' because:
A) it's already past and you can't get it back;
B) you spent that time learning to be a doormat, which means you can deconstruct it and learn how to never let it happen to you again;
C) there's no shame in admitting defeat when winning is not a possibility;
D) if you don't cut your losses now you may not have the strength later to escape the event horizon of his self-destruction.
Have some dignity. For the sake of your mental and emotional health, and your professional image, DTMFA.
Friday, October 9, 2009
Privilege is a bitch.
Salon's advice columnist Cary Tennis got a letter from a woman whose neighbor put a stick in her yard. The author of the letter whines in part:
Dear Unwanted Stick Lady,
While it sounds like an act of passive-aggression on your neighbor's part to walk down and put the stick in your yard rather than knock on the door and tell your husband to stay off their lawn because they'll mow it when they're good and ready, I have to say...
It's a stick. Not a pipe bomb, not a dog turd, not even a publicly visible sign chiding you to mind your own business (which you probably should).
It's a stick, small enough by your own admission to fit into a trash can.
If, after asking nicely while flashing an extra sawbuck, none of your domestics will dispose of said stick in an effective and appropriate manner, I would like to invite you to bring your problems over here.
"It is really upsetting to think I'm supposed to take the high road, put the stick in the trash can and let this arrogant woman continue to Mean Girl anyone she wants. I feel like I've always taken the high road and let people walk all over me and it's clear this woman is used to bullying people. I feel so wrong letting that stick stay in my yard and telling the woman by my inaction that she can vandalize other people's yards."If I were an advice columnist, my reply might run along these lines:
Dear Unwanted Stick Lady,
While it sounds like an act of passive-aggression on your neighbor's part to walk down and put the stick in your yard rather than knock on the door and tell your husband to stay off their lawn because they'll mow it when they're good and ready, I have to say...
It's a stick. Not a pipe bomb, not a dog turd, not even a publicly visible sign chiding you to mind your own business (which you probably should).
It's a stick, small enough by your own admission to fit into a trash can.
If, after asking nicely while flashing an extra sawbuck, none of your domestics will dispose of said stick in an effective and appropriate manner, I would like to invite you to bring your problems over here.
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