Jerry Springer Encounter Group

March 21, 2006 at 10:45 AM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | 2 Comments
   My boss asked me a question about someone who used to work for me, so it follows that it reminded me of the story.  This culminated when I was manager of the Blackjack Domino’s Pizza.  Not the first time, when I was there on purpose (91-92).  This was later, when I was conscripted to go there–about 96.  The difference is, the first time, I was a new manager, and just excited to be there.  The second time, they ripped me out of my good store–my profitable store, my home–and shoved me back into the shithole.
So there I was.  And then they gave me some “help.”  This chick named Marie, and her husband Oscar.  They were a dirty, scraggly pair.  I think the guy had at one time been normal, but the woman, she brought him down.  She was not real bright, and it showed when she talked.  Slowly.  Methodically, to make her stupid points.  Arrgh.  To think back to what I endured.
I was the manager, with all this experience, I’ve been around, husband and father myself.  She still felt she could be the mature, knowledgeable mother figure.  Faah!  Ever listen to someone stupid give advice on life?
I actually knew her first, or at least previous, husband.  His name was Jim Parsons (I have no problem using people’s real names.  Like I give a shit.  Yeah, I’m like that.) and he had worked at the previous franchise with me before.  We worked together on occasion, but usually at different stores.  I remember seeing him if I had to got to the store he worked at (we were both assistant managers at the time–late 80’s) to borrow some dough or something.  He had just gotten there typically, but looked as though he slept there.  Dirty clothes, dirty uniform,  unkempt hair sticking through dirty hat.  Dirty wrinkled jacket.  Smelled of smoke and flour.  I remember he used to always say that if he got a day off he would go look for another job.  He wanted us to think he worked harder than anyone.
Eventually we were working at the same store, with Steve Woods as manager.  Parsons liked to go out with strippers.  Or maybe that’s all that would go out with him?  Especially the cut-rate, cheap, whorish, green-teeth-and-stretch-mark-having, needle-marks-in-the-arm bearing, fifty-cent strippers.  He stopped by work one day with his latest *girlfriend*, your standard green-toothed stripper from the cut-rate strip club on the east side (in this instance, the east side means East St Louis, the outskirts of which is a haven for strip clubs.  Not allowed in the actual city of St Louis, or the ‘burbs thereof.  If you come to St Louis, and someone mentions the east side, they mean the strip clubs) for us to meet.
She is standing slightly behind him while we are chatting from behind the counter, and she is winking at us, sticking her tongue out seductively (?) at us, just in general doing a little dance for me and Steve, while Jim faced us, talking.  Finally they leave.  Me and Steve turn to each other at the same time after they leave, and at the same time say, “She’s a whore!”  So several years later, Marie is working for me.  She said, “You remember Jim Parsons?”
I say, “Yeah, I knew him.”
She explained that they had been married, but had since divorced.
“Hmmn.”  I don’t want to engage her, but she is unrelenting in her desire to share.
“Because he’s went prison.”
“Because he molested my daughter.”
“He killed himself a few months ago.”
At this point I’m wondering if she is just making shit up?  But it turned out to be true.  I mean, some people live on misery and pain.  Some people thrive on it.  She is that type exactly.  Just so she would have something interesting to say, never understanding how she got into a given situation.  I mean, she really didn’t understand things.  Chances are good that she was complicit at least by neglect in the molestation of her daughter.
Like I said, she was dirty.  When she was working there for me, my eight-year old son got lice.  This is a normal thing to happen.  My wife freaked out, and checked out everyone, looked us all over.  I had it worse.  That means it came from me.  So my wife checked out the dozen some-odd employees I had at the store.
Generally, you take the nit comb, and comb through the hair and look real hard, and you find them.  Nobody, nobody, nobody.  She got to Marie.  Marie said, “I’m pretty sure I don’t have them, I don’t have any of the signs.”  She did have scraggly red hair.
My wife turned the comb once in Marie’s hair and backed away.  Utter and complete infestation.  Not the kind you had to search for, the kind that was obvious from a distance.  Shit, my head is itching just telling this.  Oscar had them too, not quite as bad.  I told our supervisor, and she approved for me to get the necessary supplies and charge them to the store.  My wife went into high gear, sanitizing and spraying everything, putting clothes and things into plastic bags and putting them in the dryer, doing the sheets, the clothes, I sprayed the cloth seats in my car, we did everything.  I had been at this store for three months, and had just put in my notice to leave.
I had to wait three months, to make sure I got all of the good bonus checks from my last store, because there is an unexplained 3-month hold-back on bonuses.  But I got the last one, and had given my supervisor one last shot to get me out of there–and she didn’t–so I told her I was quitting, and she accepted it like she knew.  She probably did.  Fuck it.  So I had two weeks left.
I did tell her this:  “Look, we took care of it–The lice.  I probably got it from hanging my jacket over hers on the back of the chair in the office.  But we took care of it, and it’s gone.  *We* won’t get it again.  But they will.  She’s still in denial about having it, which means she didn’t do anything at home to get rid of it.  I’m sure…they have a lovely home.  But this is not my problem, not any more.  I’m outta here.”  Of course I came back to Domino’s about a year later, but I never saw Marie again.  Never saw Oscar again either, because he died.  She had a way of using people up.  Her daughter, the one that had been molested, was now 14 and about to get married.  Marie condoned this.  The boyfriend was a stupid, tragic, inbred clown perfectly suited for their family.  The molestation, as I heard about it, sounded like it happened as a result of Marie’s poor decision making, and continued longer than it should have because of the same.  I heard more about her story and her life and her problems than I ever care to hear.  It was the first time I really felt elitist.  I’m not a high class snob my any means, but it wasn’t just the lice; that was a mere indicator.
These were dirty, stupid people, living dirty stupid lives, making dirty, stupid decisions that kept them in their dirty stupid hole.
And I am better than they are.  God help me, I am.


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  1. How dare you pick on my poor cousin like that!
    (JK!)  Funny story that rings all too true.  I\’ve known people like that.  Makes you wonder how America came to be such a "super-power" nation.

  2. That\’s gross, lice at a pizza resturant!  Disgusting!!!! 

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