Duck Tales

April 2, 2010 at 10:49 PM | Posted in Riding In Cars With Pizza | Leave a comment
  A couple of quick stories. 
  I delivered to a bar recently.  As I driving up the street, I saw a cute but skinny and obviously pretentious chick going on her "walk."  Straight or gay, there are lots of hot chicks in this neighborhood, and they all like to get out and exercise.  I love Springtime.
  Anywho, I "park" in front of the bar.  Actually what I did was pull around some orange cones in the street that were warning of a deep pothole right at the stop sign, then backed up so I was at the corner where there is generally no parking.  A car top sign and hazard lights are like a passport to anywhere in the civilized world…and by that I mean America.
  As I was getting out of the car, a drunk biker-looking bearded rough-neck dude comes stumbling from the bar to the sidewalk towards the street.  He says to me, "Hey, how’s it going man?  What a great day–"
  I said, "Yup," briskly as I continued to the bar.  Not only did I not want to get caught up in a discussion about yard waste or metallurgy or whatever other random topic drunks seem to be able to work into any conversation, but I was in a hurry; The Three Jakes wants us to go fast, and there were hints abound that I was slow and would probably get shit-canned for it.
  As a I maneuvered through the crowd on the sidewalk, I sidestepped the skinny pretentious exercise chick.  There was less of a crowd in the bar.  When I came out, I saw the skinny pretentious chick reluctantly locked into a conversation with the drunk biker-looking bearded rough-neck dude.  From the few seconds of sound I caught along with the body language, Earl was hitting on Cynthia. 
  Cynthia had her body turned to walk away as she put her earbuds back in to listen to some empowering fem-rock.  Earl had just said, "I think we’d have a real good time…"
  Cynthia tried to be diplomatic.  "That sounds really sweet, and thank you–but I can’t.  I’m in a committed relationship with Gray’s Anatomy and my vibrator."
  Like I said, I didn’t hear the whole think.  But I did hear this:  as she walked away she said, "Okay, bye now!"
  And Earl, the drunk biker-looking bearded rough-neck dude, now heart-broken, cried out quietly, "I love you!"
  In the Spring time, magic is in the air.

  I thought I had another one.  Maybe not.  I tell you though, after all the bitching I’ve been doing about this job, it is so odd that I am finally…in acceptance.  Monday and Tuesdays I work with TJ who is a man but could be a lesbian, and Shannon who is a woman and is definitely a lesbian.  I stay busy, I get my work done.  I try not to engage anyone, and if I do, it is briefly.  If I’m lucky, I stay on the road most of the time.
  Tuesday afternoon I had a different song in my head.  They had been busy and now it looked like we were going to run out of bread.  Bread, you see, is the lifeblood of a sammich shop.  Without bread, you just get a pile of meat and mayo salad in your hands.  We need bread.  It takes about an hour, roughly, to get a finished product.  First we take some out of the re-re (Retarder, which is just a refrigerator, but it retards the proofing process) and put it in the poofter–or proofer–for half hour or so.  Then it bakes in about 20 minutes.  So you like to plan ahead, and have plenty on hand.  And you do, unless you forget.
  Then you need to find some bread.  And hopefully, you can get it a) before you run out; and b) before the other bread is ready, making it pointless to go get some.  Shannon made some calls to progressively more distant stores.  When she asked me if I would go, it never occurred to me that I could say no. 
  I did say, "Well, if it makes you happy…it can’t be that bad."  She looked at me and rolled her eyes, then looked away, forcing me to continue:  "If it makes you happy, then why the hell are you so sad?"
  The best way to go was the highway, but there was no best way to get to the highway.  Christ, I thought hockey season was over, at least for the Blues.  They generally make it to the first round of playoffs and then fold like a bad hand.  But this night, at least, there was a game.  The sidewalks of downtown St Louis were full of middle-sized affluent white people, and the streets were full of pickups and late model masculine cars. 
  It took me over half an hour to get to the store with the bread.  All the while, the fateful words of Brian the manager played back in my head:  "About ten minutes there and ten minutes back, right?"  With no traffic it took almost twenty minutes to get back.  This shit is not close.  Almost an hour.  Yeah, they could have had bread ready–they probably did.  Did I miss out on any deliveries?  Oddly, no.  There was one, that had just called, waiting for me when I got back.
  So weighing the pros and cons–staying in the store and cleaning something ridiculous, or using probably five bucks of my own gas money and not getting reimbursed for it–it’s a tough call.  I asked Adam about it, and he said there is no procedure for reimbursement…but also no rule that says I have to do it.  Saying no would just make *me* the asshole, But I’m comfortable in that role.  So I said, "Well, I can always say, ‘What’s in it for me?’"  Because I don’t mind, really.  I can run a few miles to the nearest store with no problem.  But gas is high.  Why should it cost me five bucks of *MY OWN MONEY* because the manager made a mistake?  After he explained it all, I said, "Okay–I’m taking that sammich home for free then," pointing to the one I had just made, with all the trimmings.
  All’s fair in love and sammiches.

  Perusing Craigslist recently, I was looking for a new part time job or a pre-op tranny.  I came across a place that was hiring.  A familiar place.  The Three Jakes.  The one I work at.  Last night when I talked to Kelly, she said, "You know they’re hiring a bunch of new people, right?"
  "They gonna fire me and replace me."
  Probably me, too.  I nodded.  "Fuck em."


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