Mmm...boot leather

I was working in Hell on Sunday when I did the unthinkable, the unrecoverable, the unforgivable, but yet still understandable, most feared act in all of customer service.

A rather bulky gentleman was looking through a table of shitty clothes that I had just folded, in the men's department, checking for sizes and such. I was annoyed so I walked over and said, to his back, "May I help you, sir?"
And he turned and stared at me. So I smiled and said, "Do you need any help, sir?" And he continued to stare. I stared back. Insert sound effect from Tom & Jerry of two piano keys corresponding to blinks.

And then I smelled what I was stepping in.

"I mean, ma'am?"

SHE continued to stare, and I felt her piggy little eyes boring into my back as I walked away.

When I revealed what I did to Wonder Woman, the coworker in closest proximity, she said, "Do you think you'll get fired?" And I thought about it. I have said some really bizarre and belligerent shit to both customers and staff while in my tenure at Hell, but I had yet to fully mistake someone's gender. At least, out loud.
So I answered, "Well, no, because I think that it's neither the worst thing I have ever said here and that I am most likely not alone in thinking that SHE'S a dude."

Two points in my defense: I have had gender differentiation issues before. I remember thinking that RuPaul was one hot cup of chocolate when he broke on the scene. I was twenty, what the fuck did I know? And the person SHE most resembled is this guy, from the back and the front:
I challenge anyone to be able to tell me a dude is not a dude when said individual looks like Mr. Color Commentary himself. SHE even had the haircut.

Thanks to the growing demographic of bull-dike lesbians shopping at the store, it will most likely happen again. And you know what? It will be just as funny then, too.

-Zeepdoggie

There's Good, and Then Other Stuff

As some of you know, I have a new job. I needed to fill the void left by the library job, and my coworker at Hell, named Smurfy, suggested I become a deckhand on a tour boat.

It is the closest I have ever come to my dream of “no work AND pay.” Even at the most extremely busiest part of my day, which really isn’t very busy at all, it is still a joy to be there. Everyone I have worked with so far has been so cool; I haven’t been in this laid back of an environment since I used to get really, really high a number of years ago. It is a great place to work, and no, I will not tell you how to apply because I want this all to myself, dammit! If it weren’t seasonal, I would consider doing it for the rest of my life.

Which brings me to Hell. When you have one job that is awesome, and the other one is, well, hellish, it is really, really difficult to perform at the bad job. And since I need the crap job to fill in for when the good one ends, it adds this sense of helpless imprisonment. I feel like a POW; I know there is a better place for me out there, but I am fucking trapped in this hot box, my only escape being in the bonding with my fellow walking dead. Di-di mao!

And Cob is not doing anything to make it better. Hopefully, GringO will chime in on this a little bit, since it affected him much more than me. We have three registers per counter; I am sure you can imagine the layout of three registers on a rectangular counter, so I won’t go into detail. Well, when the need arises for a third register to be opened, Cob states that it must be at a different counter (we have three counters with registers). Why, do you ask? Because she thinks that, should there be a close proximity of workers to each other, they will talk to each other. So there must be an empty register between the two ringers, otherwise they might get to conversing, and possibly enjoy the work environment, and hence ruin her plan of subjugation through abysmal morale. When a customer asked me about the situation, which to him looked odd, I explained. HE said, “She must be some kind of bitch.” If I had nodded any harder, I may have broken my neck.

What Cob doesn’t understand is that the work is not the reward, no matter what you’re doing (unless it’s fucking your rich spouse; that’s a two-fer bonus!). The rewards of the job are the relationships developed while performing the work. I don’t keep working at Hell because I like lying to people to convince them to buy something they probably don’t need at nigh-prohibitory prices; I do it because I can hang out with GringO, Wheels, Rolling Thunder, Smurfy, Mel, Don, Toots McDego and all the other cool cats I work with. Even at the new job, where the work is quite easy and also a lot of fun, it’s the conversations with my coworkers that make it so great.

Cob thinks that people getting along and enjoying themselves at work will get in the way of productivity. What she doesn’t get is that unhappy people don’t work. Morale is an essential function of crew performance. In the Navy, one of the chief concerns of the captain was crew morale; when it began to head south, he’d make a point to try and improve it. Good leaders care about their crew, and a happy crew will follow a captain like that into the mouths of hell. Cob, with the social awareness of an autistic sloth, doesn’t get that; she probably can’t. She also probably can’t get laid, which is most likely the real root of all of our woes in Hell.

-Zeepdoggie

The Princess Comes First

Fuck Cob, my boss in Hell. The Princess is in stitches, and I am responsible for making sure they don’t rip out, and that she gets her meds according to her doc’s prescription. Every eight hours, no matter what. So when I called on Wednesday to let Cob know that I wouldn’t be in on Sunday, she said, “Oh, and Monday is Labor Day? Hmm…”

She thinks I am making this up to get a day off? She’s calling me a liar? I am the guy who took on extra hours for the floor sets. I am the guy who gives up going to church when I want to so that she can have an opener on Sunday, when I would much rather work on Saturday. I came to work directly after my uncle’s memorial service.

She thinks I am making up that my puppy is in pain?














Think I am lying now, you frigid bitch?

If it weren’t for the fact that the good job is seasonal, I would have quit today.

I suppose, that for a bitch who has no problem bullying people into situations that are bad for them but good to her, intimating someone being a liar is no big deal. After all, if you have no honor, how can you understand the damage you do when you insult someone who does possess a sense of rightness and self respect? If she did any of the things she does for the betterment of society, I would just deal with it. But retail does not better society; it damages it. It inflicts wounds on people that don’t heal.

Perhaps, since she has done nothing else with her life besides this, she cannot understand those of us who do. We who grow are as confusing and as mysterious to her as faith is to an atheist.

If it weren’t for the fact that she is an unlovable twat, I could almost pity her. But pity has never been my strong suit, so she can go suck a crooked dick and take the diseased wad right in the eye.















It's okay, puppy; Daddy's not going anywhere.


-Zeepdoggie

Random Musings from Hell

On Sunday, during the floorset, I suffered what I think is a unique injury. While doing a rather complicated push-up involving an escalator and a steel bar, I do believe I strained my taint.

People ask me for directions all the time; sometimes I feel like being helpful, and sometimes I don't. When someone walks in to ask me for directions to the store kitty-corner to us, which is also a competitor, I cannot help but fuck with them. "Excuse me, but how do I get to (your competition)?"
"Oh, well, you head west down this street, and then, when you reach the next intersection, make a left. Head down the next two intersections, and make a left there, but stay on the same side of the street! Next, walk two blocks toward the Lake, and at that light, make a left. Then walk two blocks with the Lake on your right-hand side (that's east!), and make a left on the next corner. It should be at the end of that block, on the corner!"
"Thanks!"
"Do you need me to write that down for you?"
"No, I think I can remember it."
"Okay. Have a great day. I know I will!" Especially when I look across the street fifteen minutes later and see the dawn of realization on their faces.
Here's a tip, shopper. If you want directions to a store's competitor, don't just ask an employee of the store. Sure, I hate my job and a good portion of the products suck, but I take pride in what I do, and I am not alone. If you just come in asking me for directions, don't expect me, or any other retail person who gets paid by what they can sell, to be helpful. It would be like me asking you for the address of the person your significant other would rather be fucking. Now, if you come in, browse, ask for help and we just don't have what you are looking for, then I am generally happy to tell you where to go, with proper directions and everything. I can be a nice guy, but give me a reason to go against my common nature first.

I love how the whole operation just goes to shit when there's someone to impress around. Normally, we are a successful store, but when someone higher up the food chain shows up, the entire management team just loses all confidence in their and our ability to do what we do every day. Me, I ignore it. This muckity-muck is so much less important than an admiral, and I have cut wise to two of those without being busted back in rank, or even significantly yelled at. I just do what I always do; ignore the management, help the customers who look like they might actually buy something, and do the co-worker-harassment thing. Whenever I'm going to be working with people who are my boss, I always think the same thing: We all jerk off, and we all make stupid faces when we come. Seriously, next time you crank one out, just go and check yourself out in the mirror. Or film yourself, if the equipment is just laying around. You'll laugh for a week.

-Zeepdoggie

Job Desciption

The other week one of the managers of Hell was walking around asking employees what they were going to do to help the store that day. I suppose discussing the various stages of drying paint or whatever it is the managers talk about all day had run its course. My answer was honest, which is never a good thing at work:



"I'm going to focus on ringing."



She looked at me like I had just smeared shit on her chest or something. Suffice it to say, she didn't seem too satisfied with my answer. After reviewing her clipboard (she literally had one, Zeepdoggie) I noticed other associates saying the programmed responses of adding clothes or credit and such.



Nestled in that list of bullshit my answer looked like it came from a mentally subnormal rat. The manager (she of the head that whistles as she walks due to absence of matter between the ears) implied that my answer was not satisfactory.



I internally turned the red switch to MOTHER FUCKING ENRAGED.



"What am I going to do to help the company?! I'll do my fucking job you useless bag of overly tanned skin! I mean to say, what is my job description? I'm a ringer. What do ringers do? They fucking ring. What kind of fucking idiotic quiz were you giving out, you with the intellect of a shriveled monkey testicle? I get paid to perform a specific task within the boundaries set by a guidebook, and perform that task excellently; so don't judge me as being lazy or stupid just because I couldn't care less about this job as it isn't my career. Loosen the pigtails because they are obviously too tight and cutting off circulation to the dried and blackened husk of a gerbil on a rusted wheel that is your brain!"



Instead I did what I said I would do, I rang. I really have not point other than it feels good to feel the rage sometimes. Its like a shot of good coffee. Mmm...good.



::GringO::

'Tis the Season

Retail during the holidays. Yay.

All of our customers have one thing on their minds: size. Size of bags, boxes, and other stuff.
“You could fit four small children in this bag. Sounds good for Christmas!”
Customer: “Are your boxes big?”
Me: “Oh, yeah! Our boxes are really deep!”

And as we all know, selling is all about sexy!

Hot Wheels, to attractive female customer and whether she should buy an ivory coat:
“It depends on the person. It depends on, uh…well, how dirty you get.” (smiles lecherously).

Watching a customer walk away, with the Cock-Sucking Mohican:
“Her legs are thinner than my dick. Which is pretty thin for a leg but pretty thick for…hey, where are you going?

“My breath is kicking like a drowning whore.”

“No exchanges in Hell. This isn’t Wall Street!”

There’s your random blather concerning the holidays in Hell. Are you happy now?

::GringO::

Sharing the Joy of the Holidays! Part I

GringO and I have decided to share out Christmas stories with you all. I hope that his is longer, because mine is really short. You ready?

I couldn’t go to the Christmas Eve festivities of my family because I had to get to the Zeep family compound by 1400 in order to meet the RDV of 1600 at Zeepspunky’s house. She is my oldest and shortest sister, except in attitude; there she is the biggest member of the family, and I oh so love her for it!
Anyway, the job wouldn’t let me get out any earlier than 1600, so you see the conflict in the plan. I called my folks and told them to go without me.

So I worked until closing in Hell with Wheels. I went home and read for a little bit, tried to call some folks and didn’t get through, and went to sleep.

Christmas Day I went to the parental abode, did laundry and went home.

And that was Christmas.


-Zeepdoggie

Four Ways to Save Your Spot In Hell

1) Random conversation while closing:

Gringo: I get all my muscles by carrying old ladies across the street.
Jazz master: Whatever.
Gringo: ...then down an alley and into the back of a van.
D: Gasp!
Jazz master: Oh my God.
Gringo: Oh come on, they don't care, they don't have any memory.
D: OK, you've been reading too much Catcher in the Rye.



2) In reference to the Star Wars' Christmas Special

Gringo: They might as well show a competition where people throw Downs Syndrome kids.

3) Fun with a customer signing up for a free program:

Customer: Does it cost anything?
Gringo: Two pints of cat blood.

4) In response to coworker Crazy Lady's comments about the inferiority of eau de toilette as compared to perfume:

Gringo: That is why I only wear scent made of sweat from the breasts and thighs of 17 virgins.
Cock-sucking Mohican: You straight people are disgusting.

::GringO::

All Work and No Play Makes for a Loco Gringo

I Appreciate Irony

ME: "I'm the king of apathy."

GIRLY: "No you aren't."

ME: "YES I AM! WHY WOULD YOU SAY THAT!"*



* All caps represent outburst of emotion



-------------------------------------------------------------------------



Customer Relations for a Sleep Deprived Gringo



1) A customer interaction concerning loss prevention sensors on product.

Customer: "Needle nose pliers will take care of it."
Me: "Needle nose pliers are pretty much my favorite tool for anything. Except for when I need to hammer something. In which case I use my palms. I'm that good.



2) A customer and an associate (Jazzmaster) noticing me writing notes while at the work place.
Customer: "He's writing notes."
Jazzmaster: "Are you plotting Gringo?"
Me: "Yeah."
Jazzmaster: "Against who?"
Me: "The man. [The founder of this company]. I will find his site, exhume, and punish severely."

3) Jane Blow, a random customer fills out an address field in a short form and the following situation ensues.
Me: "I'm sorry, I'm unfamiliar with the area. What does "DP"* stand for [as a city in Kansas]?"**

*DP is an abbreviation for the term "double penetration" and how it applies to the pornography industry. I used this purposely.
**It turned out it didn't say DP, and Jane Blow seemingly did not know the definition found in asterisk one (though she could just have been oblivious).



4) On shoving several items into Hell's smallest offered bag.

Customer: " I don't know if it will fit."
Me: "Well I'll just grease it up a bit and see if I can't shove it in there."

Gringo's Note: All of these are real life interaction with customers in Hell, while working. When I don't get my sleep several reactions are possible, but namely annoyance, inhibition of spoken thoughts, and delirious giddiness.
Also I must wonder if people are honestly this obtuse, if I am that subtle, or if the general public doesn't expect someone to be that offensive while at work? Oh if they only knew the assorted mental ruminations of the average retail jockey.

::GringO::

Feelin' Like a Skidmark

So I’m down one less brother. Joe lost his fucking mind and is not a member of the family anymore. I don’t know if it sucks that it happened, or that it didn’t happen sooner. Since I was the official Boot In The Ass, I guess I could just say that the time had come.

I am trying to tell myself that it’s okay that I don’t have Joe as a brother anymore, and in a lot of ways it’s really good. I don’t have to worry about him stopping by drunk and asking me for more money. I don’t have to answer phone calls from Barb or Mom about how Joe is at it again. My dad and I have lost a subject to talk about, but it’s not a subject either of us liked to talk about anyway, so no big deal there.

But that means I’m down to Larry. And that is as bad as it sounds.

The asshole that hit me got out of getting a ticket. Thank you, smug bastard judge that won’t receive my vote. I hope he chokes on his fucking gavel. Or a dick. Or, even better, he’s just killed a bicyclist with his car, and he gets to enjoy daily anal rape from King Dong Bundy for the next five to ten.

I tacked on an extra semester to my scholarly career, because the concept of finishing on time from an educational institution is just a bit too tough for me.

Barring unforeseen miracles, the next relationship I will be in won’t happen until I’m 33. Alexander the Great had conquered all of the known people on the planet by that age, and I am hoping for the possibility of a woman finding me decent enough to waste a year of two of her life with me, only to be unceremoniously dumped on the Ides of March. Oh, wait, that’s already happened. But no worries, I am sure I can be humiliated in love in some other soul-drowning way. We’ll just have to wait and see! Stay tuned!

I hate both of my jobs. The kids are terrifyingly spoiled, the retail thing blows in every direction but up, and I have both jobs because of Mary, so I never get a real chance to get away from her. Awesome.

And hey, how about this weather?

Family sucks. School sucks. Love life sucks. Work sucks.

I haven’t had more than five hours of sleep on any night in the last four weeks.

I’m begging you all to give me something to be happy about. It’s getting bad here in the Zeepdoggie Den. Cute Overload didn’t cheer me up today; it’s getting critical. C’mon, somebody cheer me up!

Please?

-Zeepdoggie

Long Time, No... whatever

I haven't posted in a while, and for that I am not sorry, because I have spared you, my faithful, beautiful, loyal readers the agony of me going from sad to diarrhea-inducing pathetic, with occasional bouts of “burn the whole FUCKING world” angry. Usually there was little transition between the two, but if there was, it was slack-muscled boredom. Wow, I am the master of adjectives today!

Back when I was stupid (read: high school) I thought it would be awesome to have nothing but language classes. I really enjoyed my German class, and English was my favorite subject. I figured if all you had to do was really cool stuff like English and German, life would be ultra-mega super keen.

We’ve all heard the expression that one should be careful what one wishes for, and it is true. While I am enjoying my classes so far, I am dreading the appearance of the many-headed hydra of several papers due at once. Granted, one of the classes is the writing fiction class, for which I have all the homework done already. But the other three are going to be rough; I can just feel it in my water.

More good stuff followed when I went to my counselor for English Ed. She’s S, and she’s new. So we had the discussion I had with Wendy about why I am rushing through the EngEd program, and S was quite adamant about me having an extra semester tacked onto my college career. I call it a career because it’s starting to feel like one, one I regret being interviewed for. I know that last statement is in direct contrast to the well-documented fact that I love school; I don’t care. I want it over so I can have a REAL job with a REAL paycheck and REAL vacation and REAL insurance and potentially REAL women to date. But S may have a point, one that I am reluctant to admit, but it’s still there. So I am considering tacking on an extra semester to my schooling. Just like in high school. Shit.

Being single is starting to take its toll as well. I won’t get into it beyond that the dates that I went on with one woman felt like dates, smelled like dates, looked like dates and were, in fact, not dates as she saw it. We still talk, because I am a fucking sucker for dark hair and light eyes, and also because she is really cool and may have hot friends. And who knows, she may change her mind. Fool that I am, I actually believe that.

I jerk off so much I think I’m developing a callous.

I went karaoke-ing again, and developed another crush or three; one really sticks in my head. She is C, and she is just adorable. She was super-excited about art, and told me her #1 favorite painting. She has a lisp, which I find just too cute. Zeepdoggie used to stutter (and sometimes still does), so speech impediments are a sign of cutesy to me. Yeah yeah yeah all fucked up, I don’t care. But nothing will come of it, because I have only seen her once, will most likely never see her again, and if I should, I would be too chicken-shit to ask for her number or anything.

Let’s talk about work shall we? I started the new position at the other job, and it’s going well, with the exception that I have to work with Mary’s mom and her sister now. Yeah, that’s a lot of fun. Her mom I have no problem with, but her sister…well, she told Mary it would be a great idea for her to be single and be rid of me. Is there more to it than that? Yeah, there always is. But the “more to it” just makes it worse, and I am not into going that room painted with boiling rage right now.

The other job is still Hell, and I don’t get to work with GringO or Japes or the other really fun folks as much as I used to. I feel like now would be the opportune time for the place to just blow the fuck up. If I'm in it when it happens, that's not sounding like it would be too unfortunate right now.

So, you are now all caught up without all the despair and depression, and a little of the anger. I really, truly hope that your time has been spent doing better and more meaningful things, enjoyable things that make you as happy as a bunny that has escaped the clutches of an evil five-year old girl.

Until inspiration hits me squarely, have a good time.

-Zeepdoggie

Unnecessary Force?

One day at work I witnessed a "COPS" moment. I was standing in the rotunda greeting, a job which consists of pasting a fake smile on my face for every customer who comes in and saying, "Good afternoon," or, "Welcome to our Crap Store," or telling them of a promotion currently happening in the store. I'm not the best suited for this job. My voice doesn't travel very well, I'm not very enthusiastic, and when customers ignore me intentionally I say rude things like, "I take it back, you're not welcome, get out of my store," or, "I hope you die in the middle of the street." In fact the managers have a list of greeters upstairs divided with he headings "good," "in a pinch," and "never." I'm in a pinch.

But on the plus side I get paid to stand there and watch women walk by for an hour. This is usually the best part but on this day attractive women came in second. I heard a loud bumping noise from the revolving door. Inside there was a homeless man and a cop, the latter's hand around the former's throat. They were stuck because their feet kept the door from rotating. The homeless man had a cigarette in his hand and looked fairly unconcerned even as he was being grabbed and mashed up against the interior glass wall by the officer. He took a drag, looked around for an ashtray apparently, and not finding one dropped it on the ground.

I couldn't hear what the cop was saying but he got the man to cooperate in making it from the door to inside the store. Once inside they were just standing, the homeless guy just hanging out like it was any other corner, the cop taking heaving breaths. At a move from the guy the cop grabbed him and threw him into one of the large windows in our storefront. IN a movie they would have smashed through onto the sidewalk, but in reality all the stores on Michigan Ave. have bullet-proof glass, so a homeless body means nothing.

The cop continued attempting to subdue the guy, but he kept fighting back. This incited the cop to punch the guy two or three times in the face and head. Shortly after another officer came in to help. They rolled him over on the bench and hand-cuffed him, pinning him down with knees on the spine and elbows on the back of the neck. After he was cuffed but still fought they dragged him down onto the ground face-down for more leverage.

A few moments later the man was standing up and escorted out of the store. I turned to my manager who was standing next to me, mouth agape and eyes wide, and half whispered half mouthed to him, "That was fucking AWESOME!" This gained me evil looks from a couple of customers but forget them, I haven't seen a fight that cool since Jr. High when a behemoth black girl beat the living crap out of a skinny black girl, citing "food" as the cause of the fight.

Not to be topped, my manager pointed out at the sidewalk where a large group of black people with kids were standing, I suppose having watched the whole thing. He said, "Do you think that's their dad?" I just started laughing like a madman while my manager asked, "Is that bad?" "Yes it is, but its also totally funny."

Good to know I'll have fun company in hell.

::GringO::

Brou-ha-ha!

Isn’t it fun when things at work get blown out off proportion? Isn’t it even better when you get caught up in it, too? The best is when it’s your fault!
At work yesterday, I was having the most productive shift ever in Hell. I made a shit-ton of wampum for the store and I opened three credit cards! Yay! I helped create more debt and further the false image of beauty that this country worships! But here’s the thing that set it all off, people; I could’ve had four credits.

A coworker who is a very selfish man and as shallow as a dry riverbed was getting jealous of my success. See, he takes the job seriously; he’s into it. In the Navy, we’d call him a dig-it. You can figure out why, because my readers are the sharpest knives in the drawer!
Mr. Me is what we’ll call him. And he’s so into himself, he’d like that.

Just so you know what kind of guy this fuckhole is, I will share a little background. As you all know, Mary dumped me some time ago, and some of you know that it still stings every once in a while. Well, when it had just happened, I was fucking miserable; I wasn’t eating or sleeping, I was constipated. I was so fucked up that I couldn’t jerk off. Me! The guy whose Indian name translates to “He who masturbates while running.” I wouldn’t go so far as to say I had lost the will to live, but I had just lost what I felt was the best reason.
Mr. Me attends the same church that Mary and I attended. He started going because he made the mistake of having sex on Saturday night with a woman who attends our church, and not waking up in time to avoid going to the service. We all find God in our own way, I suppose.
Anyhoo, he decides that, after seeing all the other attractive ladies that go to that church, he will start attending regularly. How he sleeps at night I don’t know. He’s still going to this day, and he has been in attendance after Mary and I broke up.
So he knows that we’ve split, and he takes every opportunity to talk about Mary; he sat by her at church, and how he sees her at the Young Adults meetings, and that he talks to her, or tries to, but she always seems distracted or going to work. He is talking to me about my ex right after we’ve broken up. And it is sounding like he is asking me if it’s okay for him to ask her out.
He doesn’t come right out and say it, but it’s the impression.

You hopefully have an idea of how fucking self-absorbed this prick is by now.

So, yesterday, he sees my success and he steals my credit. He sees me with the customer, he sees me
walk the guy into a dressing room. He hears me talking to the guy about his shirt not fitting, and me saying that I will get him one that will fit. While I am serving the needs of my customer (I feel like such a fucking whore when I say that; I need a very scrubby shower), he offers him credit.
It’s so amazingly hypocritical of him to do that. Two days prior, he accused GringO (my beloved albino monkey-boy) of stealing his credit, and we have another coworker who does this to us all the time, and Mr. Me is the first and last one to complain about it. Yet he does it to me, the guy who helps him with his sales and doesn’t receive acknowledgement for it; the guy who takes his greeting assignments so he can flirt unsuccessfully with customers; I’m the guy who has said in the past, “Oh, he’s not that bad!”

Yes he is. He’s a shit-for-brains Judas. Fuck him for his lack of consideration.

The thing is, everybody on the floor knows he stole the credit from me. The manager E, my guardo camino N, my grandmas J and GG, the cocksucking Mohican Twan, everybody. Even the store director hears about it.
Apparently, I am loved in that store, because everybody is on my side. My boss tells me that there isn’t anything official to do about it, but she will talk to him about how wrong it was.
The whole store in brouhaha mode, and it’s all my fault.
Like I said, it was the most productive day I’ve ever had there.

My day, in bullet form

• Woke up at 0545.
• Left apt at 0620.
• Missed first train…dammit!
• Second train delayed by cranes between Oak Park & Austin stops, apparently just randomly picking shit up and putting it down somewhere else. Unimportant? Yes. Expensive? Yes. Good ol’ CTA.
• Go to my DD. Old man and Dimbulb working again!
• Noor arrives; a future with a Vanilla Coffee Coollata in it secured.
• Arrive in Hell 0725.
• Mandatory Waste of Time (Quarterly Meeting for All Staff) begins @ 0745.
• GringO and I refuse to take seriously. Much of the hidden laughter for the two of us. I am chastised for calling the part of your pants where your ass goes the “ass.” Apparently it’s “seat.” And if the mythical founder of this store were here, he’d smack us all for being a bunch of slack-jawed sissy-marys. Seat...
• Two hours later, only one thing is learned: I would’ve been better off not being here.
• Work begins. Also, gnashing of teeth, anal bleeding, and the accumulation of weeping, open sores on my soul.
• Learn I will leave two hours early, that God loves me more than I thought.
• Crack wise about white girls with dreadlocks to black girls. They laugh, but still won’t have sex with me. God laughs, too.
• Leave Hell. Train ride surprisingly schizo-free.
• Come home.
• Crash because caffeine has finally failed.
• Have dream about iPods thinking I am their god. And sexy, naked German women wearing boxing gloves, trying to throw grapes at me. And...Santa?
• Wake up. Decide to lay off of the caffeine for a little bit.
• Write this.
• Love you.


-Zeepdoggie

Today I Learned...

...that I am an asshole for not letting a guy in the store with a dog.

...that I am an idiot because I can't help a man find a specific restaurant he is looking for on State , even though he doesn't know the name, what kind of food they serve, or even the general location; just a restaurant on State.

...that Target was designed to be the bargain basement of Marshall Field's. Field's is gone, yet Target lives. There's a metaphor in there somewhere.

...that you hurt the ones you love, and that you love the ones who hurt.

...that the only constant is change.

...that penguins are sluts.

...that 15% of Americans bite their toes.

...that a female mannequin is not something you want to be caught cuddling. By anyone.

...that I can't recall ever meeting Stimpy.

...that people still attend masques.

...Zeepdoggie

Sometimes it IS just too loud.

I live an exciting life. I woke up this morning, showered, shaved, and got myself ready to liberate the Dunkin’ Donuts on the way to Hell and return it to the rightful owners, Noor & Sanjay, when outside I hear the dogs downstairs whining and barking. After a few minutes, I realize that those aren’t dogs, but people. It turns out that it’s one person. A young Asian lady is standing in the middle of the street, screaming at her boyfriend/husband, at the top of her lungs, in Chinese (or what I assume is Chinese; like I can tell the difference) about something that has upset her greatly. I am going to go out on a limb and say it was infidelity, because that is always fun when it happens to another couple. Her hand gestures had a certain Lorena Bobbit motion to them, and I am thinking, “Yep, he’s gonna lose his pecker.”
The argument ended, and lacking any further entertainment, left for work. I get to DD, and Noor and Sanjay are back! I get my Coollata, just the way I like it, with a plain donut, and all is right with the world. I’m so happy that I say, “Hello,” and “Good morning” to people as I pass them. Less than half say anything back. I can’t think of anything ruder than to ignore someone. At least when they’re screaming obscenities at you, they acknowledge you exist. But if someone looks at you and wishes you a good morning, the least you could do is smile, or nod.
It reminds me of this conversation I had with a co-worker named Lee. He was talking about this time he was in line at the bank, and a white woman walked up beside him. He said hello to her, and she just ignored him. They were in line together for five minutes and she couldn’t spare a hello to him. He tells me that any black woman would say hello back, and maybe even talk to you. But white women are so full of themselves that they think that every man that talks to them wants to have sex with them. It was a white woman, after all, who proclaimed that “every man is a potential rapist.” So he tells her that she’s very rude and, coincidentally, if she offered him sex, he would have turned her down, as he is married happily.
All of the white women I said hello and good morning to ignored me. All the guys I saw said something back, or raised their coffee cups. And the sistas all wished me a lovely morning.
Sometimes, I really hate white people.

Work had mad amounts of intrigue. Let’s just say that ol’ Zeepdoggie is deaf, or nearly so. And he wants to preserve his hearing, which means that he doesn’t listen to his music super-loud, is saving up for his noise-canceling headphones, and on the occasions he goes to concerts, he always wears earplugs. Still, I get the ringies in my ears near continuously, but it’s really bad three times during my day: when I get off the train to work, when I get off the train for home, and when I leave work. See, the music is too loud at work (and it’s total crap as well, but let’s leave it alone for now), and it makes my ears ring. There is no quiet place at work; the music is even going on upstairs, which is extra torturous and poopy. So today, I ask one of my fave managers, E, if he could turn it down. He has said no in the past, but I was hoping for some pity here. So he says, “No.” And I say, “Why not? I’m trying to preserve my hearing.” E knows how deaf I am; if you work with me and my back is to you, you learn how deaf I am since you have to run up beside me to get my attention. Midway through the day, my ears are ringing so badly that I have a hard time differentiating the numbers 33 and 36, 35 and 39, and thirty from forty. When you work in a retail-clothing store that fits men from the very teeny to the ursine this can be a very big problem.
So E says, “I can’t.” I reply, “Do I have to call HR about this?” It’s not meant as a threat. I understand that, for some fucked up reason that I will get into later, he has to keep the music at a certain volume. I figure if I call HR, they can change the policy for this store, and I can go home hearing a little better. Because it is all about me.
So he gets pissed, but I have to greet a customer, who cannot hear me over the music thankyouverymuch, and he leaves before we can discuss it. Lord K, who has requested to be known as Gringo from now on (if you met him, it would make some sense, sorta), goes and turns down the music. E loses his mind, yells at Gringo, and disappears.
A little while later, another manager comes and talks to me about what happened. I tell her. She asks how I got to this stage of hearing loss. I tell her through large amounts of head trauma, a wasp stinging my ear when I was five, and continuous exposure to low-level noise while onboard a submarine. I ask why it is such a massive deal that they turn the music down to a dull roar. She says that a study has shown that when the music is at a certain volume, people buy more stuff. What a preposterous hypothesis is that? What did the study consist of? Where was it conducted? What were the conditions, the controls? Did they get a proper sample size for the experiment? Did they do a demographic study before conducting their test? Was there an influx of individuals to the area of the study before or during? Was there a sale going on? How many levels of volume did they test? What are the confidence levels of the findings?
Any study that is supposed to prove human behavior is bullshit. Christ, most folks have no idea of what they themselves are going to do next! The greatest joke ever pulled on one person by another is predictive behavioral analysis. Actually, that’s the second best. If you can get someone to fall for “There’s something on your shirt…zzzzziiippp!” more than twice in an hour, that is the best! But for money, if you can get someone to pay you to conduct a predictive behavioral study on a situation with as many variables as shopping for clothes, then you can sell ice to an Eskimo.
So mad drama ensues. Gringo might get fired. I might get written up. The sky is falling. Again, those full-timers in retail need to chill out. You’re not curing cancer, you’re not saving the world; you’re selling an image that is impossible and bad for the world. Either stop taking it seriously, or stop doing it and do something worth taking seriously. It’s clothes!
Eventually, E and I have a talk, and things are smoothed out. We hug, I rub his bald little head with the el grosso mole and peace is restored in the valley.

I go to the Apple Store to get my iPod fixed, as it has shit the bed (sorry, didn’t mean to get technical there) yet again. I have an appointment with the Genius Bar in thirty minutes, so I decide to go and get a bottle of water from the Walgreen’s just down the street. When it comes my time to pay, some bum decides to buy the shirt he didn’t want before I got to the register. He starts cursing the little lady behind the counter out.
“Hey,” I say, “you’re talking to a lady!” He mumbles some shit at me, then tells me to mind my own business. “You don’t apologize to her right now, I’m calling security!” He tells me to fuck myself, and that’s when the security guy comes over and asks what the trouble is. The cashier tells him, and Mr. Security asks Mr. stinky-Britches if it’s true. He says, “Naw, man! All these Oriental bitches hate black people! This fuckin’ bitch won’t take my fuckin’ money! And this motherfucker here fuckin’ threatened me! If you dint come over, I’d a hit him with my cane!”
I’ve had enough. I push him to the door, the security dude right behind me, trying to stop me. I tell him that I will be right out, and if he wants to hit me with his cane, it will be the last thing he does with the few teeth left in his mouth. As he runs down Michigan, I ask him where he’ll be so I can meet him there. He doesn’t say anything back.
I go back inside the Wal, and tell the security guard that he absolutely sucks at his job. The girl at the register gives me my water and a candy bar for free.
I was looking for Big Daddy Cane all the way back to the Apple Store, but I couldn’t find him anywhere.
Then I get pissed at myself for acting like that. One of these days, a guy is going to pull a knife or a gun, and I am going to get seriously fucked up for trying to be a hero. But what the hell am I supposed to do? Just watch that happen? It goes back to my point of ignorance being the standard response to things. I think that human evil wouldn’t exist if we just chose to pay attention to the world around us. You would have to do something if you actually saw the wrongness of everyday life on this planet. I am the wrong guy for a crusade; I ignore shit too, until it’s string me right in the face. And if I turn away, I feel like shit for the rest of the day. No one person can save the world; but the world can probably save itself, if it paid attention every once in a while.
Back to the Genius Bar. It turns out that, since this is my fourth iPod they’ve had to replace due to manufacturer’s defect, they are going to give me a complimentary upgrade to a 60GB iPod Video! How awesome is that! That is 15,000 songs! And I get to renew my AppleCare plan, should that one shit the bed anytime in the next three years! I am ecstatic! The heroism is rewarded!
I get home, and the Princess is waiting with the ball, ready to go outside. No messiness to clean inside, I sit down to a delicious bowl of ice cream, take a cold shower, and write this little adventure.
Do you think today was good or bad?

Iced Lattes and overreactions

It’s Sunday morning, which means it’s “Open Hell” day; I must be at work at 0945, and I didn’t go to sleep until 5 AM. Let’s say Saturday turned out to be more adventurous than I expected.
Anyhoo, since I must be in at 0945, I must have my medium vanilla flavored Coffee Coollata from Dunkin’ Donuts, the one just by 1 IBM Plaza. They know me there, and I know my helpful donuticians. I walk in, they start with the Coollata and get a plain donut in the bag for me. It is a beautiful thing.
Except that today there are two people I have never seen before. I have been coming here for just about four months now, and today is the first time I’ve seen these two. It’s an old man and a young, plump woman, and they’re not wearing nametags. I ask, “Where’s Noor and Sanjay?” and the old man says, “Sick. What do you want?” Well, someone is ready to get down to the brassy tacks. So I give him my usual. It turns out the girl has never made one before. He tells her, “Like Iced Latte!” in a fierce bark. I feel bad for her, but not for long. She gets some stuff from a machine that doesn’t normally dispense the Coollata mix (like I said, I’ve been going there a while), and she asks me if I want skim or whole milk. I have never been asked to determine the type of milk. The wonderful folks behind the counter always did that for me. So I say, “Whatever’s the norm, I guess.” I still don’t know what she chose, but I am missing Noor and Sanjay and the really pretty girl who has never worn the same nametag twice (I call her “Sweetie”), and the funny little old lady who occasionally comes out of the back when it’s very busy out front. I begin to worry; just what the hello did these two do to Noor and Sanjay? Both of them sick? That just smacks of a cover story for the two of them hog-tied and gagged in the back. Whatever has happened, I am sure that the old man did most of it, and forced this poor young girl into the dirty pool they’re playing.
Trying to get a view of the back room, I pay for my breakfast. I am so concerned about this nefarious scheme to wrest control of the DD from its rightful purveyors that I don’t notice that the young lady has finished my Coollata. I take it from her, still peering in the back, and blasting myself for not slipping her a note: It’s okay, I’m here for you if you want to do the right thing.
As I walk, I begin to eat my donut and take a sip of my Coollata. It turns out that it is not a Coollata, but an Iced Latte! The dimbulb made an Iced Latte when I clearly ordered, and paid for, a vanilla-flavored Coollata, not an ass-flavored Iced Latte!
I am so mad, that I entertain the idea of storming back in there, throwing the offending beverage at the wall behind the counter and screaming, “Does that splatter look like a Coffee Coollata to you? You have ruined my morning! Free Noor and Sanjay, now!”
But I’m already two blocks away, I’m late for work, and the walk back would mean going uphill, so fuck it. I’m just down for the caffeine anyway.
Still pissed, I then witness a guy unwrap a small piece of gum (most likely Trident) and just drop the wrapper on the ground.
“Hey,” I say, “you dropped something.”
The fella turns around and says, “What?”
“You dropped your wrapper.”
“So?” He’s looking irritated, but he’s an amateur at it. I’m not fooled.
“So? If only the civil engineers of this great city had thought to put waste receptacles, (me doing bunny ears with fingers) 'trash cans' if you will, at the corners of the streets, then you wouldn’t need to just drop a piece of paper on the ground; you could deposit it in a proper receptacle. You know, a trash can just like the ones on all the corners of every street in downtown Chicago.”
At this point, he looks at me with that “Fuckin’ nutball” face, then looks at the paper. He says, “It’s a little fuckin’ piece of paper, pal!”
“Exactly! Why can’t you carry this little piece of paper the ten yards to the trashcan? It didn’t encumber you when it was wrapped around the gum! You afraid you’re going to lose weight or something?”
To which he replies, “Fuck you!” Witty fellow.
I take two steps to him, and holding my Ass Iced Latte high, say, “If this were hot, I would throw it in your fucking face!”
Remember that scene in “The Big Lebowski,” when Walter pulls his piece on Smokey for stepping over the line? I see Smokey staring at me, Walter, with the cold, gross beverage of rage. The guy picks up the wrapper, walks to the trashcan, and throws it away. He then runs south on Rush. By the time I get to the corner, I can’t even see him.
My day didn’t get any better.
I decided that it would be best if M and I were buddies. I didn't run this by her or anything, but I doubt she would care. Besides, most decisions affecting me on a deeply personal and professional manner have hardly ever been run by me beforehand.
Us being buddies still makes it difficult for me to ask her for any info on K. I can threaten a man with bodily harm over a gum wrapper, but ask about a pretty lady that might be interested in me? I am a sack of noodles when it comes to women. So I didn’t ask, yet. But I will. I have to, after I gave Lord K a big, rousing spiel on always taking hold of the moment and letting nothing stand between what you want and seize the carp and all that bravo sierra. Because if you’re going to be a hypocrite, you might as well go all the way.

For Susan, from California: Thank You

Today was incredible. A big ol’ dose of what I needed after yesterday, after this weekend; shit, it’s exactly what I needed for friggin’ ever!

Today I had a truly, classically romantic experience. What follows is true and wonderful and bittersweet and will soon be made into a short story, play, then film directed by Mike Nichols, who can’t direct a movie until it’s been directed as a play.

I was having just a shitty day at work. I got yelled at for suggesting facetiously that the greeter should wear sunglasses when it’ so sunny outside. Seriously, I got gang-bitched by three people who took me way too seriously. I should just wear a shirt: CAUTION: BULLSHIT PRESENT. KEEP SARCASM DETECTORS ON AT ALL TIMES.
But folks who take retail that seriously do scare me a lot. It’s clothing, you jerks. I know people who feed the homeless, do missions, teach to disadvantaged kids, and they don’t take themselves as seriously as you do. It’s not rocket science, it’s marketing. And so I jumped into a bit of Bill Hicks at work (click here), which really set the tone for the morning. Telling your boss what they do is evil, no, EVIL, true and deep, causing little girls to vomit so they’ll be thin enough, making men hate themselves because they’re not handsome enough, promoting fashion beyond function, charging too much money for shit made by five year old hands in countries they’ll never see on “E! Wild On…”, making fake boobs as common as real boobs type of EVIL, really gives them perspective on your career in retail.

That perspective is standing on the cliff’s edge, watching you fall.

So I go to lunch, and just get to relax a bit, take a load off, and it does me some good. I get downstairs and see a young woman by the backpacks. I ask her if she needs any help, and she looks at me, right in the eyes, smiles, and says, “Please.”

Ten thousand violins sweep into a crescendo of a note that has never been transcribed.
I feel the wind from an angel’s wing push the hair on the back of my neck.

So, I say, “Okay,” and we start talking about backpacks. And then we’re just talking. We’re talking about being active, and sports, and how much it sucks that her bike is broken. And I’m walking her to the register. She offers me her hand, and says, “I’m Susan, and I’d like to thank you for your help…”
I take her hand, and

Waves beach on rocks crash in my heart.
Real world swims away.
My breath falls away to a great height and I can’t hold her hand enough.
And she’s smiling and looking at me and she is perfect holding my hand.

So I say, “I’m Russ, and helping you was the best thing to happen to me today, Susan.” And she blushes, really blushes and I am so lost right now and she goes to the counter smiling.

I find out from a co-worker that we had been talking for a half-hour. I am going to ask this woman out, I decide. I couldn’t tell if there was a policy against it or not, but fuck that. I don’t want to go to bed tonight hoping that she’ll walk into the store again someday so I can say then what I can say right now. If the store has a policy, then I’m ignoring it; no, I’m breaking it.
I get a pen, and write down my name and both of my phone numbers. She’s done at the register, and she’s walking to the door, and I say, “Excuse me, Susan…” And she stops and turns toward me and she’s smiling already; she has to know what I’m going to do. I can feel the blush all over me. She is lovely, even under the store lights. She’s glowing from her own sun under her skin. She says, “Yes, Russ?” And how happy am I that she remembered my name!

“I was wondering, should you get your bike fixed, if you would like to go for a ride sometime?”

The longest seconds in history.


She smiles and says, “I would love to!
“But I leave for home tomorrow. I’m visiting family here.”
Still hopeful, I ask, “Where’s home?”
“California.”

We both see the disappointment on our faces.

And we start talking again, and she was an elementary school teacher but is now going into the private sector and thinks it’s amazing that I want to teach, too! And she just keeps getting lovelier as we’re talking and it’s because I’m never going to see her again.
She says, “I wish I’d come in sooner,” which she read in my eyes.

And we say goodbye, still looking at each other.

And today was a great day, because a beautiful woman named Susan was sweet and warm to me, and looked at me in a way that I haven’t been looked at in a while. I don’t know what she saw, but I know how it made me feel.

And today was a great day because I am going to bed free of regret, because I tried, and she did, too.
Thank you, Susan, for sharing your time, and your lovely voice, and your adorable smile with me. Thank you for listening to my prattle about backpacks, and laughing with me. Thank you for letting me look at you.

Thank you Susan, for being the best part of my day.

Not Just Beat; Beaten

What a day. I feel like poo. Grade D poo, not safe even for fertilizer use. I got into work just a little late, and my boss gives me crap about clocking in before putting my stuff away. As I am putting my stuff away, I mention that I didn’t hear her bemoan me making a $400 sale after I had punched out on Monday. Forty-two seconds after I punched in, I was ready for work. Good thing she wasted air on a snide comment, otherwise I couldn’t be so smugly superior when I made it to the little Useless Meeting we have just before we go to the killing floor four minutes before her.
So I find out during the UM that I must attend a “Credit Workshop” where I will learn to open more credit card accounts. Because the reason I have so few credit cards has nothing to do with the fact that people just don’t want more credit debt, or that the APR starts at 25%, or that most of the folks I help get only what they need and get it from the sale rack, or that (for some reason unbeknownst to me) I attract the foreign customers without US addresses. No, it is because I suck at the credit game, and a half hour on Saturday morning role-playing credit card pimping is going to improve that. From 9-9:30 I will be at work, being punished because I don’t try and force credit down a guy’s throat when he’s buying socks. Because I don’t offer a credit card to a customer I didn’t help. Because I want my customers to have a good experience with shopping, one that doesn’t feel like I am trying to get them something they don’t want or using them to further my own bullshit agenda at this store.
All day I was thinking about my punishment, mostly because it affects more than me. I have the Princess this month. And for me to be at work, I must leave her at eight. I get out of work at eight. She will be home, if the universe and the CTA are lined up with me sympathetically, for thirteen hours alone. I get to come home to a puddle of piss and a pile of shit and a puppy that can’t decide whether to be happy or ashamed. If that doesn’t inspire pity, let me add that I will have achy toes.

In the words of Aristotle: “Fuck retail.”

I am not an oak

I haven't been sleeping lately, which is starting to affect my life. Or what passes for it, anyway. I get sleep, but nothing more than four, five hours. Last Tuesday I got six hours down, and I celebrated by not sleeping the next night.
I'm in one of those phases of the moon, I guess. Speaking of phases, how cool would it be to be a werewolf? It would suck, actually. I hate cleaning up pet hair. But I could be my own best friend, like Barf from "Spaceballs."
I wonder if my working for retail is having an effect on my soul. I hate the whole marketing thing. "Wear this or you'll never get laid! If you don't smell like this, then you stink! And by the way, you can always lose a few pounds, fatty! So drink our beer, because it will wash the bulimia puke smell off your breath, and you're only fun when you're drunk!"
And then we have to pimp credit cards on our customers... Nothing distances a customer faster than being asked to open a credit card. You spend this time, lying to them about how much better they are if they wear your clothes (which, BTW, are made in the same sweatshop that makes shit for every other clothier out there) and they start to buy it, and then you drive a wedge between the two of you by saying, "Hey! How would you like more debt and increasingly poor credit ratings?" Who wants another credit card that can only be used in ONE place? And if the chain is nationwide, it's still seen as only one place, just in different cities.
So maybe that's keeping me up a bit. I feel like I am just making the world just a little bit worse by working in major chain retail. Don't get me wrong, there are good people who work in retail, and much better than me for being able to make a career of it. I love and respect 95% of my co-workers. But the whole marketing and sweatshop thing weighs on me.
When that new position opens for me at the other place I work at, I will walk from clothing retail without an ounce of regret. Wait, that's a lie. I will regret ever working in clothing retail.
Moral of the story: just because your girlfriend feels guilty is no reason to get a job.