Snark Goes the Customer Service Representative

I wear my most comfortable clothes when I'm nervous. It makes me look frumpy and unassuming. I've noticed people react differently to me when I wear these clothes. Today was a case in point, or was it all in my mind?

It's early morning and me and Rosa met up at Fat Albert's. She wanted to play the lottery and I needed my cheap cigars. The lottery room was already busy with anxious black men trying their luck. You could almost feel the anxiousness in the air. I stepped up to the counter to be greeted by an unfamiliar black lady.

"Two cartons of smoker's choice in the blue," I said.

"You don't smoke all these per week, do you?" she asked abruptly.

I stood for a moment at a loss for words. I didn't know what to say. It was such a forward question.

"That's none of your business," I finally blurted out.

She huffily grabbed my cigars and rung me up. I wrote a check and they drafted the amount from my account. I walked outside to tell Rosa what happened.

"She's new and she's a bitch," Rosa said.

It really got off with me. You would think that she would want to sell me whatever I wanted instead of making some obtuse comment about my smoking habits. I was red faced and embarrassed.

"You are so sensitive," Rosa told me as I was driving us home.

"I wish I just didn't care, but it embarrassed me," I replied. "There was a long line behind me."

I chalked it up to the frumpy clothes I was wearing - my pull ups with an old raggedy Auburn Tigers t-shirt, tube socks, and my most comfortable but threadbare pair of tennis shoes. I looked poor and penniless. An easy target for snarky comments.

No Beer after 2am

It's early Sunday morning on Mother's Day. I am on the last leg of my nightly three mile jaunt. I stop by my favorite convenience store for a demitasse break and to see my favorite clerk.

"I love Sunday mornings," the clerk says exuberantly as I step up to the counter to pay for my cup of coffee.

"Why?" I ask, intrigued.

"We stop selling beer at 2am," he says. "All the drunken crazies go home and go to sleep."

I smile. I know the drunk and crazy role all too well.

"Had this one guy come in at midnight," the clerk furthered. "He was so drunk he could barely stand up. I wouldn't sell him any beer and told him to leave. He said he was coming back in the morning when I get off to kick my ass. Can you believe that?"

I could believe it. I worked at this same store on third shift for over a year. I have vivid memories of the drunken shenanigans some of the patrons would pull after midnight and before. Nothing would surprise me after being a convenience store clerk for so long.

"He's long home in the bed sleeping off that drunk," I replied, trying to assuage the fears of my friend.

I finally found the bottom of my cup of joe and bid my favorite clerk goodbye. He was still talking as I escaped out the door. I was thirty minutes from home and headed that way.

Earlier in the evening had found me at a totally un-noteworthy AA meeting. George picked me up and I jumped into the driver's seat and we headed for the country on the drunken express. George broke with tradition last night and was drinking wine instead of beer.

"Why are you drinking wine?" I asked George as I drove.

"It was on sale," George replied, nonchalantly.

George had finished his second bottle when we arrived at a little small town on the outskirts of the county – those empty wine bottles clinking as they hit each other rolling around on the floorboard of the backseat. George had been quiet for awhile and then drummed up a conversation.

"I made $175 dollars at work yesterday," he said with a sly and drunken grin as he slurred his words.

"Holy shit!" I replied. "That is almost a quarter of what I draw in disability every month."

"It was a fluke," George said, drunkenly. "But it allowed me to pay off some debts I owed. Every time I would drop someone off, the phone would ring for someone else needin' a ride."

George's job is volatile income wise. One day he will make a hundred dollars – the next, he will only make twenty. I have often asked George why he just doesn't get a more mainstream job with a stable income and he told me he doesn't get along well with management types.

George was just finishing his third bottle of wine as I drove back into town. It was time for me to take him home and go about my nightly hike. George's mother will not let him bring alcohol into the house so I watched as George poured out the last few inches of wine left in that green bottle.

"Night man," I said as I handed him his keys.

"See ya my little white brotha," George said as he held out his hand for me to shake it.

I walked on home after shaking George's hand to get my backpack and gear for my walk. It was a pleasant night with all's well that ends well.

Saving Grace

I stayed on the phone with Rosa last night until midnight. She talked me out of going to get that six-pack of Heineken.

"I don't like you when you are drinking," she said. "You are a different person. But you are easy to bed."

"I know," I replied. "I just feel this empty feeling and want to fill it with alcohol."

"Do you want me to come back over and stay the night?"

"No, I am fine," I replied. "You go get some sleep."

I then left the house just to clear my head as I went on my nightly hike. I had a discussion with my favorite all-night convenience store clerk. He was telling me of the merits of Plumper's porno magazine and I smiled deeply as he talked, amused.

"Big women are just more beautiful," he said, looking wistful.

"My ex-wife was a big woman," I replied. "I thought she was gorgeous."

"You were a lucky man," he told me. "Why did you get a divorce?"

"Ah, it's a long story," I said, not wanting to delve into my days of drunken debauchery sans my medications for my mental illness.

"I see all these skinny women in Playboy and Penthouse and want to tell them to eat a sandwich or two or three."

I burst out laughing. My ex-wife never had that problem. She struggled with her weight so and the pressure society puts upon women to be svelte and slim. I always thought she was being silly and was fine just the way she was. My grandmother would have called her healthy.

Oasis in the Night

Another night was spent in my tent sleeping upon the ground. My father will stand at his bedroom window and watch me as I bed down for the night - my tent lit and glowing by my candle lantern like a great green and orange pumpkin in the backyard. My sleeping in the backyard disturbs him, but what can he do? He knows I am on my medications as I have to walk over to his house nightly and take them to ease his mind. I have to wait thirty minutes so he can be assured I will not throw them back up and they have a chance to take effect. I do feel better these days with his help. I love him dearly and don’t mean to worry him.

I have just struggled so with insomnia and found I sleep better outside now that the weather has turned far kinder. For months after I regained a home from my homelessness, I would sleep on the floor of my bedroom in my sleeping bag. The bed was far too soft and unfamiliar to get a good night’s sleep. Maybe my recent forays into the backyard camping harkens back to those homeless days long past. I certainly have slept much better lately, if only brokenly.

Set out for this morning’s hike around 1am. It was another gorgeous night, if rather damp, after all the rain of yesterday. I trudged past the many dark houses in my neighborhood – the occupants long asleep. Street lights at intervals lit my way with their sodium halide lighting – like little oasis in the dark of the night. I deeply breathed in that cool night air filling my lungs with welcomed oxygen and exhaled with a sigh. All was right in my little world for yet another morning.

Passed the convenience store around 2am and didn’t stop. My social anxieties got the better of me this morning. I just couldn’t bear the mindless small talk. I saw my favorite clerk through that big plate glass window sitting on the counter no doubt reading another porno magazine as he smoked cigarettes and played pocket pool. As usual, the parking lot was deserted as I trudged by. I thanked my lucky stars that I didn’t have to spend long and sleepless nights bored out of my mind working such a menial job. I admire that man and the work he does that makes the world go round – selling the gas and convenience items that make our lives easier.

Well, let me get some coffee started and let Maggie out for her morning run. It will soon be 5am and my favorite radio program will help me greet this new morning. I hope you all have a great day and I will write again soon as the day progresses and something interesting happens. Good day dear friends.

A Shoplifter’s Tale

4am found me walking up my driveway to home. I had just been on my usual early morning hike and stopped by to see my favorite convenience store clerk. He was blowing the parking lot with a leaf blower as I stopped by to get a cup of coffee.

“I just put a fresh pot of coffee on for the morning crowd,” He told me after turning the blower off and following me inside after unlocking the door.

“Sorry to interrupt you,” I said as I stepped to the back counter to pour a cup.

“No, don’t worry about it,” he replied. “You gave me an excuse to quit. I hate blowing that damn parking lot.”

The clerk’s next task was to go out and wash off the gas pumps with a bucket of soapy water and a rag. I followed him outside to continue our conversation.

“Caught a shoplifter last night,” he told me as he wiped off the face of one of the pumps.

“Tell me about it,” I said taking another drink of coffee as I stood next to him.

The morning air was crisp and cool, but not uncomfortable. Not a car was on the nearby highway which would be bustling come morning as people headed to work.

“This guy walked in asking for a glass of water, handing me a Solo cup,” the clerk said, beginning his tale. “I turned to the sink to fill up his glass. As I turned my back to him, I looked at the security camera’s monitor to watch. He reached way over the counter, thinking I couldn’t see, and started grabbing and stuffing Newport cigarettes down his jacket.”

“Slick,” I replied of the shoplifter.

“We repeated the process as I got him another glass of water. I wanted to make sure he had quite a bit of cigarettes before calling the police. He walked out the door and didn’t get two blocks away until the town's finest nabbed him.”

“Well, I guess it made for an interesting night,” I said smiling.

“Oh yeah. That will make the time fly and get your adrenaline pumping,” he said. “I can’t stand shoplifters and love to catch ‘em.”

I left my ever vigilant clerk as he began to mop the floor and walked on home. I have come to enjoy these little trips into town to talk to him. We have become fast friends. I feel a certain camaraderie with him as I did his same job for over a year while in college. It is as if an old comforting routine in my life has returned.