Oh, Thank Heaven

Somewhere in the wasted haze of being 20 something, I decided that maybe shit jobs at the car wash and the BK lounge were not all that satisfying.  Pod and OG were finishing college.  Phid’s college career was as off the tracks as mine, but we had community college bullshit.  His job at one restaurant or another at least gave him enough cash to get the fuck out of his parents’ house, something I could only imagine.

In February 1985, I said goodbye to the Sparkle Buggy Wash. Too much wet shoes and frostbite. Not enough tip money or tit shots.  Plus, having my ass handed to me every Thursday in Euchre kinda got old.

Karma: What do you wanna do with your life?
Me: I wanna rock
Karma: That song is a year old.
Karma:Can you play?
Me
:French Horn, dude!
Karma:*blank stare*
Me: Does Mutant Dog Fuckers count?
Karma:*throws help wanted ads (wrapped around a brick)*

Come of Age

Later that month or the next, I happened across an ad for clerk at 7-Eleven. Minimum wage, swing shifts. Sounds like fucking paradise.

Mousy little Patty:  You need to go to 7-Eleven University! In Jackson, next to the famous prison!
Me:  Woo-Hoo!

Bullshit ensues.The highlights:

  • Southland owned us at first.  That meant, eat whatever, just write it down and we’ll take it out of your check.
  • One lucky day, Southland closed a franchisee with a package liquor license.  If Michigan liquor department wouldn’t take it back, they couldn’t sell it, so they passed it out to employees.That was the start of the famous Grand Marnier and Mountain Dew beverage fondly known the Bolivian Tea Bag.
  • Don’t ask why.
  • Yes, the contests were rigged – not for employees, but for regular customers – the guy who rode on the back of a dump truck, the kid who was in love with the WWF.
  • Not that kid I told to “fuck off.”He still hates me.

* * *

Kids:  We’d like to buy this beer. Here are our “Central State University” college IDs, which conveniently list our DOBs!
Me:  I stayed awake in geography class, dudes. Central is not a state. Who’s your big rival? University of Central?

* * *

  • Everyone was a fucking nutcase who worked there.  (I am pointing at you, crazy Gary.)  Except Laura C.  She had a sweet Cutlass and showed me her boobs repeatedly on “Let’s Spend Our Day Off Picking Shit Out of the Store Lawn” Day.
  • Southland credit was actually a gateway drug. After acquiring the Marquis over the summer, I got a VISA card in the mail from Manufacturers Hanover Trust.  What does a $3.35/hour, 32hr/week dumbass need with $7,500 in credit and a PIN for easy ATM access?

Manufacturers HANOVER Trust, Chase Manhattan, Associates National Bank, Sears Card:  Just wait.  It gets better.

* * *

Smart Girl:  I quit
Mousy little Patty (to me)
:  You can be my new slave.
Me
:  Yay for “career” “advancement”!  I am an “Assistant Manager”
Phid’s Dad
:  You’re fucking kidding me.  You left University for a shit job?
Phid
:  Dad, you’re reusing your speeches.

Southland grew tired of Kalamazoo.  Enter, George Ripke and Garb-Ko.

Mousy little Patty:You need to go to the Garb-Ko College of 7-Eleven Kool Aid! In Saginaw, next to the famous toxic waste dump!
Me: Woo-Hoo!
Young bitch manager lady who is entirely too wrapped up in inventory control:  You suck, Mr. “I have a future beyond this bullshit.”
Me:  So a threesome with you and your  L-word lover is out of the question?
Old bitch lady exec: How are things going?
Young Bitch manager:  He’s a D-U-M-B-A-S-S
Old bitch lady exec : I’ll BE BACK LATER.

* * *

All you need to know next is “Napoleonic complex.” and “progressive discipline policy.”

The Griffer:  You act like this job is shit.
Me:  I don’t act.
Griffer:  You are demoted.  We hate paying you, but now Mike, the boy who just discovered porn is your boss.
Me: *inner monologue*  Who can i get to flash her tits so Mike leaves me alone?

* * *

One night, I lock up the beer coolers promptly at 2 a.m.  Part of my job is facing and restocking the coolers.  I do it one beer cooler door at a time, so they’re not all unlocked after hours.  3 a.m., a guy comes in and yanks on all the locked beer coolers until he finds the one I am working on.

Platoon guy:  Sell me this Heineken
Me:  Sorry dude.  Can’t do it.
Platoon guy:  Fine.  I’m taking it.
Me:  Stealing is stupid
Platoon guy:  Calling the cops on me is stupid.  Don’t make me kill you.
Me:  License plate, bitch.

Later…

Craig “the Griffer” Griffin, failed athlete and futureless knave: So, you were threatened with bloody death last night.
Me:  Yes, but i called the cops and that motherfucker is goin’ down.
The Griffer:  You left a beer door open after 2 a.m.
Me:  Yeah, I was stocking it.
Griffer:  Violation of company policy. That’s a strike.

* * *

Another night, frat party.  Madonna says she likes me and, thanks to “D-Day” as my wingman, she will go out with me.  I have to go to work.  She follows a couple hours later.  I give up smoking like a dumbass, hoping to win her approval and get in her pants.  She says smell my fingers.  Being 4 long years from losing my virginity, I assume they’re wet with her wetness.  (On reflection, I think it was soap or lime slurpee.)  Since she wouldn’t fuck me on the Griffer’s desk, my “quit smoking” lasted until 30 minutes after she left.

* * *

Ahh, glorious video games.  Let’s back up…

Video Game Guy:  I am here to collect Quarters.
Me:  Go fuck Yourself.  All the cool people say it.

The next day…

Me:  Phid, my car has a flat.
Phid:  let me stop by the store with my new girlfriend.
Me:  Thanks, dude.  I will completely ignore my job responsibilities in order to watch you work.
Kids in store: Hmmm, is mayhem appropriate?

The next day…

Video Game Guy:  I am here to collect Quarters.
Me:  Go Fuck Yourself.  All the cool people say it.
Video Game Guy: Your machine has been broken into.
Me: WTF?
Video Game Guy: Yeah, somebody totally broke into this thing.
Me:  A – not my machine, not my problem.  B- fingerprint that bitch, because it wasn’t me.  C – Ordinarily, you are here every month or two, yet you’re back 2 days later?  WTF?
Video Game Guy:  Go fuck Yourself.  All the cool people say it.

Later…

Kalamazoo Police Department: We want to arrest you for ignoring a letter we did not send.
Me:  Go Fuck Yourself.  All the cool people say it.
Me:  No, I don’t need a lawyer.  No, I won’t take a polygraph.  Talk to the video guy.  Ort my buddy the DUI detective.  Later….

Later…

The GrifferYou robbed Spyhunter let punkass kids break a game.
MeGo fuck Yourself.  All the cool people say it. Yeah, right.  Bullshit investigation, meet bullshit conclusion.
Griffer:  Violation of company policy. That’s a strike.

* * *

Then it got worse….

Old bitch lady exec: Coffee is love! [Told you I’d be back] Me:  It’s fresh, as of 31 minutes ago.  59 cents please.
Old bitch lady
exec: 31> 30.  Plus, you forgot to ask if I wanted a dozen roses, a 12 pack of Stroh’s and a Brazilian wax with that.  GRIFFER!!!!
The Griffer
:  You forgot to suggestive sell bullshit to a company employee.
Me
:  Yeah, dipshit, SHE WORKS HERE!!! She knows what we have!
Griffer
:  Violation of company policy. That’s a strike.

Later…

The Griffer (phone):  You coming to the meeting? 
Me
:  What meeting?
Griffer
:  The unannounced meeting I just set for 1/2 hour ago.
MeWTF?

No “Good thing I arrived three hours early” for you

Griffer:  Violation of company policy. That’s your 17th strike since Mousy little Patty raised your rate to $4.60/hr.
Griffer: (which we hate paying).
Me:  Fine, say it.
Donald Trump:  Go fuck yourself!
Me:  Wait, what?  You’re doing it wrong!

All Growed Up

Profile photo of Raoul Duke

Raoul Duke

When I came to, the general back-alley ambiance of the suite was so rotten, so incredibly foul. How long had I been lying there? All these signs of violence. What had happened? There was evidence in this room of excessive consumption of almost every type of drug known to civilized man since 1544 AD. What kind of addict would need all these coconut husks and crushed honeydew rinds? Would the presence of junkies account for all these uneaten french fries? These puddles of glazed ketchup on the bureau? Maybe so. But then why all this booze? And these crude pornographic photos smeared with mustard that had dried to a hard yellow crust? These were not the hoofprints of your average God-fearing junkie. It was too savage. Too aggressive. 

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