Empty

Late this afternoon I decided to take advantage of the glorious sunshine and go for a walk. There is a creek and stream nearby and as I approached it, I noticed a man on his knees engaged in what appeared to be rinsing returnable bottles and cans in the water. Some stores won't take them dirty or the bar code readers fail if obstructed.

He seemed unaware of the world around him as he worked. I watched intently as I got closer. He was about 5'11", slim build and fit.

Without thinking I reached into my pocket and took out what I had. I walked over to the guy, smiled and handed him the money. He was grateful and said "God bless you. I'm just trying to get something to eat, man." His eyes were clear but tired and, I would guess his age at late forties. I smiled again and continued on my way without looking back. I didn't want to embarrass either of us.

There is a lot right in this country yet, something is very wrong when people collect cans for their supper void of other options. Some might say "at least he wasn't asking for a handout." They would of course be missing the point.

Grocery Madness

When I state that I fear for this nation in the hands of the young, I mean it.

On the way home tonight, I stopped at a grocery store. I needed milk and bananas but, I noticed that there was a sale on pasta sauce; five large jars for only $5.00. A great buy so, I added the jars to my cart and headed to checkout.

Of course, it was my luck today to get new girl who already hates her job, rather than either of the two fun loving high school dudes who love reminding me that I am old by raising their voices a couple octaves to call me "Sir".

Yeah, this one was sour an stupid... I had to walk three blocks up that great hill to the house. I therefore asked that she place a paper bag inside the plastic one, to prevent an accident involving glass and tomato sauce on a neighbor's sidewalk.

Here's the hard part: For the life of this poor cashier girl, she could not understand what I mean by "place a paper bag inside the plastic one." She began by handing me the paper bag, to which I repeated my request. Then she tried simply leaning the bag to one side inside the plastic bag. No, no. "Yeah, open the bag and then put it in" I offered while gesturing wildly.  She now looked confused and angry. She placed the opened paper bag the opposite direction as the plastic, creating a cross if you were looking over the top of the mess. "It won't fit" she offered in frustration. I looked to the two goobers behind me in line. "Yeah, it is just you" their glares suggested. The store security dude winked to let me know he felt my pain. The cashier out of frustration handed be both bags. "Do it yourself, asshole" her eyes offered. So, I did.

I made my way to the house. It was now after seven and I had only crackers for lunch more than six hours earlier. After emptying the bag, I looked at the receipt only to discover she had over-changed me roughly four bucks. She had charged me the regular price and not the sale price for the jars of pasta sauce.

Out of friggin principle I returned to the store for my dang four bucks! I went to the same cashier, waited in line and she told me that she couldn't help me; I had to go to the service desk. There, I waited in line for twenty minutes. The service desk matron was pleasant although, I had to do the math for her.

It is now 8:36p.m., I am in bed and will not get out of here until tomorrow.

Stay in school kids.  

You never know...

A full reusable Aldi's grocery bag sat unattended next to a pillar at the downtown bus hub.

A bus driver was the first to notice and actually question aloud why it sat there. None of the passengers nearby knew anything of the bag's ownership. The driver cautiously peered over the top of the bag. He couldn't figure it out. He went to seek a supervisor; two walked over to investigate, as I backed away.

The woman supervisor turned up the corners of her mouth, as if to say "beats me." The burly male supervisor gave his look see and then... Wait for it... He kicked the bag with his left boot. At this point the woman supervisor quickly went inside the hub building. She quickly returned with a 100lb very effeminate man full of apologies, who gallantly announced that the bag was his and contained a sewing machine. See?

Everyone seemed to exhale at the same time. I, however was thinking that the bus company might need a "Strange Parcel Seminar."

Evil Receipt

Today's Weirdness:

At the supermarket, the round, pleasant cashier rang up my; Hummas, Naan, Diet Iced Tea, and White Chocolate Macadamia Nut Cookie. The total came to $6.66 (666), and the cashier freaked. "Whooooa!" she said as she took a half step back from the register. She shook her head in disbelief and looked at me. It took me a couple seconds to figure out what was going on. I smiled the same smile I do when I am not sure if I am being hit upon, or sized up as someone's next murder victim. 

The cashier insisted I make another purchase to alter the total. "Would you like to buy a bag?" "Sure" (I had already planned to.)

"666? I should play that number tonight?" I gave her my "enough out of you" half smile. She looked offended but, I bid her a great afternoon anyway. 

Do you think I'm sexy?

*To set the scene: Your hero has been killing a Saturday about the mall. He has only come to look, and now he is tired. He sits on a bench for fifteen seconds, when two male humans in transition? enter stage left.

They are wearing lots of makeup. There is room on the bench for a dozen yet, they sit extremely close (almost touching) to me.

The one closest to me has his/her rabbit fur jacket back to me.

The following conversation ensues:

1st trans. : Aw, he mad handsome...

2nd trans.: You don't want that!

1st trans.: You don't think he cute? I think he's really hot.

2nd trans.: (Tilts head and looks past 1st trans. at me)
Honey that bitch be mad old... What you want, a sugar daddy? (cackles a studio audience laugh)

1st trans.: Maybe, I don't know.

*Your hero casually stands as if it never happened, and quickly ducked into Brooks Brothers, a universal safe space.

“We sisters! We sisters!”

Late one afternoon, I was waiting for the south bus at the main stop downtown. This was about a year before they moved all of the stops to the new bus “shelter” at the other end of downtown. As I recall, it was mid-fall and chilly. I stood shivering hoping my bus would pull up soon. I looked to my left down the busy street in anticipation. I then noticed about three feet to my immediate left, a woman of about 35 years. She was tall; maybe 5’10” and nicely dressed. Yeah, I guess she would be considered very attractive by most with angular features. I stared ahead again, I did not want to stare at the woman. Bored, my eyes wandered across the street and up and down, landing on a young woman of maybe 25 years, standing roughly three feet to my right. The very peculiar thing is she looked just like the woman to my left, only 3 or 4 inches shorter. I casually looked again to my left and then to my right and back again and again. Weird, except for the height, they could be twins. At one point, the woman to my left was leaning forward looking beyond me at the younger woman. I looked at the woman to my left curiously wondering what her fascination with the other woman was. Yes, she looked like her but… It was at this point that the woman to my left stepped in front of me and approached the woman to my right. “Is your daddy, Jimmy Ray?” she asked the younger woman. “Yeah, he my daddy” the younger woman responded. Over-joyed the older off the two almost shouted “We sisters! We sisters! He my daddy too.”

I smiled too, I like seeing people happy. You could literally have knocked me over with a feather. They seems so happy, yet so casual, as if they both discovered they had the same model of iPhone or something. The younger woman, in fact did not seem surprised at all, she seemed pleasant and delighted, but not surprised. “You know there’s 38 of us, don’t you?” the older asked. It took a second or two for my head to make sense of her question. Thirty-eight what’s? …I got it. I became momentarily comatose as they bantered the names of their mutual siblings, as if they were distant cousins from opposite sides of the country. They both gleamed and seemed genuinely pleased to make each other’s acquaintance. As I zoned in and out, still unable to get past the number 38. I heard something about Jimmy Ray working at a local funeral home. This might be a clue as to who daddy was. The entire ride home, I was bothered by this. Who the heck has 38 children? I thought that being a mortician was a good business to support them all. I knew from a recent article I had read that the minimum cost to raise a child to age 18 is currently, $235,000. Let’s see, 38 X $235,000 = $8,930,000.00.

I spent the evening obsessing over that $9 million figure. I remembered that a cousin is an unofficial historian of the community, some might say gossip. If she did not know all there was to know of Jimmy Ray and his antics and issue, no one would. I telephoned her and received immediate confirmation. Yes, he has nearly forty children. He is also nearly 80 years of age now and is not now nor has he ever been a mortician. He is paid per “show” and puts the little funeral flags on cars and directs the traffic; lining up of cars for funerals. We estimated that he receives roughly $50.00 per show. This has been Jimmy Ray’s vocation for 3 or 4 decades, I am told. Boggles the mind. He wouldn't be able to take care of himself on $50-$150. A week yet, I also learned that the man was a bit of an impeccable dandy. Perhaps, the many baby mamas helped to support him? I understood the number to be 30. Not, to judge, but it all hurts my head and heart. Sometimes, I think we are too free in this country. Nearly forty children and at the height of your career you make less than minimum wage?

The story made me wonder further about the financing of all these children’s lives. I did not believe I was being unfair to assume that the 30 baby mamas were not heiresses regardless of how dapper Jimmy Ray was or is. I imagined them all to be poor and uneducated. Who would have this man’s child when in such a small town everyone other than myself knew that all his ex’s were indeed there and not in Texas. What I mean is that all of these people live in the same small gossipy town. People talk and it seems obvious to me that there must have been plenty of chatter about this prolific baby daddy. I don’t see how in a small town (actually a small city) his reputation had not preceded him? They have to have known and simply not cared, I suppose?

Maybe, I am being judgmental and or unfair, but I further surmised that at some point in all 38 children’s lives, they needed and received support from the county to survive. Therefore, I might suggest that the kind people of the United States of America footed all or part of that $9,000,000? That works out to roughly $250. per month per child. Certainly not a huge amount and probably not enough and certainly not their fault, but geez!

*Names and places and other stuff was changed here to protect the "innocent".

The Jacket

Somewhere around last Thanksgiving, I found a great waist length ski jacket. It was by the designer Perry Ellis and was down. As well, it was well made and reversed from the black and forest green I usually wore to a complete solid forest green. The elastic gathers at the wrists and waist kept the wind out and the down help me remain toasty even at the minus-twenty mornings we have woken up to this winter. In a very short time that jacket has become as dependable and reliable as an old friend.

This morning I awoke to chilly temperatures of 26°F with a bit of wind. I could feel the chill on my chest. I immediately zipped the jacket up to my chin. Finding that somewhat restrictive, it was my first thought to pull the zipper a bit downward. The second I touched the head of the zipper, the pull tab fell off along with part of the piece that it was attached to. I tried carefully to hold the jagged remainder of the pull while yanking downward. Nothing. I could not get it to budge. It pulled upward about another half inch and froze there. At that point, it would not go up or down. I worked at trying to open the zipper for at least an hour and a half. I was starting to freak a little. Because I had pulled the thing up so far, it was impossible to wiggle my arms free and pull it over my head. I thought that if the jacket started to shrink, then there would have been the makings of a great The Twilight Zone episode. At any rate it did not shrink, but I still could not get out of the jacket.

As time wore on (pun intended), I asked a maintenance man if he could help. I thought that maybe he had pliers, which he did and other than make me fearful that he would slip and stab me with them, he had no luck with the zipper as well. He gripped the remaining piece of the pull thingy and tried to work it back and forth, but he got nowhere.

So, now I am sweating, a lot and not a lot. It has been over three hours since I originally zipped up “The Uniform of Death”. I was getting panicky and the jacket also felt warmer and also tighter. I was sitting struggling and hoping that I could get it to work. I was so freaked and frustrated that I was wondering if there was a patron saint for broken things or stuff that won’t work right. I could think of none. I kind of giggled when I thought that maybe St. Anthony, the patron saint of lost things would intercede and help me find my mind. I was desperate. In addition, to the point in fact that I hearted that jacket and found it perfect for my needs, the weather was in transition. The next day there would be a high temperature in the mid-fifties and with the rain and chill, it might be half that warm during the night. The weather will probably rollercoaster for another week before we have temps in the mid-60’s during the day and high forties during the night. The jacket is the only one that I have to get me to real spring. I have a lined pullover anorak, which is okay as long as it doesn’t rain (the arms are not lined. With rain, I feel as if I am wearing nothing. I know “then I met a man with no jacket at all”. Nevertheless, at 4 ½ hours it became clear that my efforts were in vain, the jacket could not be saved.

I went back and found the maintenance man and asked if he could cut me out of the thing. But first, like superman exposing his S, I grabbed a fist full of jacket chest on each side and gave a great tug. Nothing. I then squinted and closed my left eye tightly (I don’t know why) as I listened to the metal scraping against metal sound get closer to my face. I heard the man say “okay, that should do it.” I was all sorts of sad and relieved as I removed the jacket. I thanked the man or I didn’t, I don’t remember. What I do remember is wadding the jacket up and tossing it in a nearby trash can.

“Friggin’ Monday” I shouted.