DOUGLAS -- A celebration of life for James William "Jim" Adams, 53, will be held at a later date.
He died Tuesday, Sept. 9, 2008 at Memorial Hospital of Converse County in Douglas.
Jim, who had tired of reading obituaries noting other's courageous battles with this or that disease, wanted it known that he lost his battle. It was primarily as a result of being stubborn and not following doctor's orders or maybe for just living life a little too hard for better than five decades.
He was born June 8, 1955 in Garrison, N.D. the son of James William and Ruby Helen (Clark) Adams.
He was sadly deprived of his final wish, which was to be run over by a beer truck on the way to the liquor store to buy booze for a date. True to his personal style, he spent his final hours joking with medical personnel, cussing and begging for narcotics and bargaining with God to look over his loving dog, Biscuit, and his family.
He would like to thank all "his ladies" for putting up with him the last 30 years.
During his life, he excelled at anything he put his mind to. He loved to hear and tell jokes and spin tales of grand adventures he may or may not have had.
He is survived by five sons, Jeremiah Adams and his wife, Nicole, Mica Olivas, Wade Olivas, Brice Simpson and Cole Adams; sister, Jerri Giegerich; two ex-wives, Vickie Harrison and Marilyn Williams; four grandchildren; two nieces; and two great-nieces.
He was preceded in death by his parents and a brother-in-law.
In lieu of flowers, he asks that you make a sizeable purchase at your favorite watering hole, get rip roaring drunk and tell the stories he no longer can.
Gorman Funeral Homes - Converse Chapel of Douglas is in charge of the arrangements.
The pawnshop that I work at is on the edge of a neighborhood scary to the upper class patrons that come to buy jewelry, and frat boys from the state university across town that come to shop for guns. Geographically located in between a homeless shelter and a counseling center for the mentally ill, the sidewalks in front of our building teem with the old, infirm, crazy, and down and out. Gang members strut and swagger, crackheads panhandle, and prostitutes wave johns into the empty parking lot across from us. Police officers hang out for the free coffee, and mingle with the general public. It is a veritable goldmine of stories.
An elderly black man passes in front of the shop, wearing what appears to be a tweed sport coat, brightly colored Bermuda shorts, and huge earmuff style headphones, singing along to the old spirituals that only he can hear. Sometimes, this same man carries a closed umbrella, which he slams against the sidewalk, punctuating a vivid argument he is having with the thin air.
Sebastian, one of the mental health clients, comes to the counter, where I am speaking to a former police officer about his new career, head of security for the county expo center.
"Say baby! I need to pawn this ring for a hundred dollars," Sebastian shouts at me, interrupting my conversation.
I see that curl activator is dripping from Sebastian's hair, staining the neck of his white t-shirt. His eyes look wild, and his stance is aggressive. He hasn't been taking his meds.
"Sebastian, you're gonna have to wait a second. I am finishing a transaction for this gentleman, and as soon as I'm done, I'll look at your ring."
Sebastian turns to the former police officer and immediately recognizes him.
"Say man! You remember me? I'm Sebastian. You used to arrest me all the time!"
"Yeah, Sebastian, I remember you, but I don't do that anymore. I retired."
"I know that's right. You work at the ExpoCenter dontcha?
"I do."
"Say man, why don't you get me a job up there, working with you? I need me some money so I can get a car. I'm tired of all this walking bullshit, and begging for motherfucking rides. You know I done walked over here from North Street? That's a long fucking way when it's this hot. So what you say man, you gonna get me that job?"
"I'm not gonna hire you Sebastian."
"Why not?"
"Well, for one thing, you're already drunk, and it's only ten o'clock in the morning. Don't you think that's a little early?"
"Man, what the fuck are you talking about? I ain't drunk." Sebastian stares at the former officer. "Man...how'd you know I was drunk?"
"I can smell it on you. You reek of cheap booze. What have you been drinking?"
Sebastian leans closer to the ex-cop. "Evah-clear, mothafucka." He lifts his massive hand to the cop's face, covering it with his palm.
The cop slaps Sebastian's hand away. "Sebastian, you best start acting right. I will put your big ass in the floor, and I believe these ladies have a pistol behind the counter, in the event that I need some help."
Aunt Cheryl looks at Sebastian. "I think it might be a good idea if you left hon."
Sebastian rises from his barstool and leaves, lingering in the parking lot until one of Tom's watch repair customers exits.
"Excuse me sir," Sebastian says, "my name is Jimmy Jones, and I was wondering if you could give me a ride. I live over on North Street." He uses all 6' 7" of his frame to lean over the man, caging him in.
The watch customer looks nervous and unsure how to handle "Jimmy Jones". Cheryl rushes to the parking lot.
"Sebastian, you leave my customers alone. Don't be out here asking people for rides. And stay off my sidewalk, and don't be walking through the neighborhood screaming anymore. In fact, it might be best if you just stayed away until you start taking your medicine again."
I am buying tools from a young, black college student, Keyshawn, and talking about the elections. A police officer walks through the door, and Cheryl hugs him. Keyshawn looks up.
"Hey! Officer! Do you remember me?"
"I can't say I do. You look familiar, but I don't know your name."
"You don't remember me?"
"No son, I don't"
"You maced me. In the face. Remember that? Up at the animal shelter? Remember, they put my dog to sleep, and I was upset because I'd had that dog for six years. So I made a scene, because my dog was dead. They called you, and you maced me in my face. Remember me now?"
"Seems like I do remember that now." The cop won't make eye contact, instead watching the shiny toe of his shoe make lazy circles on the linoleum floor. "It's hard to lose a pet. I understand that."
"You didn't seem to understand it then, cause they killed my dog, and you maced me in the face."
"People make mistakes."
"They sho' do." Keyshawn turns to get his receipt from me. "Thank you ma'am." He is headed to the door. "This is some BULL-SHIT," he yells over his shoulder as he leaves.
I am checking my email when I realize there is a homeless person standing at my side. They appear sexless due to the bulk of the various sweaters and pouches decorating their mid-section, but I suspect it is a woman, mostly because she's wearing six skirts. She is trying to show me something on her hand.
"Scuse me, ma'am. I was hoping you could give me a loan on this so I could get me a meal. I don't know if it's worth anything, but they told me it was very valuable." She is pointing to a large ring on her forefinger, clear plastic with black and silver sequins embedded inside.
"This ring?" She nods her agreement. "Ma'am, that ring is plastic. It doesn't have any pawn value."
"Well," she says, "they told me it was valuable. When the CIA gave it to me, they told me it was a representation of racial hatred in America. I guess they lied."
Before I can think of a reply, she has shuffled out the door.
Currently
listening
:
Jazz at the Pawnshop
By
Various Artists
Release date: 1996-12-17
A Smattering of Things That Will Never Come Up On the Television Show Jeopardy!
Sometimes when I'm falling asleep, I feel like my body is stretching to giant proportions. I always think, "Fuck yeah! I'm about to crush buildings under my gigantic feet." The excitement of this thought always wakes me up, and I'm always disappointed to find that I'm just normal size Rebel. It's kind of like that flying feeling you get sometimes, but far more exciting.
Right now, I am pretending to be a brain dead hermit. I'm hiding inside my house, watching movies, ignoring email, and napping to excess. This behavior is a direct result of the fact that I am facing multiple submission deadlines, and I hate submission deadlines. They stifle my creativity. They make me feel dull and stupid. Add a theme to the mix, and I'm a mess. I have a real problem with rules. I hate rules. I'm gonna try to hurry and wrap this thing up, I need a nap.
Yesterday, I was sitting on my couch, watching the Olympics and reading blogs that I was too lazy to comment on (Sorry I suck) when I saw a tiny dog out of the corner of my eye. "Hey! There's Manley!" I thought. After an additional split-second of rumination, I remembered that
A: I do not own a tiny dog.
and
B: Manley, my sister-in-law's dog, has been dead for at least eight years.
I looked at the tiny dog. "Hey there tiny dog, how are you?" (Have I mentioned my habit of having conversations with animals? Not just my pet, but all animals. If I see a deer on the side of the road, I'll lean out of my window and say "Hi, how are you today? Be careful crossing the road!" The first time Eric heard me do it, I was trying to get in the kitchen, but Manley was plopped across the floor, blocking my path. "Excuse me Manley, I need to go in the kitchen." Eric looked at me and said, "Did you just say excuse me to the dog?" I guess it's a strange habit, but I always assume the animals understand what I'm saying. I'm not sure why I believe that, seeing as I'm a thirty one year old woman, but the belief is there, and I had a conversation with a squirrel today, so what are you gonna do?")
Tiny dog that wasn't Manley sat at my feet, panting. He looked like the kind of dog that someone would name Gizmo, with a fluffy face that reminded me of a mogwai.
"Little dog, you've got to get out of my house. If Sophie sees you, he will whip your ass all over the place, and I just swept this floor."
Tiny dog allowed me to herd him back out the open door he wandered in through. He stopped by grandma's house and let Dot feed him a snack before dashing home.
I was standing behind the counter at the pawn shop today, thinking about assault rifles when I caught sight of a tall, lanky black man standing in the parking lot of the abandoned garage across the street from us. He was wearing a pith helmet and a a safari jacket, pushing an ancient ten-speed. Naturally, I assumed it was Brother Oh-tiss.
"Hey! Cheryl! Idn't that Brother Oh-tiss across the street?"
"Who?"
"Brother Oh-tiss."
"Oh. Naw. That can't be Oh-tiss, look at the way he's walking. He's not movin' near fast enough."
"Yeah, you're right."
Ya know what? Fuck Dr. Pepper
Three months ago, we went to eat at the barbecue joint down the street from us (the one with the amazing smoker that's shaped like a giant pistol, and the smoke comes out of the barrel), and I got a Dr. Pepper to go with my chopped sandwich, cole slaw and tater salad. I love their Dr. Pepper. It is literally the perfect temperature. So I was enjoying my delicious smoked beef sandwich and icy cold Dr. Pepper when I noticed that my cap had one of those contest codes inside. Part of my code said, "YOU WIN".
So I think, "Heck yeah! I'm gonna get myself a free Dr. Pepper!" And then I notice that my code "must be redeemed online". Which meant that I was gonna have to remember not to throw the cap away, and then remember to go to the Dr. Pepper official website, create an account, and enter my code to get my soda.It is a testament to my love of Dr. Pepper that I was willing to go to those lengths for my fix.
I carried the cap in my purse for three months. I finally remembered to redeem the damn thing yesterday.
It was evident that something was amiss when it took ten minutes to load the home page. Because of an Indiana Jones animation. I'll kill Indiana Jones. I find his archaeological methods highly suspect, and suspect he may be a key link in the blackmarket for ancient relics .
After sitting through the Indiana Jones bullshit, I was allowed to create an account. The first page was basic information, email and the like. The second page insisted that I answer questions such as,
"Are you black? If you answered yes, do you like grape soda?"
"Are you fat? If you answered yes, have you tried Diet Dr. Pepper?"
I refused to answer their demographics questions, and moved to the next page. The third page wanted me to agree to provide my cell phone number so that Dr. Pepper could send me advertisements, via text messages, at MY EXPENSE. I declined their generous offer to pay for ad assaults, and completed my account set up. I eagerly typed my prize code into the appropriate box, and waited for the Dr. Pepper website to determine my prize. I waited for over a minute, only to find out that I won A FREE FUCKING RINGTONE!!!! FUCK YOU, DR. PEPPER!!!! And I mean that shit.
My twelve year old daughter can kick your twelve year old daughter's ass
Dot is awesome. She owns a cloak (custom made...I ordered it for her on ebay.) She bought a pewter calligraphy set. She is so nerdy that she knows the names of even the most peripheral Lord of the Rings characters, and says things like, "Where have I seen that actor before? Oh yeah! He plays Ecthelior, son of Denithor in the second movie." (Warning, I made those names up, because I can't be bothered to remember that nerd shit. I have nerd shit of my own to remember. But rest assured, my darlin' Dot will pop up to correct me eventually.) She collects swords, and plays flute AND drums like a motherbitch. And, she sometimes pesters me to write a blog about her, to properly express her nerd pride to the entire world. But the main reason that she is awesome, is that she's wickedly smart, and she shares my sense of humor.
Yesterday, we watched a George Carlin biography together. They played the first minute and a twenty seconds of this monologue
Dot laughed so hard that she snorted. Today, she kept walking past me, saying "but he LOVES you!"
She follows, and even enjoys logic. Beautiful.
R.I.P. Chaplin, stop haunting the house
When we moved to our house in the country, we inherited a feral kitten (the previous owners said he was born on 06/06/06). We spent two weeks coaxing him onto the front porch, and quickly realized that he had extra toes, and extra fangs that poked out of his mouth. He came inside, and he and Sophie, the boy cat with a girl's name, fell in love. Chaplin was a little retarded, and fell down a lot. The other feral cats in the neighborhood sensed his weakness, and picked on him. Sophie is the ninja assassin of the feline world. He can jump five feet in the air, from four paws flat on the ground. I tried to give him a flea bath one time, and he damn near pulled my arms from their sockets, trying to jump away from me. He stalks and kills things every day. He protected Chaplin, and shared his prey with him.
Chaplin had a drooling problem, and he would eat until his sides bulged and he had to pass out from the exhaustion. He couldn't take a hint, and even if you put him in the floor twenty times, he'd still try to climb right back in your lap. We still liked him. He had this cute way of wrasslin' with Sophie, and unleashing blood curdling screams while he did it.
He died a couple of weeks ago. I don't know how, but I figure it was something dumb, like trying to swallow a rock. I buried him in the back yard, under the tiny tree that he liked to climb. But Sophie still seems to be wrasslin' with him. I can't decide whether I have a ghost cat, or a mentally-ill ninja cat. I'm worried either way.
You can download Air In The Paragraph Line 12, FOR FREE!
Don't know what that is? Well, not only does AITPL 12 feature a story about my insane uncle (and details, among other things, the time he chased my cousin with a chainsaw), it features twenty one additional stories, and artwork. You don't even have to create a password. You just click right here. Blammo! You've got yourself an easy to download pdf, and a shit ton of good stuff to read.
There ain’t no fucking Tupperware party Part 1
Current mood: I refuse to choke to death
Tupperware Party . Pass the cake please.
When I was a little girl, probably five or six, my mom asked step-dad for permission to attend a Tupperware Party with my Aunt Janine. Janine was step-dad's adopted sister, picked from a reservation in Oklahoma. Aunt Janine and mom were instant best friends, owing largely to their mutual passion for getting drunk and acting like whores.
Step-dad was instantly suspicious of the Tupperware party. I was intrigued, mostly because I didn't know what Tupperware was, and I hoped there would be cake.
"You and Janine are going to a Tupperware party? Are you sure you're not going to a bar? Last time the two of you went out, you didn't come home until three in the morning."
"Don't be stupid. We're going to Linda's for a Tupperware party. I want to finish my Christmas shopping, and Momma asked for Tupperware."
"And what about Rebel? You just plan to stick me with your kid while you go out?"
"I wanna go to the Tupperware party with Momma!"
"No, Rebel, you can't go with me. I plan to buy some of your Christmas presents at the party."
"That's what I THOUGHT! You're going to the bar with my drunk of a sister! Rebel doesn't need any fucking Tupperware."
"She doesn't just sell Tupperware, dumbass. I'm going to Linda's, I SWEAR."
"Fine, you can go, but you have to take Rebel with you. I'm not watching her."
"Fine. I'll take her with me."
Hey little girl! You like candy canes?
Aunt Janine came to pick us up for the party. While we waited for Mom to dry her hair, step-dad quizzed Janine on the details of the event, trying to catch her in a lie. As we loaded the car, he shouted demands and warnings from the door.
"You better be home by 10:30, 'cause I'm lockin' the door!"
Aunt Janine waited until step-dad closed the door before fishing two Bud tallboys from the cooler in her backseat. She handed one to mom.
"So what are you gonna do with Rebel?"
"Aunt Janine! I get to go to the Tupperware party with you!"
"I called Ed and asked him if he would baby-sit Rebel, and if he could keep it a secret from the old man. He said he would. He wants to get in my pants."
"Momma, are you talkin' about Yankee Ed and Alice? I don't want to go to Yankee Ed and Alice's house! I wanna go to the Tupperware party with you!"
"Rebel, hush! There ain't a Tupperware party! Me and Aunt Janine are going to a concert. You're gonna go stay at Yankee Ed's house, and if you promise to keep it a secret, and never, ever tell your step-dad, I'll buy you one of those giant candy canes you keep pesterin' me to buy."
I knew the candy cane she was talking about. It was a foot long, and big around as a quarter. The kind that flaked into little sugar razors that I loved to grind between my back teeth. I wanted that fucking foot-long candy cane worse than I wanted cake from the Tupperware party. I wanted that candy cane so bad that I was willing to stay with Ed.
"Can I have the candy cane before you take me to Ed's house? And can I get a Dr. Pepper? So I can remember to keep it a secret?"
This is what happens when you behave like an asshole
I regretted my decision the second we got to Ed's, and some of the candy thrill had worn off. I was scared of Ed and Alice's house, because I associated it with the movie, "The Shining". I had seen it there a month before. I was so scared when Wendy hit Jack in the head with a baseball bat and locked him in the pantry that I peed on Ed and Alice's new couch. And I was so scared of Ed, who yelled at me once for slamming the screen door, that I didn't tell them. Instead, I lay in a puddle of my urine and waited for Jack Nicholson to die. And when the movie was over, I got in the car and never said a word about it.
When we walked inside, Ed was in his recliner, watching baseball. Mom told him that she would be back to pick me up at eleven, and rushed out the door. Ed spoke to me without turning his eyes from the game.
"Jake is back there in his bedroom. Go play with him. And you two keep it quiet back there!"
I didn't like Jake, because he looked like Alfalfa with a snotty nose, and he liked to throw bugs in my hair. I couldn't wait to eat my giant candy cane in front of him. I would show him no mercy. He begged, pleaded, and promised, but I wouldn't budge.
"Nuh-uh! You can't have any of MY candy cane. My Momma bought this for me so I wouldn't tell anybody that she didn't go to a Tupperware party tonight."
Eventually, Jake realized that his pleas were wasted breath, and got his revenge by refusing to play anything but Matchbox cars or G.I. Joe. We didn't see Ed until the game was over.
"Hey kids! I'm gonna go take a shower. Don't get in any mischief, or I'll whip your asses. And DO NOT disturb me in the shower, or I'll whip your asses! Now go in the living room and watch a movie until Rebel's mom gets here."
We decided to watch Popeye, because Jake and I agreed that Mork was hilarious. I was lying on a pallet in the floor, gnawing on my candy cane. During a particularly funny scene, a huge chunk broke from my candy, and lodged itself in my wind-pipe. I coughed, and nothing came out. I tried to take a breath, and could I couldn't get enough air. The jagged edges of the candy were stabbing my throat, and tears streamed down my face. Jake tore his eyes from the television, wondering what the strange noises were.
"Jake," I pleaded, "get your dad...can't breathe."
"Daddy said if I disturbed him in the shower, he'd whip our asses." He turned back to the madcap adventures of Popeye, as I wheezed and gagged in the floor. I was starting to feel faint from lack of oxygen.
I stared at the ceiling, struggling to breathe. "This is what I get for telling lies and not sharing," I thought. "If I don't want to die, I have to get that candy out of my throat." The thought of my death spurred me into action. I crammed my fingers down my throat, and clawed around in a panic, finally dislodging the candy by accident.
I fell back in the floor and took great heaving breaths, crying for my mommy, and relieved to be alive. Ed stormed into the living room, ready to spank some asses. He stopped short when he saw my hysterical, purple face.
"What the hell happened in here?"
"I got candy stuck in my throat and I was choking, and Jake wouldn't help me."
"JAKE! I'm gonna bust your ass with my belt! Are you okay now Rebel?"
"Yes. I got the candy out by myself."
"Good. Listen...don't say anything about this to your mom, okay? You're a good girl."
Currently
listening
:
Don't Say No
By
Billy Squier
Release date: 1990-10-25
I've been worrying about Brother Otis Rose. His father died a few months ago, and shortly after, Otis bought himself a Nazi officer's uniform, trimmed his mustache into a "Hitler"and walked the twenty three miles to Nacogdoches. He wanted me to photograph him, but I wasn't there. He called and yelled at me for taking the day off. I haven't heard from him since. I imagined that he stopped taking his meds and spent all his money on pot, or even worse, started smoking with the crackheads that give him rides sometimes. I finally decided that if I didn't say something, Otis would have an episode and end up in another showdown with the police.
Aunt Cheryl called his case worker and left a message. She told him that we hadn't seen him in awhile, and she wanted to make sure he wasn't missing his appointments.
"They can't tell us anything, but if he's missed appointments, they'll send someone to the house to check on him."
When we never heard back from the case worker, Aunt Cheryl decided we needed to try something else.
"Reb, do you want to call him? Wait, that's not a good idea, he's in love with you. I'll call him. He hates me." She picked up the phone. "Otis, this is Cheryl. How are you? We've been worried about you because we haven't seen you."
"Hi Miss Cheryl! I'm just fine! How are you?"
"I'm just fine, Otis."
"Miss Cheryl, you still got that P-08 pistol up there?"
"No Otis, we don't have one of those."
"Did you sell that pistol?"
"Yeah, we sold it." (We haven't had a P-08 in over five years.)
"You sold MY gawddamn pis-TOL?"
"Otis, that wasn't your pistol, hun. That belonged to someone else."
"You don't tell me NOTHIN'! I'm the MOTHERFUCKIN' Nazi that used to own that MOTHERFUCKIN' pistol. You ain't nothin' but a GAWDDAMNED LIAR!"
Cheryl handed me the phone. "He's lost it. He's off his meds. Listen."
By the time I got the phone, it was only dead air.
He's probably goose-stepping around the house right now, pretending to be Rommel, the Desert Fox.
The Magic Of Microwave Cookery with Crackhead Joe!
I didn't like Joe the first time I met him, and it wasn't just his mullet. There was also his wispy six-hair mustache, his penchant for sleeveless t-shirts, his boundless energy and obnoxious personality. I disliked him even more the longer I knew him. He suffered wild mood swings, and made everyone around him, namely me, suffer with him. He carried a battered Olan Mills eight-by-ten photo of his daughter, and when he was feeling down, he would make me look at the picture.
"This is my 4 year old daughter, Melissa. She's all fucked up because my wife drank when she was pregnant. We were all fucked up, and we ruined her life! She can't even live with us. The court gave her to my mom and she won't let us see her."
Seeing Melissa's bald head and vacant stare made me feel guilty, remembering the pot I smoked with a Dead Head in my second week of pregnancy. Seeing Joe's naked grief and the snot leaking into his wispy mustache just made me nauseous. Joe sobbed for several minutes, excusing himself to the bathroom. He came out a new man. A new man full of dirty jokes and high-pitched giggles. His energy was so great that he bunny hopped down the aisles of potato chips and candy bars, shouting, laughing, and slinging drool onto the linoleum floor.
Despite the fact that I was raised by meth heads and heroin addicts, I was clueless about Joe's obvious drug use until Eric pointed it out.
"Eric! That explains so much! The motherfucker is a CRACKHEAD!!!!"
Lotto Fever, Baby!
On slow nights, Joe and I would play Lotto.
"Hey, Rebel. Let's get a ticket. Which one do you want?"
"I shouldn't buy a ticket. I'm pregnant and broke. I work at Town & Country Food Store."
"What's a dollar? Especially if you can win fifteen thousand dollars. If you win big money, you can buy your baby a car. C'mon just pick a ticket."
He continued to badger me until I bought a ticket, and he'd buy one too. If I lost, I quit playing. Joe would stop after a winning ticket or he ran out of money. After a losing session, he would emerge on the other side, sweaty and dazed. He would visit the bathroom, and come back artificially invigorated, full of lies about previous big wins.
As Joe's addiction progressed, he no longer had cash to pay for his Lotto. Instead, he would "borrow" a few dollars worth of tickets, scratch them, and pay for his tickets with the winnings. If there were no winnings, he spent the rest of the night short changing customers to make up for the loss. I stopped playing.
Cooking With Crackheads
I once saw Joe create and eat a food so foul that it made me throw up for three days. His recipe was simple.
1 Grab Bag size Cool Ranch Doritos
1 package Top Ramen, any flavor
1 c. water
2 -3 rubber bands
Method
Without opening the package, pulverize the ramen into small pieces. Cut top from Doritos bag (only the very top, the bag is your cooking vessel and you need plenty of room). Pulverize the Doritos into small pieces. Add the seasoning packet and ramen pieces to the Grab Bag of Dorito pieces. Add water and tightly close the Grab Bag using the rubber bands. Knead the bag until all ingredients are well mixed. Remove the rubber bands, and roll the mixture (inside the Dorito bag) into a tight burrito securing the ends with the rubber bands. Microwave on high for 3 minutes. Allow to rest for several minutes. Slice open bag, and you will have a quivering mass of ramen and soggy Doritos molded into the shape of a burrito. The burrito will retain its shape, but must be consumed with the aid of a fork.
Joe ate it with joy. He called it his favorite supper.
Myra and the Dumpster Dive
It was autumn, and Myra was in the dumpster. I was walking in to the building when she popped her head out and frowned at me.
"What are you doing in the dumpster?"
Myra ignored me and continued frowning. I stood, waiting until Myra disappeared into the dumpster again. When I entered the store, I could hear a man sobbing behind the particle board half wall of the manager's office.
The sobbing soon turned to pleading.
"Please don't call the cops, DeeDee. PLEASE! I'll do anything you want, just don't call the cops. If you do, I'll go back to prison, and I need to take care of Melissa! I didn't mean to do it, it was the crack. I need to go to rehab. You can help me. Please help ME!"
I listened to him beg while I rang up customers. I fetched their cigarettes and made small talk like there wasn't a broken man within our earshot. Myra came inside, still frowning, holding a trash bag bulging with strips of lottery tickets.
"Myra, please tell me what the fuck is going on."
She walked to DeeDee's office, holding her evidence. Shortly after, two policemen arrived. Joe struggled briefly, and then went limp. The police pulled him by his cuffed arms, the points of his shoes dragging the ground behind him. I saw that his face was slack, and he left a trail of drool in his wake.
As they put him in the back of their cruiser, Myra turned to me.
"Last night, Joe smoked crack in the bathroom, and scratched off five hundred dollars worth of lottery tickets. When we did the Lotto count this morning we were four hundred tickets short. We watched the video and saw him scratching twenty tickets at a time. Towards the end, he just sat on the floor and pulled his hair and screamed. Fuckin' weirdo. Did you ever see that picture of his poor kid?"
Currently
listening
:
Mediocre Generica
By
Leftöver Crack
Release date: 2001-09-11
Of Crackheads and Convenience Stores
Current mood: experimental
Category: experimental Jobs, Work, Careers
I'll go ahead and tell you that this story has one of those annoying cliffhanger endings, but only because I haven't finished writing it. It's for a much longer story I'm working on, but I got all excitable, and I wanted to post it. Apologies.
Of Crackheads and Convenience Stores
When I was eighteen, knocked up, and completing my third semester of twelfth grade (a long story that involves heroin addicts and library books I stole because I was a nerdy juvenile delinquent), I worked at a gas station. The gas station, commonly known as Town & Country Food Store 487, was run by a fellow Texan named Deedee.
Deedee looked about like a Texan named Deedee should, with horsey teeth, big jugs, and blonde hair teased into tomorrow. She worked the day shift with Myra, our assistant manager. They spent the day smoking cigarettes at the register, flirting with construction workers, and complaining about the way I refused to memorize the weekly sale PLU's.
An old man named Jerry covered most of the graveyard shifts. He ran out of gas and coasted his way into the parking lot every other day, and expected his coffee to be fresh when he arrived for duty. If it wasn't, he'd give me a cussing.
"I don't give a psychedelic FUCK if it was a lotto night! It doesn't take 2 minutes to make a fresh pot of coffee! Now, I'm tired gawddammit! I spend all day spraying produce at Albertson's and listenin' to that chickenshit manager they got over there, and I had two hours of sleep before I woke up to come to this shithole, and I don't think it's too much to ask for some fresh. fucking. coffee."
Jerry was infamous for tackling the few teenagers brave enough to attempt a beer-run on his watch. His eyes lit with a crazy fire when he told tales of scraping young faces on the pavement, and mocking their "baby" tears. He liked to wave the pilfered twelve packs in their sniveling faces and tell them to "spread the word! No beer-runs at Town & Country FUCKIN' Foodstore!"
This was in stark contrast with the other graveyard employee, Mark. Mark worked four jobs (three music stores and Town & Country) and slept in a friend's closet. He played tapes of Tom Waits or Throbbing Gristle at top volume, wore the store hardhat for fun, and encouraged customers to steal whatever they wanted, because that's what he was doing. He never paid for cigarettes or candy. The only things he wouldn't steal were our toiletries, which he used and returned to the shelf. This practice led to returns on tubs of Carmex tainted with Mark's dirty fingerprints and Right Guard deodorant sticks contaminated with his armpit hair. He locked the door at night so he could skateboard down the aisles, uninterrupted. On the few happy occasions Mark worked my shift, we would taste test every brand of a particular product, cigarettes one week, candy or drinks the next. We called it "product research and awareness", not stealing.
I worked second shift with a series of moody or insane people that lasted a few days at a time, leaving no impression other than a vague unpleasantness. There is only one stands out, a man I like to call Crackhead Joe, the Lotto Fiend With a Mullet....
This Is What Happens When You Bring A Stray Margaret Into The House
Current mood: yucky
Category: yucky Life
THIS IS WHAT HAPPENS WHEN YOU BRING A STRAY MARGARET INTO THE HOUSE
For my fourteenth birthday, step-dad and Margaret took me to a fancy dinner at the country club where Margaret worked as a waitress. Because it was my birthday, I was allowed to drink as much as I wanted, and I wanted a lot. After my fifth cocktail, my voice got a little too loud, and my behavior got a little too wild, and I fell backwards in my chair, knocking over the dessert cart. The upper-crust diners did not appreciate my hillbilly antics, so I was ushered outside and taken home. When Margaret went to work the next day, she was fired by the manager for buying drinks for a child.
This unplanned career change made Margaret decide that it was time to improve herself, so she enrolled in medical assistant's school. Step-dad joined her. After six months of training, they emerged confident in their ability to draw blood and collect urine samples, and quickly secured jobs with an insurance company. From there, they moved into the field of drug-testing. Step-dad talked his way into a regional manager position, and Margaret acted as his assistant. They were making what step-dad referred to as "the big bucks", so they bought a silver t-top Camaro, and a duplex, and decided that it was high time to get married.
The wedding was held at Margaret's parent's house. The bride wore a fuchsia prom dress with an asymmetrical hem and a riot of ruffles that called to mind an explosion at the tacky factory. The groom chose a baby blue tuxedo with a butterfly collar and navy blue piping. While the bride chose a simple up do to accompany her hideous dress, the groom's mullet was flawlessly feathered and poofed. They said their vows in front of the big-screen television, while Margaret's mother worked her way through a jug of cheap wine. I couldn't wait for the ceremony to end so I could change my baby pink silk dress to jeans, and begin the serious business of getting drunk. Step-dad's Elvis impersonator friend got a little too drunk and mouthy, and Margaret's mobster uncle threatened him with bodily harm. Fake Elvis's wife decided that it was high time they hit the road, and the rest of the wedding went off without a hitch. The same could not be said for the marriage, mostly due to Margaret's psychotic mood swings.
HAVE A SPECIMEN WITH YOUR PIZZA
I can't say that I ever got along with Margaret, but she did come in handy. I knew that I could tell her things that I couldn't tell my mom, and I wouldn't get in trouble, because Margaret didn't really care what I did. It was for that reason that I came to Margaret in the summer of my fourteenth year, cert
