EDIT: This is a joke. So clearly not for serious. Chances are you aren't an offender of any of these rules. Even if you are, my guess would be if you're reading this that you at least sort of give a damn. People break these "rules" all the time, but it's all about attitude. There's the occasional person, and you can tell when they walk in, who are going to be difficult. That's who the rules are for... they're the same people who don't signal to change lanes or jump to a newly opened register even though they weren't next in line. I'm sorry if my sarcasm wasn't clear, but for the record I didn't think anyone would read it. Then again, that got the Nintendo woman in trouble didn't it?
It's been said that I tend to expect things of people based on a rule set they have no way of knowing in advance. Like showing up to gym and finding out you're playing dodge ball by means of a ball to the face. That has a distinct sound, by the way.
Well, to all you naysayers, here it is:
BARISTA'S LIST OF (formerly) UNSPOKEN RULES OF CONDUCT
1. Your responsibility, as a customer, is to figure out what you want & pay for it. While I may appear jovial, a request of "surprise me" will most likely net you a mocha. Unless you're hot, in which case you'll get a pretty heart on your mocha. For yes or no decisions such as "Would you like a copy of the receipt?" don't panic. If it's too much for you, pick one and run with it. I doubt you'll be disappointed.
2. Unless you're a logic professor (and a dick), don't answer "or" questions with yes or no. And anyway, any logician worth his weight in tautologies will tell you that the English language sets up "or" clauses as mutually exclusive. Working in the other direction, you'd have to set up a much more complicated English sentence to express the natural conditions of "or" in a logical statement. SO THERE.
3. Hey, don't whistle at me asshole. This only happened once.
4. Take your cell phone outside. How important are you? Are you the dauphin of New fucking Winnersville? Take that phallic hunk of plastic off your ear and act like a normal goddamn human. Expecting a call at any time? Congratulations on your new child! But if you try to order while talking on the phone, I'll ask you a torrent of needless questions. Did you want soy? You'll start to think I'm just trying to interrupt you. I am. Sorry Doctor McAwesome to cut in on your surgery-by-phone. Here's your half-caf au lait.
5. Brevity is the soul of placing your order. What's a double half-caf skinny tall mochaccino no whip? A fucking small skim mocha. See, I got fewer syllables even while calling you a dick.
6. Look at the goddamn menu. The sizes and names for things tend to be reasonable. This isn't Applebee's. We don't have a mochajita con sizzle. I'm not going to make you sound like an asshole just by reading something off the menu. This extends further into "cup of java." I don't give a shit if you know fifty names for coffee, you can send it in the next mass forward e-mail with your incomparable list of names for female genitalia.
7. Keep your mouth closed. Why is it that when people gaze upwards their maw has to gape? Did you lose control over your jaw? Will the pins fall out if you strain your mouth against the ravages of Earth gravity? If I wanted to see inside your mouth, I'd check your 24-hour webcam "Stu watches TV and irradiates his testicles with countless harmful photons." Let me know how that experiment works out.
8. Take a penny. When I watch your grubby hand flip the pennies out onto the counter, it makes me want to slap your hand like a scolding grandma. Don't want to break that fiver? Watch pocket welling up with change and ready to burst? Take it to Coinstar. Yes, you can run out to your car to get some more money. I'll wait.
9. Put your money in my hand. Lorde Featherdick can't exert the strain it takes to outreach his hand the extra 12 inches it takes to be a gentleman. Countess de Fingersniff places her credit cards next to her purse & eyes me suspiciously when I reach across the counter to take it. I know each coin makes a satisfying "snap" as you press it to the counter, but please count it out beforehand. Do you wash your hands after going to the bathroom? I do. Thank you Mr. Aviator.
10. Don't tell me your problems or give me advice. Just because I'm trapped behind the counter doesn't mean I'm here for you. Unless "My girlfriend died in a tragic Tweetsie Railroad crash" is your way of indiscreetly telling me you only need one latte today, keep it to yourself. Think I look sleepy today? Got the urge to say, "Looks like you need your coffee!"? Clever. Keep it to yourself. Got something to sell? Get the fuck out.
11. Clean up after yourself. Do you see a busboy jaunting about topping off your glass of water and clearing dishes? Also, there's a fucking trash can. I don't want to fish your filthy stir stick out of the "dirty spoons" bin. I don't want to unglue the napkins from your plate. And it's so easy to get the sugar in your cup. Don't just toss it about & hope some falls in.
12. Don't bullshit me about coffee. So you heard a couple of fancy terms. I don't need you asking how long my shots are running or what temperature I steam the milk. I don't want you walking around the side of the counter & snuggling up with your head on my shoulder. Just wait and admire it when it's ready; it's fucking awesome, see? Along those lines, don't affect an accent on me. Croissant may look like a funny French word, but it's pretty easy to say. So is espresso, which has no "c" or "x" in it.
13. Don't touch the thermostat. This one's for you, Rich...
14. Don't smell the coffee. Unless a rugged Colombian rides in on a burro & invites you to peek in his bag of coffee wonders, I don't want your nose getting any closer to the beans than it needs to.
15. I hate your kids. I'm not Bill Cosby. I don't have a refreshing attitude towards kids doing asshole things. Keep them away from the bean bins. Don't let them twirl about screaming on the stools like Rhesus monkeys. Don't ask them to place their order themselves unless they're fucking adorable.
16. Tip like it's karmic retribution. Make up for creaming that kid on his bike with your SUV on the way over here.
17. Don't order espresso over ice. When you're smiling to yourself at the cream counter thinking how you cheated that barista out of a couple bucks from your husband's weekly stipend, look back over your shoulder and see me glaring at your iced latte. Unless you've followed #16 aggressively, I will call you out from across the store. Then you'll be getting wicked glances at the Whole Foods and overhearing, "Margie is a cheapskate. I'm not inviting her to bridge this week." Did you see Die Mommy Die? You should; it's pretty funny.
18. Don't complain about the music. Comments of "Is this music?" will be met with an unhealthy dose of derision. I will tell you exactly what you're listening to until you walk away in discomfort.
19. Don't camp. Get an internet connection at home. The $1.14 you spent on that cup of coffee three hours ago isn't going to cut it, cheap ass. And if you squat without buying anything? You'd better believe I'm unplugging the router. Furthermore,
20. I am not technical support. Exception: hotness.
I think that about covers it.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
The Chels part 3: awful movies
If a film shows in an art house theater & no one sees it, is it still pretentious? The following are films that I hated before I saw them or even, in some cases, before they were released.
We had a poster up on the women's bathroom door (so you'd see it right when you walked in) that was for Ladies in Lavender. It's a gaudy thing, and you can tell on closer inspection that they've airbrushed the fuck out of each of them. I mean that kid's shirt isn't even real. It went up for a good month before the film actually came out. Let me paint a picture for you.
"Oh is that... it's Dame Judi Dench! I love Dame Judi Dench! Dame Judi Judi Dench Dame Judi Dame Dame damn I love saying her name! I'd watch anything with Dame Judi Dench. If they filmed her popping a squat in Central Park I'd be there. If she smeared shit on paper I'd buy and frame it!"
Whack!
[septuagenarian rendered unconcious by the bathroom door swinging open]
"Are you okay? Wait... is that... it's Dame Judi Dench! I love Dame Judi Dench!"
[repeat]
Once the movie was out, hosers would buy tickets for "the Judi Dench movie." Because I'm an ass, I would claim not to know which one they were talking about. They'd have to back up and scan the titles on the board, or sometimes they'd bug me about which films were playing. It was worth it.
I eventually saw Junebug and thoroughly enjoyed it. The poster was up for a good while prior, and the art (before I recognized the significance of it) was overwhelmingly pretentious to me. More than that though, some of the worst blurbs I've seen.
1. "...distills antagonistic red-state, blue-state attitudes."
What kind of asinine thing is that to say? "I want to make an overgeneralization about the themes in this movie, but I want to make sure I sound like a complete asshole while I'm at it."
2. "effusive girl-child"
I don't even know what to say about this one. I'll admit I had to pop over to dictionary.com before I could accurately judge the terriblosity of this comment. See Stephen? I can make up words too! Well, I'm talking about "girl-child," which is I guess a take on "man-child" or "boy-child" or something? Should it be "woman-child"? How about just "immature"? I think you can figure it out, Stephen. I'm sure your NYT paycheck can get you a pretty hefty thesaurus.
3. "...exploration of the family house conveys a... sense of place."
Yeah it'll do that. If he wanted to be more of a dick, he should've said mise en scène for appreciative nods from snoots nationwide.
4. That second statement... isn't it a little premature to start calling someone an autor after his first feature film? He directed TV shows and shorts, for god's sake.
5. "Amy Adams is a revelation."
Without getting too much into semantics here, this is about the verbal equivalent of "low prices everyday." A fundamental misunderstanding of the function of a word. At any rate, revelation is already bandied about with other pop words like "anal" and "proverbial" and "literally." Is this a chaotic attempt at synecdoche? Are we meant to believe her acting prowess inspires profound realization in viewers? Bullshit.
For a film to reach "worst movie ever made" status, it has to have (in my opinion):
1. A decently large budget (so you know money was wasted). This rules out much of the Mystery Science Theater 3000 crowd.
2. A marketing engine.
3. A chip on its shoulder.
4. A following.
Pretty vague qualifiers there, but I just wanted to put things like Manos: Hands of Fate and Plan 9 from Outer Space out of the running. Anything where you could say "it's so bad it's funny" is still enjoyable to watch (or at least make fun of later).
*WHY I HATE WHAT THE BLEEP DO WE KNOW?*
I couldn't embed the video for some reason. It's for the best.
1. The tagline: "How far into the rabbit hole of mysteriousness do you want to go?" Pseudo-philosophy... GO!
2. People calling themselves "bleepers." Well, just the word "bleep" in the title at all.
3. The main character is deaf... but her other senses are more in tune? I'm choking on the metaphor. It's just so hard to chew.
4. CG. Why are there anthropomorphic blobs dancing on the screen? I think they're determining important stuff like "I want to screw that guy" and "Where did my life go wrong?"
5. One of the interviewees is J. Z. Knight channeling Ramtha. No, really. She thinks someone else is speaking through her. And they interviewed her. For their film.
6. The interviews take place largely in front of green screen. Backgrounds include: blacklight poster swirlies, fireplaces, and a university campus. Like... "Oh, you caught me on the way to a seminar. Do you have any spare change?" or "Oh, you caught me totally getting my fucking mind blown in the middle of this freaky vortex."
7. The closing line. I don't have a direct quote of this, but I saw it quite a few times as I was winding up each showing. The trick is to turn the house lights up as soon as possible so sensible people get the fuck out. I've heard complainers say "Nobody watches the credits anymore!" Yeah if you want to listen to that reprise of the main theme and see who held the boom mic, you'll have to do it while I sweep up the Goobers rolling by your feet. Anyway, here's the line as I remember it:
"People say I sound crazy but... if you study science long enough... and hard enough... and you don't come out sounding crazy... well then you haven't learned anything at all!"
[What the Bleep logo shows up on screen & shatters into tiny CG bits. Yes, the title is censored within the movie as well. How cheeky.]
If you want to be skullfucked by stupidity & 90's screensaver graphics, go ahead & rent this guy. The "Down the Rabbit Hole" version is available too, where you can choose the course of action the film takes, thereby putting the mind blowing into your own sweaty little palms. There's also this. You're welcome.
I thought I was done talking about WtBDWK, but shit just keeps flooding back. The movie ran for a long time. A couple of gems:
-Assholes from "The church of Ramtha" or some shit tried to hand out fliers to people as they left the movie. These are people who get mocked by Unitarians.
-This one woman cried because I wouldn't sell her a ticket. See it was well after 10, the movie was half over, and the box office had been closed out. I could have taken the money & put it on the next day's box but... well... I already said I'm an ass. She started weeping at me, and through the sobs I could make out something like "meant a lot to me" and "told all my friends about it" and "changed my life." That's right. She'd already seen it. I let her in.
We had a poster up on the women's bathroom door (so you'd see it right when you walked in) that was for Ladies in Lavender. It's a gaudy thing, and you can tell on closer inspection that they've airbrushed the fuck out of each of them. I mean that kid's shirt isn't even real. It went up for a good month before the film actually came out. Let me paint a picture for you.
"Oh is that... it's Dame Judi Dench! I love Dame Judi Dench! Dame Judi Judi Dench Dame Judi Dame Dame damn I love saying her name! I'd watch anything with Dame Judi Dench. If they filmed her popping a squat in Central Park I'd be there. If she smeared shit on paper I'd buy and frame it!"
Whack!
[septuagenarian rendered unconcious by the bathroom door swinging open]
"Are you okay? Wait... is that... it's Dame Judi Dench! I love Dame Judi Dench!"
[repeat]
Once the movie was out, hosers would buy tickets for "the Judi Dench movie." Because I'm an ass, I would claim not to know which one they were talking about. They'd have to back up and scan the titles on the board, or sometimes they'd bug me about which films were playing. It was worth it.
I eventually saw Junebug and thoroughly enjoyed it. The poster was up for a good while prior, and the art (before I recognized the significance of it) was overwhelmingly pretentious to me. More than that though, some of the worst blurbs I've seen.
1. "...distills antagonistic red-state, blue-state attitudes."
What kind of asinine thing is that to say? "I want to make an overgeneralization about the themes in this movie, but I want to make sure I sound like a complete asshole while I'm at it."
2. "effusive girl-child"
I don't even know what to say about this one. I'll admit I had to pop over to dictionary.com before I could accurately judge the terriblosity of this comment. See Stephen? I can make up words too! Well, I'm talking about "girl-child," which is I guess a take on "man-child" or "boy-child" or something? Should it be "woman-child"? How about just "immature"? I think you can figure it out, Stephen. I'm sure your NYT paycheck can get you a pretty hefty thesaurus.
3. "...exploration of the family house conveys a... sense of place."
Yeah it'll do that. If he wanted to be more of a dick, he should've said mise en scène for appreciative nods from snoots nationwide.
4. That second statement... isn't it a little premature to start calling someone an autor after his first feature film? He directed TV shows and shorts, for god's sake.
5. "Amy Adams is a revelation."
Without getting too much into semantics here, this is about the verbal equivalent of "low prices everyday." A fundamental misunderstanding of the function of a word. At any rate, revelation is already bandied about with other pop words like "anal" and "proverbial" and "literally." Is this a chaotic attempt at synecdoche? Are we meant to believe her acting prowess inspires profound realization in viewers? Bullshit.
For a film to reach "worst movie ever made" status, it has to have (in my opinion):
1. A decently large budget (so you know money was wasted). This rules out much of the Mystery Science Theater 3000 crowd.
2. A marketing engine.
3. A chip on its shoulder.
4. A following.
Pretty vague qualifiers there, but I just wanted to put things like Manos: Hands of Fate and Plan 9 from Outer Space out of the running. Anything where you could say "it's so bad it's funny" is still enjoyable to watch (or at least make fun of later).
*WHY I HATE WHAT THE BLEEP DO WE KNOW?*
I couldn't embed the video for some reason. It's for the best.
1. The tagline: "How far into the rabbit hole of mysteriousness do you want to go?" Pseudo-philosophy... GO!
2. People calling themselves "bleepers." Well, just the word "bleep" in the title at all.
3. The main character is deaf... but her other senses are more in tune? I'm choking on the metaphor. It's just so hard to chew.
4. CG. Why are there anthropomorphic blobs dancing on the screen? I think they're determining important stuff like "I want to screw that guy" and "Where did my life go wrong?"
5. One of the interviewees is J. Z. Knight channeling Ramtha. No, really. She thinks someone else is speaking through her. And they interviewed her. For their film.
6. The interviews take place largely in front of green screen. Backgrounds include: blacklight poster swirlies, fireplaces, and a university campus. Like... "Oh, you caught me on the way to a seminar. Do you have any spare change?" or "Oh, you caught me totally getting my fucking mind blown in the middle of this freaky vortex."
7. The closing line. I don't have a direct quote of this, but I saw it quite a few times as I was winding up each showing. The trick is to turn the house lights up as soon as possible so sensible people get the fuck out. I've heard complainers say "Nobody watches the credits anymore!" Yeah if you want to listen to that reprise of the main theme and see who held the boom mic, you'll have to do it while I sweep up the Goobers rolling by your feet. Anyway, here's the line as I remember it:
"People say I sound crazy but... if you study science long enough... and hard enough... and you don't come out sounding crazy... well then you haven't learned anything at all!"
[What the Bleep logo shows up on screen & shatters into tiny CG bits. Yes, the title is censored within the movie as well. How cheeky.]
If you want to be skullfucked by stupidity & 90's screensaver graphics, go ahead & rent this guy. The "Down the Rabbit Hole" version is available too, where you can choose the course of action the film takes, thereby putting the mind blowing into your own sweaty little palms. There's also this. You're welcome.
I thought I was done talking about WtBDWK, but shit just keeps flooding back. The movie ran for a long time. A couple of gems:
-Assholes from "The church of Ramtha" or some shit tried to hand out fliers to people as they left the movie. These are people who get mocked by Unitarians.
-This one woman cried because I wouldn't sell her a ticket. See it was well after 10, the movie was half over, and the box office had been closed out. I could have taken the money & put it on the next day's box but... well... I already said I'm an ass. She started weeping at me, and through the sobs I could make out something like "meant a lot to me" and "told all my friends about it" and "changed my life." That's right. She'd already seen it. I let her in.
Monday, November 19, 2007
The Chels Part 2: projectioniesting
The title is in reference to a notice we got with one of the films, I think about which preview to include (?), that was littered with typos. We would also sometimes get press releases about upcoming films from the distributor. These are always a larf, reading like an amazon.com commenter page. Sometimes it seemed like the writer had only seen a poster for the film & was just guessing around; I doubt they had access to screening copies.
I started as "manager" or projectionist at the Chelsea after about a year. At that point I started three shifts a week with one as box office only (see previous post). A few funnies that are frequent:
-"The projector is on fire!"
If the motor stops and the lamp is still running, its heat literally burns through a frame of the film. It's easily fixed & usually happens on worthless headers or footers. Still, it looks pretty dramatic on screen, almost like the whole screen is burning through from behind.
-"We were late, can you rewind the film?"
No. The motor only goes in one direction. Also, the platter system is such that, once you've started the film, it has to be completely run before it can be wound up. Otherwise, imagine pulling all the tape out of a videocassette & trying to feed it through your VCR. Sounds like an exaggeration, but until you see an entire film tangled up on the floor...
-"Isn't anyone in the booth!?"
No. The days of having to change reels every 20 mins are over - the whole film is spliced together. I've had people sit through 15 mins of a movie with no sound... like 20 people... assuming that someone was "working on it." Same with a stopped film.
-"Is X coming back?"
I have no idea. Do you ask the burger flipper at McDonald's if the McRib is coming back soon?
-"I've heard about X... will you be getting that movie?" Maybe [I check the schedule]. "What's that movie about?"
I'm tempted at this point to make something up based on the title.
-"Can I speak to the owner?" He's not here. "When will he be in?" He's in most weekday mornings. "No afternoons or evenings." Periodically. "Okay..."
It's great when the truth is more confusing to the solicitor than a lie.
-"Can I speak to the manager?"
Surprise!
We had this guy come in pretty regularly, an older guy in his 60s. He'd get two senior tickets & wait for this other woman to show up... not sure why that was. He would ask to speak to the projectionist. To this point I had only met with him indirectly, and I'd learned to lie to him that the projectionist was upstairs. He'd tell me to "Ask him to do a good job tonight." Now typically I'd sit near the box office so I could see what was going on & to get my chat on. This particular night Mallory was working & it was moderately busy. He came inside to buy his tickets (which I've mentioned I hate, especially if other customers are lining up outside in a normal queue) & asked who was projecting tonight. Mallory had to help another customer, so she basically just pointed at me & turned back to the window. I was cornered there on the bench. He came up to me & stood not 2 feet away, like if I'd stood up I'd be all up in his nose hairs.
Hoser: You projecting tonight?
Me [pretending to be paying attention to the box office so as not to have to make eye contact]: Yup.
H: You going to do a good job tonight?
M: I'm sorry?
H: I said, "Are you going to do a good job tonight?"
M: Sure, yeah... same as always [forced smile].
H: No not "same as always," I mean are you going to do a good job tonight? I've been here when projectionists just didn't seem to care about their jobs.
M: Okay...
H: So I want you to go up there & make sure the focus is right after the feature starts and that the sound is at the right level.
M: Actually from upstairs you can't monitor the level of the sound as-
H: Yes you can! And that's what you'll do! Then you'll come back downstairs & sell some Coke!
M: I'm sorry, you can't speak to me that way.
H: What?
M: I said "I'm sorry," [standing up] "You can't speak to me that way."
H: I'm just telling you to do-
M: No. You can't speak to me that way.
H: Well... maybe I should just tell Mr. Bruce Stone that he has a rude projectionist!
M: Actually I'll tell him myself if you like.
[He starts to walk away, in a huff]
M: Or I could give you your money back right now...
[He turns around and starts to say something I don't remember]
M: And you can leave.
H [turning back around]: This is ridiculous...
Fearing the ever popular angry letter, I related this story to Mr. Stone (the owner) within the week. He appeared skeptical until I got to the part where hoser used his name, when he interrupted me with "Who is this guy!?"
As the manager, one of my jobs was to empty the trash at the end of the night. I think this is what drove me to insanity... not the physical act of removing the bags, but cleaning out the theaters. To anyone who is about to start a sentence "But it's your job to..." let me cut you off by saying you should have learned when you were 3 to clean up after your own fucking self. Is it a restaurant? Do you see any busboys? Do we give you a fucking basket of peanuts to shell onto the floor? Okay, I understand it's dark & you might finish what you brought in well before the end of the movie & forget your trash, but the following things do not fit that category:
1. Dozens of pistachio shells.
2. Handfuls of napkins, used and unused. Not only is this wasteful, but shoving a handful of used napkins into the cup holder is fucking disgraceful. After awhile I stopped picking up napkins at all. If people are too lazy & want to wade around in their own shit, more power to 'em.
3. Half-eaten container of sushi from Harris Teeter, overturned. The whole theater smelled like soy sauce. Each of the 10 or so packets was ripped open & partially used. A thin stream of sauce meandered its way down the aisles into a puddle at the front of the theater.
4. Six empty bottles of Tequiza.
5. Half-eaten Subway sandwich, discarded unwrapped onto the floor. Henceforth I stopped anyone I saw with a Subway bag.
6. Half a dozen wrappers for nicotine gum. This was happening regularly, and I eventually figured out who was doing it. This went on the entire time I was working there so... I guess quitting wasn't working out for him.
7. Two empty tall boys in paper bags.
8. In the Women's bathroom, tampons. On the floor, clearly used. Seriously? There are little trash bins to put them in. Even then most people wrap them in toilet paper first. What kind of person pulls a bloody cloth from her vagina and just drops it there on the floor? No really, tell me. I will find her.
9. Tobacco spit cups.
10. Ticket stubs. To be fair, these little buggers can get away from you pretty easily. However, that doesn't mean you're off the hook if I watch you drop it on the way into the theater.
11. Heath (I think it was) found a used catheter on the floor of the men's bathroom.
Also I forgot about this one interaction I had at the concession counter.
Woman: A Coke and a popcorn.
Me: Which size would you like [pointing at the bags over the popper]?
W: Umm... do you have like a...
She starts making this motion with her hands & forms a circle about the size of a basketball. Anticipating the next words that would come out of her mouth & trying to spare her a little embarrassment, I start shaking my head.
W: Like a... bucket?
M [still shaking my head]: I'm sorry we don't.
W: The large then.
M: With butter?
W: Please.
I started as "manager" or projectionist at the Chelsea after about a year. At that point I started three shifts a week with one as box office only (see previous post). A few funnies that are frequent:
-"The projector is on fire!"
If the motor stops and the lamp is still running, its heat literally burns through a frame of the film. It's easily fixed & usually happens on worthless headers or footers. Still, it looks pretty dramatic on screen, almost like the whole screen is burning through from behind.
-"We were late, can you rewind the film?"
No. The motor only goes in one direction. Also, the platter system is such that, once you've started the film, it has to be completely run before it can be wound up. Otherwise, imagine pulling all the tape out of a videocassette & trying to feed it through your VCR. Sounds like an exaggeration, but until you see an entire film tangled up on the floor...
-"Isn't anyone in the booth!?"
No. The days of having to change reels every 20 mins are over - the whole film is spliced together. I've had people sit through 15 mins of a movie with no sound... like 20 people... assuming that someone was "working on it." Same with a stopped film.
-"Is X coming back?"
I have no idea. Do you ask the burger flipper at McDonald's if the McRib is coming back soon?
-"I've heard about X... will you be getting that movie?" Maybe [I check the schedule]. "What's that movie about?"
I'm tempted at this point to make something up based on the title.
-"Can I speak to the owner?" He's not here. "When will he be in?" He's in most weekday mornings. "No afternoons or evenings." Periodically. "Okay..."
It's great when the truth is more confusing to the solicitor than a lie.
-"Can I speak to the manager?"
Surprise!
We had this guy come in pretty regularly, an older guy in his 60s. He'd get two senior tickets & wait for this other woman to show up... not sure why that was. He would ask to speak to the projectionist. To this point I had only met with him indirectly, and I'd learned to lie to him that the projectionist was upstairs. He'd tell me to "Ask him to do a good job tonight." Now typically I'd sit near the box office so I could see what was going on & to get my chat on. This particular night Mallory was working & it was moderately busy. He came inside to buy his tickets (which I've mentioned I hate, especially if other customers are lining up outside in a normal queue) & asked who was projecting tonight. Mallory had to help another customer, so she basically just pointed at me & turned back to the window. I was cornered there on the bench. He came up to me & stood not 2 feet away, like if I'd stood up I'd be all up in his nose hairs.
Hoser: You projecting tonight?
Me [pretending to be paying attention to the box office so as not to have to make eye contact]: Yup.
H: You going to do a good job tonight?
M: I'm sorry?
H: I said, "Are you going to do a good job tonight?"
M: Sure, yeah... same as always [forced smile].
H: No not "same as always," I mean are you going to do a good job tonight? I've been here when projectionists just didn't seem to care about their jobs.
M: Okay...
H: So I want you to go up there & make sure the focus is right after the feature starts and that the sound is at the right level.
M: Actually from upstairs you can't monitor the level of the sound as-
H: Yes you can! And that's what you'll do! Then you'll come back downstairs & sell some Coke!
M: I'm sorry, you can't speak to me that way.
H: What?
M: I said "I'm sorry," [standing up] "You can't speak to me that way."
H: I'm just telling you to do-
M: No. You can't speak to me that way.
H: Well... maybe I should just tell Mr. Bruce Stone that he has a rude projectionist!
M: Actually I'll tell him myself if you like.
[He starts to walk away, in a huff]
M: Or I could give you your money back right now...
[He turns around and starts to say something I don't remember]
M: And you can leave.
H [turning back around]: This is ridiculous...
Fearing the ever popular angry letter, I related this story to Mr. Stone (the owner) within the week. He appeared skeptical until I got to the part where hoser used his name, when he interrupted me with "Who is this guy!?"
As the manager, one of my jobs was to empty the trash at the end of the night. I think this is what drove me to insanity... not the physical act of removing the bags, but cleaning out the theaters. To anyone who is about to start a sentence "But it's your job to..." let me cut you off by saying you should have learned when you were 3 to clean up after your own fucking self. Is it a restaurant? Do you see any busboys? Do we give you a fucking basket of peanuts to shell onto the floor? Okay, I understand it's dark & you might finish what you brought in well before the end of the movie & forget your trash, but the following things do not fit that category:
1. Dozens of pistachio shells.
2. Handfuls of napkins, used and unused. Not only is this wasteful, but shoving a handful of used napkins into the cup holder is fucking disgraceful. After awhile I stopped picking up napkins at all. If people are too lazy & want to wade around in their own shit, more power to 'em.
3. Half-eaten container of sushi from Harris Teeter, overturned. The whole theater smelled like soy sauce. Each of the 10 or so packets was ripped open & partially used. A thin stream of sauce meandered its way down the aisles into a puddle at the front of the theater.
4. Six empty bottles of Tequiza.
5. Half-eaten Subway sandwich, discarded unwrapped onto the floor. Henceforth I stopped anyone I saw with a Subway bag.
6. Half a dozen wrappers for nicotine gum. This was happening regularly, and I eventually figured out who was doing it. This went on the entire time I was working there so... I guess quitting wasn't working out for him.
7. Two empty tall boys in paper bags.
8. In the Women's bathroom, tampons. On the floor, clearly used. Seriously? There are little trash bins to put them in. Even then most people wrap them in toilet paper first. What kind of person pulls a bloody cloth from her vagina and just drops it there on the floor? No really, tell me. I will find her.
9. Tobacco spit cups.
10. Ticket stubs. To be fair, these little buggers can get away from you pretty easily. However, that doesn't mean you're off the hook if I watch you drop it on the way into the theater.
11. Heath (I think it was) found a used catheter on the floor of the men's bathroom.
Also I forgot about this one interaction I had at the concession counter.
Woman: A Coke and a popcorn.
Me: Which size would you like [pointing at the bags over the popper]?
W: Umm... do you have like a...
She starts making this motion with her hands & forms a circle about the size of a basketball. Anticipating the next words that would come out of her mouth & trying to spare her a little embarrassment, I start shaking my head.
W: Like a... bucket?
M [still shaking my head]: I'm sorry we don't.
W: The large then.
M: With butter?
W: Please.
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
Wee update
I remembered another weird drink order.
cust: One el dobio companion.
Only it wasn't quite "companion." It was sort of like... co-pañien.
me: I'm sorry?
cust: [repeats, slower]
me: [mulling it over] What's in this drink? Maybe that will help me figure out what you're looking for.
cust: It's like... just expresso. With whipped cream on top. I think it's Cuban or something.
me: Oh... espresso con panna?
cust: Yes, el dobio compañion.
me: Well, you don't need the "el." Just doppio [double] con panna.
cust: dobio compañion.
me: It's two words... con... panna?
cust: com... paño?
me: Con, it means "with."
cust: Con.
me: and panna, meaning cream, or whipped cream in this case.
cust: paña [man did she want to roll that letter]
me: So "con panna." "Doppio con panna."
cust: El doppio con paña.
I gave up and made the drink.
cust: One el dobio companion.
Only it wasn't quite "companion." It was sort of like... co-pañien.
me: I'm sorry?
cust: [repeats, slower]
me: [mulling it over] What's in this drink? Maybe that will help me figure out what you're looking for.
cust: It's like... just expresso. With whipped cream on top. I think it's Cuban or something.
me: Oh... espresso con panna?
cust: Yes, el dobio compañion.
me: Well, you don't need the "el." Just doppio [double] con panna.
cust: dobio compañion.
me: It's two words... con... panna?
cust: com... paño?
me: Con, it means "with."
cust: Con.
me: and panna, meaning cream, or whipped cream in this case.
cust: paña [man did she want to roll that letter]
me: So "con panna." "Doppio con panna."
cust: El doppio con paña.
I gave up and made the drink.
Monday, November 5, 2007
The Chels part 1: Rancid BO
I quit the Chelsea after working there for nearly 3 years. For roughly 2/3 of that time, I was a projectionist. I still worked the occasional box office shift selling tickets. I'll share my projectionist woes some other time, but here are some of the more obnoxious exchanges from the BO.
customer: Two adults and one child for [some movie about a lion].
me: We are no longer showing that feature.
customer: I read in the paper that it was showing here!
me: Thursday was our last showing [it was Sunday]; each new film week starts on Friday.
customer: Okay, well, what movies do you have for children?
me: We don't typically show kids' movies here. We're more of an- [she cut me off]
customer: This is very frustrating... [she trailed off away from the window]
Then her son maybe... 8 years old? walked up to the counter and said "that's not very good."
me: [leaning in toward the window] It is for me.
cust: What's [movie 1] about?
me: I haven't seen it. We have reviews posted on the board there [pointing].
cust: What about [movie 2]?
me: I'm not sure.
cust: And [movie 3]?
me: They're all fairly new.
cust: You haven't see any of the movies?
me: ...Don't ask me, I just sell the tickets.
It's hard to express how much of an ass I was being here. The air of contempt in my voice was palpable.
This one happened all the time.
cust: Which theater should we go in?
There are three goddamn doors. It's not a game show; you can figure it out. Plus I probably don't remember which movie you bought a ticket for.
me: The name is over the door.
cust: But which one is it?
me: Which movie are you seeing?
9 times out of 10 they check their stub. Seriously.
me: It's that one [pointing], where it says X over the door.
I can sort of understand if there are different directions to go or theater numbers or shit like that, but this is the very definition of simple.
cust: Can I bring in my own bottle of wine?
me: [stunned disbelief]
cust: One senior for X
me: Over 65? [the Chelsea's definition of "senior" tickets]
cust: What?
me: Are you over 65?
cust: What? I'm asking for a senior ticket.
me: Sorry, those tickets start at 65.
cust: I have an AARP card!
me: Okay, well that starts at 50.
cust: This is rediculous! The AARP pays to have these things available for their members.
me: I assure you this theater doesn't see any of that money.
cust: You're not going to sell me a senior ticket, are you?
Well, since you're such a gem...
me: Sorry.
cust [with his wife]: My wife and I came in here the other day to see a movie, and the guy refused to give us a refund.
This guy was David Woodward, and I had heard this story already. I humored him.
me: What movie did you come to see?
cust: Shopgirl, the Steve Martin movie.
There happened to be a huge standee for the movie right behind me.
me: Okay, did something happen to the film?
cust: No, it was just about some tramp, running around town sleeping with everybody. So then we went into another theater & it was about some queer.
me: And you didn't stay for the whole movie?
cust: No! We asked for our money back & he wouldn't give it to us!
me: Well we don't control the content of our films. Actually at this point I can't refund a ticket anyway, because that information is in a report that has already been closed.
cust: We were wanting to go to Pride & Prejudice instead.
me: I'm sorry, the nature of the industry is that they don't exchange equally like that. Imagine going to a gallery and not liking the Van Gogh. The Matisse isn't going to come free. [I'm sure I'm embellishing my eloquence here. I was way too pissed off to make a cogent metaphor.]
cust: If we'd known the movies weren't going to be good we wouldn't have come at all.
me: The content of the movies is not bad because you disagreed with it. Both the films were critically acclaimed. There are reviews posted on the boards over there that talk about the content that offended you as well.
cust: We don't care what those people think about the movie! We have our own opinions about that sort of thing.
me: The ratings board also gives reasons behind their ratings. See here [pointing at the standee] the detail for Shopgirl states "sexually deviant behavior" [or something like that].
cust: We didn't check the ratings; we just wanted to see a good movie.
This went on for awhile, but I didn't yield.
cust: You're not going to let us in to this movie are you.
cust. wife: I think he can do it, but he won't.
me: It's both.
cust: Fine, we'll pay to see this movie. 2 seniors.
me: Over 65?
This one didn't happen to me, but it was at the box office. I was projecting at the time & was upstairs.
cust: We want our money back.
Adam: Why's that?
cust: That movie's too gay.
Adam: What?
cust: We just didn't realize... we saw that it was made in NC, but... we didn't realize it would be so gay.
Adam: Gay?
cust: Yes. There's a homosexual in it.
Adam: Okay...
cust: We brought our 15 year old son!
Adam: We don't provide refunds after the first half hour.
cust: If we'd known it was so gay we wouldn't have come in the first place! There was no indication anywhere about that!
Adam: We have reviews posted at the boards that talk about the content.
cust: I didn't read the reviews.
Adam: We have these cards too [picks up the Loggerheads card].
cust: I read the card! It didn't say anything about that.
Adam: [skimming the card] "...and their openly gay son."
After standing stunned for a moment, they guy went into the theater to collect his family & left.
Instead of standing at the box office like a normal person, this guy came in and stood at the counter. For reference, don't do that shit unless you're invited. Nobody needs some asshole hovering over the cash drawer and watching you play Freecell. That shit is personal.
cust: Two for X [hands a credit card].
me: We take cash or local checks.
I say this because people inevitably ask if we take debit cards. When this happened to Graham once, the customer insisted they had accepted his card "last Friday." Anyway,
cust: I don't have any cash. Everybody takes credit cards!
me: Sorry. There's an ATM blah blah blah.
cust: Well what about this!
me: That's a ticket printer.
cust: It looks like a credit card machine!
I tapped the space bar and flashed him the printed ticket.
me: Nope.
So I guess he thought we actually did take credit cards? Has he been denied before because he's such an asshole? Well, he found the ATM all right.
Customer walks in with his date,
cust: Is this... the movies?
Elderly customers leaving the theater, not asking for a refund,
cust: We just realized we saw this movie two weeks ago!
Woman on bike: Glad I don't work for Coke!
There's a long list of quotes in the back room. I don't remember a lot of the gems, so maybe Graham or Daphne can help me out there.
Next time: Russ becomes a badass.
customer: Two adults and one child for [some movie about a lion].
me: We are no longer showing that feature.
customer: I read in the paper that it was showing here!
me: Thursday was our last showing [it was Sunday]; each new film week starts on Friday.
customer: Okay, well, what movies do you have for children?
me: We don't typically show kids' movies here. We're more of an- [she cut me off]
customer: This is very frustrating... [she trailed off away from the window]
Then her son maybe... 8 years old? walked up to the counter and said "that's not very good."
me: [leaning in toward the window] It is for me.
cust: What's [movie 1] about?
me: I haven't seen it. We have reviews posted on the board there [pointing].
cust: What about [movie 2]?
me: I'm not sure.
cust: And [movie 3]?
me: They're all fairly new.
cust: You haven't see any of the movies?
me: ...Don't ask me, I just sell the tickets.
It's hard to express how much of an ass I was being here. The air of contempt in my voice was palpable.
This one happened all the time.
cust: Which theater should we go in?
There are three goddamn doors. It's not a game show; you can figure it out. Plus I probably don't remember which movie you bought a ticket for.
me: The name is over the door.
cust: But which one is it?
me: Which movie are you seeing?
9 times out of 10 they check their stub. Seriously.
me: It's that one [pointing], where it says X over the door.
I can sort of understand if there are different directions to go or theater numbers or shit like that, but this is the very definition of simple.
cust: Can I bring in my own bottle of wine?
me: [stunned disbelief]
cust: One senior for X
me: Over 65? [the Chelsea's definition of "senior" tickets]
cust: What?
me: Are you over 65?
cust: What? I'm asking for a senior ticket.
me: Sorry, those tickets start at 65.
cust: I have an AARP card!
me: Okay, well that starts at 50.
cust: This is rediculous! The AARP pays to have these things available for their members.
me: I assure you this theater doesn't see any of that money.
cust: You're not going to sell me a senior ticket, are you?
Well, since you're such a gem...
me: Sorry.
cust [with his wife]: My wife and I came in here the other day to see a movie, and the guy refused to give us a refund.
This guy was David Woodward, and I had heard this story already. I humored him.
me: What movie did you come to see?
cust: Shopgirl, the Steve Martin movie.
There happened to be a huge standee for the movie right behind me.
me: Okay, did something happen to the film?
cust: No, it was just about some tramp, running around town sleeping with everybody. So then we went into another theater & it was about some queer.
me: And you didn't stay for the whole movie?
cust: No! We asked for our money back & he wouldn't give it to us!
me: Well we don't control the content of our films. Actually at this point I can't refund a ticket anyway, because that information is in a report that has already been closed.
cust: We were wanting to go to Pride & Prejudice instead.
me: I'm sorry, the nature of the industry is that they don't exchange equally like that. Imagine going to a gallery and not liking the Van Gogh. The Matisse isn't going to come free. [I'm sure I'm embellishing my eloquence here. I was way too pissed off to make a cogent metaphor.]
cust: If we'd known the movies weren't going to be good we wouldn't have come at all.
me: The content of the movies is not bad because you disagreed with it. Both the films were critically acclaimed. There are reviews posted on the boards over there that talk about the content that offended you as well.
cust: We don't care what those people think about the movie! We have our own opinions about that sort of thing.
me: The ratings board also gives reasons behind their ratings. See here [pointing at the standee] the detail for Shopgirl states "sexually deviant behavior" [or something like that].
cust: We didn't check the ratings; we just wanted to see a good movie.
This went on for awhile, but I didn't yield.
cust: You're not going to let us in to this movie are you.
cust. wife: I think he can do it, but he won't.
me: It's both.
cust: Fine, we'll pay to see this movie. 2 seniors.
me: Over 65?
This one didn't happen to me, but it was at the box office. I was projecting at the time & was upstairs.
cust: We want our money back.
Adam: Why's that?
cust: That movie's too gay.
Adam: What?
cust: We just didn't realize... we saw that it was made in NC, but... we didn't realize it would be so gay.
Adam: Gay?
cust: Yes. There's a homosexual in it.
Adam: Okay...
cust: We brought our 15 year old son!
Adam: We don't provide refunds after the first half hour.
cust: If we'd known it was so gay we wouldn't have come in the first place! There was no indication anywhere about that!
Adam: We have reviews posted at the boards that talk about the content.
cust: I didn't read the reviews.
Adam: We have these cards too [picks up the Loggerheads card].
cust: I read the card! It didn't say anything about that.
Adam: [skimming the card] "...and their openly gay son."
After standing stunned for a moment, they guy went into the theater to collect his family & left.
Instead of standing at the box office like a normal person, this guy came in and stood at the counter. For reference, don't do that shit unless you're invited. Nobody needs some asshole hovering over the cash drawer and watching you play Freecell. That shit is personal.
cust: Two for X [hands a credit card].
me: We take cash or local checks.
I say this because people inevitably ask if we take debit cards. When this happened to Graham once, the customer insisted they had accepted his card "last Friday." Anyway,
cust: I don't have any cash. Everybody takes credit cards!
me: Sorry. There's an ATM blah blah blah.
cust: Well what about this!
me: That's a ticket printer.
cust: It looks like a credit card machine!
I tapped the space bar and flashed him the printed ticket.
me: Nope.
So I guess he thought we actually did take credit cards? Has he been denied before because he's such an asshole? Well, he found the ATM all right.
Customer walks in with his date,
cust: Is this... the movies?
Elderly customers leaving the theater, not asking for a refund,
cust: We just realized we saw this movie two weeks ago!
Woman on bike: Glad I don't work for Coke!
There's a long list of quotes in the back room. I don't remember a lot of the gems, so maybe Graham or Daphne can help me out there.
Next time: Russ becomes a badass.
Friday, October 26, 2007
Poo
The defining moment of my career at the Chelsea Theater.
Jason and Lauren are total champs.
I worked Sunday nights as long as I was a projectionist, so about 2 years. Always I came in after Jason worked the matinee, a fate I wouldn't wish on anyone. Up the street from the theater is a "retirement community," where hasbeens born with silver spoons up their asses go to whittle away at their final days. This is a boon to the Chelsea and feeds the Sunday grosses like a grown adult sucking at the withered teat of its mother & thriving on life-giving Ensure. Revolting.
One particular afternoon I got a call. For some background, there are regulars at the Chelsea [another time] who appear in an aura of infamy. One man came in frequently on Sundays and has Parkinson's. He was there to see Sideways (I think it was) with his daughter or caretaker or whatever. The first thing they did that day was complain about the lack of handicapped accessible bathrooms at the Varsity (a sister theater). Thing is, they're there. I promise. They're downstairs in plain sight, and I'm sure anyone could have directed them there if they'd only asked. The Varsity is notoriously anti-senior due to parking concerns... lucky bastards. At any rate, the Chelsea employee didn't know what to tell them; maybe they expected something?
The call I received was to inform me that someone had made a mess in the bathroom. To do it a little better justice, dude had the men's bathroom fucking ruined. Like... tubgirl ruined. If you're not familiar with tubgirl, look it up on wikipedia at your own risk. Let's summarize:
1. Both toilets clogged
2. Piles of shit and toilet paper on the floor
3. The cup runneth over
4. Shit tracked back into the theater
So why did we clean it up? I mean, shouldn't we be getting a bio hazard crew together, worrying about hepatitis, putting a mop in that fucker's hand?
Lauren and Jason:
1. Scooped and scraped into the drain in the floor, rendering two dustpans useless.
2. Unclogged the far stall, which had suffered less damage.
3. Bleached the hell out of the floor.
4. Wept openly.
When I got there, I was under the impression that it was under control. The looks on my coworkers' faces were expressive of the sullen solitude common in survivors of apartment complex fires. I stepped in to survey. The mixture of bleach and excrement created a palpable wall of odor, similar to walking outside on a hot day from a grocery store. The feeling of terror was memorable, like the dolly zoom from Vertigo.
There was a line from Desperate Housewives (shut up) that describes it pretty well. "Sometimes things get so bad, all you can do is laugh." There's something of a disconnect, and the part of my brain that registers horror just shut off. So, stuff I did:
1. Unclogged the other toilet
2. Mopped the walls and the side of the toilet
3. Mopped the brown slug-trail into and around the theater
4. Replaced the mop head
5. Prayed for the last time
Seems kind of simple when I put it in numbers like that. Really I don't remember it that well, like I repressed it somehow. Any future psychiatrist who tries to recover that memory is in for a world of pain.
Jason and Lauren are total champs.
I worked Sunday nights as long as I was a projectionist, so about 2 years. Always I came in after Jason worked the matinee, a fate I wouldn't wish on anyone. Up the street from the theater is a "retirement community," where hasbeens born with silver spoons up their asses go to whittle away at their final days. This is a boon to the Chelsea and feeds the Sunday grosses like a grown adult sucking at the withered teat of its mother & thriving on life-giving Ensure. Revolting.
One particular afternoon I got a call. For some background, there are regulars at the Chelsea [another time] who appear in an aura of infamy. One man came in frequently on Sundays and has Parkinson's. He was there to see Sideways (I think it was) with his daughter or caretaker or whatever. The first thing they did that day was complain about the lack of handicapped accessible bathrooms at the Varsity (a sister theater). Thing is, they're there. I promise. They're downstairs in plain sight, and I'm sure anyone could have directed them there if they'd only asked. The Varsity is notoriously anti-senior due to parking concerns... lucky bastards. At any rate, the Chelsea employee didn't know what to tell them; maybe they expected something?
The call I received was to inform me that someone had made a mess in the bathroom. To do it a little better justice, dude had the men's bathroom fucking ruined. Like... tubgirl ruined. If you're not familiar with tubgirl, look it up on wikipedia at your own risk. Let's summarize:
1. Both toilets clogged
2. Piles of shit and toilet paper on the floor
3. The cup runneth over
4. Shit tracked back into the theater
So why did we clean it up? I mean, shouldn't we be getting a bio hazard crew together, worrying about hepatitis, putting a mop in that fucker's hand?
Lauren and Jason:
1. Scooped and scraped into the drain in the floor, rendering two dustpans useless.
2. Unclogged the far stall, which had suffered less damage.
3. Bleached the hell out of the floor.
4. Wept openly.
When I got there, I was under the impression that it was under control. The looks on my coworkers' faces were expressive of the sullen solitude common in survivors of apartment complex fires. I stepped in to survey. The mixture of bleach and excrement created a palpable wall of odor, similar to walking outside on a hot day from a grocery store. The feeling of terror was memorable, like the dolly zoom from Vertigo.
There was a line from Desperate Housewives (shut up) that describes it pretty well. "Sometimes things get so bad, all you can do is laugh." There's something of a disconnect, and the part of my brain that registers horror just shut off. So, stuff I did:
1. Unclogged the other toilet
2. Mopped the walls and the side of the toilet
3. Mopped the brown slug-trail into and around the theater
4. Replaced the mop head
5. Prayed for the last time
Seems kind of simple when I put it in numbers like that. Really I don't remember it that well, like I repressed it somehow. Any future psychiatrist who tries to recover that memory is in for a world of pain.
Monday, October 22, 2007
my bum 3: the bummening
Three posts in one day!? Thrillsville.
I've been gradually bringing this home, and now finally here we are. I currently live in eastern Durham, or as I like to call it, East-ass Durham. Now it's not quite the rectum of the city, and it's not the genitals either (I can't decide if Durham is a boy or a girl). Aiken Ave. is, I believe, the portion between the anus and the genitals. What's that called? I forget. For now we'll just call it East Durham. At any rate if the city were to receive an enema, Aiken would only meet with some messy runoff. Wow that got graphic quickly.
When I first moved in here, Sarah's dogs let me know how they felt about the neighbors. They advised me to tolerate, but certainly keep a comfortable distance. Displeasure should be expressed subtly upon greeting, but hostility should not be incurred. For the immediate neighbors, let's work with a convenient 3x3 grid with this house as the center. Moving clockwise from let's say... 10:30?
1: Immaculate lawn with lamp posts and ample lawn ornamentation. Anywhere else it would appear gaudy, but here it's downright luxurious. I've spoken with them once only while trying to figure out where a dog lived (I had it by the chain, which it had torn loose from its tie with about 6 ft of slack). Despite obviously speaking English, they mostly played mute. The tactic (which I also employ) "Stay the fuck out of it" was in full force.
2: The father has a picturesque mullet, memeworthy even. He was gone for six months or so last year for reasons unknown. The mother is a suspected dealer & frequently has sketchy guests at all times of day. They run a puppy mill in a 6x6 fence in their driveway. The dogs within hump each other constantly, to where the recipient affects a glassy, vacant acceptance. I actually doubt the dogs are officially mating (probably same sex), but the effect is eerily similar. The children are on the doorstep of juvie; the younger one frequently fires his fingers like a pistol at my car as I pull into the driveway. There is a painted cement dog ornament that is always being shifted around the yard and stoop as though it were not comfortable to sit in the same place daily.
3: This house had an elderly black couple when I moved in. The man claimed to have a camera attached to the side of his house that recorded the break-in of this house, but no evidence was ever produced. After they moved out, renters came in. There are often expensive cars parked in front, but I rarely see anyone. Some evenings I have seen a group of portly black women roosting on the stoop, but they don't appear to be conversing. They watch me intently, but I don't sense any hostility. This is the least active household (as far as I can tell).
4: Action house. Trauma house. Crack house. The woman who occupies it is a nice (if somewhat trashy) bank teller in her 60s. I believe she is married, but the husband is seldom around. Her daughter is... possibly in her 30s? Rhonda is the very epicenter of entropy in this neighborhood. She's a recovering (read: using slightly less) addict whom the police and EMT know by name. There was also an older woman, I'm assuming the grandmother, who died before I moved in. Sarah explains that she used to croak "Help!" from the back porch for menial tasks such as shuffling back into the house... to anyone who would answer. Rhonda knows by now not to ask me for things, because I routinely lie to her. Need the phone? Don't have one. Use their swimming pool? [I know, what the fuck? It's an above ground swimming pool. Rhonda in a bikini is a slight against god.] I'm on my way to work (even if I'm obviously just coming home).
5: I don't know much about these people except that the woman is most definitely a dealer. She came to our door (actually more than once, but we'll stick with the first time when I was there) wailing about Rhonda and "Call 911!" Although she's supposedly using less, Rhonda continues to have seizures. This particular one happened early summer while the crack heads were having a pool party. None of them had a phone? I don't know. Anyway, Rhonda was in her bikini. Thin as a rail Rhonda needs a onesie... I mean she looks like she's going to fall apart without some sort of protective barrier against the world. And there she was flailing away under a bush. Have you ever seen someone milk a seizure? I have. I'm no doctor, but this was bullshit. When emergency did arrive, everyone scattered. Including Rhonda. Crazy-ass neighbor #5 was nowhere to be found (though she did come back later to fill us in nonsensically), and Rhonda bolted as soon as she saw flashing lights. I don't know where they picked her up, but I imagine a crackhead in a bikini wasn't so hard to spot on Cheek Road. The police asked us one question: "Was it Rhonda?" Yeah. "She needs to just be put away."
6-7: I don't know these people. Thank god.
8: Quiet, suspicious elderly couple.
The only other notables in this area are the countless dog owners who neglect their pets (who have to be rescued from Bosley, Sarah's territorial boxer) and the crack ho. Now I've heard people use the term crack ho for women who maybe slept around some or were especially skinny. No, this woman is a crack ho in that she does crack and is a prostitute. She has what I can only assume is a pimp, an older bearded fellow who could be Jesus's older brother in a Grateful Dead tribute band. She appeared, at first, to be comely. Then she flagged down my car one hot afternoon and I saw, in my rear view mirror, the latest addition to the Texas Chainsaw Massacre family, "leatherho." She's always coming out of a different house and ambling drunkenly down the street. I try not to judge, but damn... she's just a crack ho.
Once the house was broken into in the middle of the day while Sarah & I were at work. The back door was kicked in, the lock broken, but that was all. My guess is that Bosley informed them they weren't welcome.
Another time I heard a sound around the house & went to investigate. When I put the lights on I saw someone scurry off in a dark, hooded jacket. He was clutching something something to his chest like a bundled child. I called the police - it was maybe 3 in the morning. We couldn't find anything missing. Days later, Sarah asked me if I had used the last of the Tide. I put the pieces together... and laughed at the image of dumbass hoofing it down the street with a near-empty bottle of laundry detergent under his jacket.
Both of our cars were broken into. Sarah's was on a Friday night, and she called to leave me a message to that effect. I got it when I was calling her Sunday morning to let her know my car had been broken into. Keen. Sarah's car was likely open to begin with, but all they got was a handful of change from the bin. They scattered candy wrappers from the ashtray throughout the car, and it seemed like they had maybe just stopped to have a snack. My car had a bit more in it, and they must have used some sort of tool to get the lock open. Aside from the minor damage to the door, the casualty was not so devastating. Allow me to illustrate via comparison. Next to each item I list that was stolen, its ARV, and below it, an item of greater value which was not stolen.
1: Handful of dead batteries. ARV: $0
2GB mp3 player, left in the driver's seat.
2: Handful of loose change. ARV: $3
X-Men DVD borrowed from David Woodward, in the opened glove compartment.
3: Electronic Travel Sudoku game (resembling a PDA). ARV: $10
Portable CD player and half a dozen new CDs.
When Sarah spoke with the police, the officer noted regarding #3, "I prefer to do mine on paper."
I've been gradually bringing this home, and now finally here we are. I currently live in eastern Durham, or as I like to call it, East-ass Durham. Now it's not quite the rectum of the city, and it's not the genitals either (I can't decide if Durham is a boy or a girl). Aiken Ave. is, I believe, the portion between the anus and the genitals. What's that called? I forget. For now we'll just call it East Durham. At any rate if the city were to receive an enema, Aiken would only meet with some messy runoff. Wow that got graphic quickly.
When I first moved in here, Sarah's dogs let me know how they felt about the neighbors. They advised me to tolerate, but certainly keep a comfortable distance. Displeasure should be expressed subtly upon greeting, but hostility should not be incurred. For the immediate neighbors, let's work with a convenient 3x3 grid with this house as the center. Moving clockwise from let's say... 10:30?
1: Immaculate lawn with lamp posts and ample lawn ornamentation. Anywhere else it would appear gaudy, but here it's downright luxurious. I've spoken with them once only while trying to figure out where a dog lived (I had it by the chain, which it had torn loose from its tie with about 6 ft of slack). Despite obviously speaking English, they mostly played mute. The tactic (which I also employ) "Stay the fuck out of it" was in full force.
2: The father has a picturesque mullet, memeworthy even. He was gone for six months or so last year for reasons unknown. The mother is a suspected dealer & frequently has sketchy guests at all times of day. They run a puppy mill in a 6x6 fence in their driveway. The dogs within hump each other constantly, to where the recipient affects a glassy, vacant acceptance. I actually doubt the dogs are officially mating (probably same sex), but the effect is eerily similar. The children are on the doorstep of juvie; the younger one frequently fires his fingers like a pistol at my car as I pull into the driveway. There is a painted cement dog ornament that is always being shifted around the yard and stoop as though it were not comfortable to sit in the same place daily.
3: This house had an elderly black couple when I moved in. The man claimed to have a camera attached to the side of his house that recorded the break-in of this house, but no evidence was ever produced. After they moved out, renters came in. There are often expensive cars parked in front, but I rarely see anyone. Some evenings I have seen a group of portly black women roosting on the stoop, but they don't appear to be conversing. They watch me intently, but I don't sense any hostility. This is the least active household (as far as I can tell).
4: Action house. Trauma house. Crack house. The woman who occupies it is a nice (if somewhat trashy) bank teller in her 60s. I believe she is married, but the husband is seldom around. Her daughter is... possibly in her 30s? Rhonda is the very epicenter of entropy in this neighborhood. She's a recovering (read: using slightly less) addict whom the police and EMT know by name. There was also an older woman, I'm assuming the grandmother, who died before I moved in. Sarah explains that she used to croak "Help!" from the back porch for menial tasks such as shuffling back into the house... to anyone who would answer. Rhonda knows by now not to ask me for things, because I routinely lie to her. Need the phone? Don't have one. Use their swimming pool? [I know, what the fuck? It's an above ground swimming pool. Rhonda in a bikini is a slight against god.] I'm on my way to work (even if I'm obviously just coming home).
5: I don't know much about these people except that the woman is most definitely a dealer. She came to our door (actually more than once, but we'll stick with the first time when I was there) wailing about Rhonda and "Call 911!" Although she's supposedly using less, Rhonda continues to have seizures. This particular one happened early summer while the crack heads were having a pool party. None of them had a phone? I don't know. Anyway, Rhonda was in her bikini. Thin as a rail Rhonda needs a onesie... I mean she looks like she's going to fall apart without some sort of protective barrier against the world. And there she was flailing away under a bush. Have you ever seen someone milk a seizure? I have. I'm no doctor, but this was bullshit. When emergency did arrive, everyone scattered. Including Rhonda. Crazy-ass neighbor #5 was nowhere to be found (though she did come back later to fill us in nonsensically), and Rhonda bolted as soon as she saw flashing lights. I don't know where they picked her up, but I imagine a crackhead in a bikini wasn't so hard to spot on Cheek Road. The police asked us one question: "Was it Rhonda?" Yeah. "She needs to just be put away."
6-7: I don't know these people. Thank god.
8: Quiet, suspicious elderly couple.
The only other notables in this area are the countless dog owners who neglect their pets (who have to be rescued from Bosley, Sarah's territorial boxer) and the crack ho. Now I've heard people use the term crack ho for women who maybe slept around some or were especially skinny. No, this woman is a crack ho in that she does crack and is a prostitute. She has what I can only assume is a pimp, an older bearded fellow who could be Jesus's older brother in a Grateful Dead tribute band. She appeared, at first, to be comely. Then she flagged down my car one hot afternoon and I saw, in my rear view mirror, the latest addition to the Texas Chainsaw Massacre family, "leatherho." She's always coming out of a different house and ambling drunkenly down the street. I try not to judge, but damn... she's just a crack ho.
Once the house was broken into in the middle of the day while Sarah & I were at work. The back door was kicked in, the lock broken, but that was all. My guess is that Bosley informed them they weren't welcome.
Another time I heard a sound around the house & went to investigate. When I put the lights on I saw someone scurry off in a dark, hooded jacket. He was clutching something something to his chest like a bundled child. I called the police - it was maybe 3 in the morning. We couldn't find anything missing. Days later, Sarah asked me if I had used the last of the Tide. I put the pieces together... and laughed at the image of dumbass hoofing it down the street with a near-empty bottle of laundry detergent under his jacket.
Both of our cars were broken into. Sarah's was on a Friday night, and she called to leave me a message to that effect. I got it when I was calling her Sunday morning to let her know my car had been broken into. Keen. Sarah's car was likely open to begin with, but all they got was a handful of change from the bin. They scattered candy wrappers from the ashtray throughout the car, and it seemed like they had maybe just stopped to have a snack. My car had a bit more in it, and they must have used some sort of tool to get the lock open. Aside from the minor damage to the door, the casualty was not so devastating. Allow me to illustrate via comparison. Next to each item I list that was stolen, its ARV, and below it, an item of greater value which was not stolen.
1: Handful of dead batteries. ARV: $0
2GB mp3 player, left in the driver's seat.
2: Handful of loose change. ARV: $3
X-Men DVD borrowed from David Woodward, in the opened glove compartment.
3: Electronic Travel Sudoku game (resembling a PDA). ARV: $10
Portable CD player and half a dozen new CDs.
When Sarah spoke with the police, the officer noted regarding #3, "I prefer to do mine on paper."
Interlude prime
If you have Twitter or otherwise can view my tweets [dirty], I got an e-mail today:
geraldo - Hello Society rtgrimm
bang your bitch in all positions with a massive meat
Geurt Durkin
As such I have composed an open letter.
Hello Society,
Im n ur ppl, haX0r1ng ur n00bs.
If u want culture bcak, leave teh things here aformentioned:
-more 12 sec pr0n clips
-new memes lolcat s is not getting hitz nemore
-kill tubgrl that shit its just wrong
-fursuits on amazon.com
-end all sentences ".com
- www that shit its 2 hard 2 say. make it mmm so ppl no its gud.
-three words: wall st mmo. no not a game.
-asl
-shortn more words! blog, podcast, wi-fi........ r only teh begenning!!!1
urs,
teh interwebs
Geurt Durkin
THANK YOU FOR USING THE INTERNET FREE PENIS ENLARGEMENT IPODS FOR YOUR XBOX 360 CLICK HERE OR YOUR FAMILY WILL DIE I'LL DO IT DO YOU THINK I'M FUCKING AROUND I'M THE GODDAMN INTERNET
[Please leave your suggestions, improvements to this letter in the comments]
geraldo - Hello Society rtgrimm
bang your bitch in all positions with a massive meat
Geurt Durkin
As such I have composed an open letter.
Hello Society,
Im n ur ppl, haX0r1ng ur n00bs.
If u want culture bcak, leave teh things here aformentioned:
-more 12 sec pr0n clips
-new memes lolcat s is not getting hitz nemore
-kill tubgrl that shit its just wrong
-fursuits on amazon.com
-end all sentences ".com
- www that shit its 2 hard 2 say. make it mmm so ppl no its gud.
-three words: wall st mmo. no not a game.
-asl
-shortn more words! blog, podcast, wi-fi........ r only teh begenning!!!1
urs,
teh interwebs
Geurt Durkin
THANK YOU FOR USING THE INTERNET FREE PENIS ENLARGEMENT IPODS FOR YOUR XBOX 360 CLICK HERE OR YOUR FAMILY WILL DIE I'LL DO IT DO YOU THINK I'M FUCKING AROUND I'M THE GODDAMN INTERNET
[Please leave your suggestions, improvements to this letter in the comments]
interlude
I'm feeling pretty lazy... too lazy for the last bumupdate. So now here's
"Things you can say in the coffee shop to irritate me"
I'm sensitive to this sort of thing, so don't think if you've said this in the past you're eligible for insta-hate or anything. Also, to those of you who stated my blog has an air of pretension, this one's for you.
-Skinny
-Grande
-Venti
-King size
-Middle size (we have four)
-Extra milk
-Extra hot
-No Foam
-2% milk
-Caramel Macchiato/Iced Macchiato
-Frappuccino
-Mochaccino
-Espresso over ice in a large cup (you're obviously trying to rip off some milk)
-Lattee, or brev
-Bold
-Less acidic
-"Could you make that like... half regular coffee and... like... half decaf?" No. You're the first person who's ever imagined such a thing.
-"Do you make the muffins here?" No.
-"You got hot dogs?" No.
-"Do you serve breakfast?" Not unless your breakfast, like mine, is a pastry (or nothing).
-"I'll have it for here, but I'll take it in a cup to go."
-"Regular cup of coffee." Which size? "Regular." 8 ,12 ,16 ,20 oz... "Whichever's regular." 20oz it is.
-Colombian/Costa Rica coffee. Is there a place you can go in and get whatever fucking coffee you want? A lot of the time I have two coffees on, or you can get a french press but what, I have 40 some-odd carafes behind the counter with a shit-ton of old coffee in them? Granted those SAs are more commonly asked for (when they're not being offered I mean), but I've also had people ask for Kona or Jamaican coffee. One guy even got mad that I didn't have it available for our discounted french presses. Like even though we were losing money in the deal it was his right or some bullshit.
-You should have free refills
-You should stamp my card for regular coffee
-You should carry iced decaf coffee
-You should have a sign about X
-You should have X baked goods
-Free advertising. Commonly used in conjunction with some fairly expensive retail product, such as "You should give these shirts away! Free advertising!"
-"Actually I was hoping I could talk to the manager?" Yeah, uh... he's not in.
-"May I speak with Mr. Thomas Roberts?" No.
-"Is this Northgate?" Yeah, I just don't like to answer the phone that way.
-"Which of your coffees is organic?" This one looks good.
-"I'm in a hurry." That'll be 50 cents.
-Adding zero into the tip line for a credit card. Either you're paranoid or just an asshole. I'm not saying you have to tip for a cup of coffee, and some people drop cash tips when they're paying by card... so do they think I'm going to write something in for them? That would be supremely idiotic of me.
While I'm on the topic, a couple of the more bizarre orders I've gotten.
[Woman looks at the menu for seriously a couple of minutes, resists assistance on picking something] "Grande Caramel Macchiato." I was so astonished I whipped around, thinking for a second that some joker might have written it in on the board. They hadn't. Just an idiot.
[This older guy... 60s maybe? Super tall, rather portly, unshaven, and again after poring over the menu, and this time while I was in the middle of helping another customer] "You make a pretty good maccharina?"
me: "A what? A macchiato?"
cust: "I said, 'You make a pretty good maccharina?'"
me: "I don't know what that is, I'm sorry. A macchiato?"
cust: [points at the board, but kind of in the lower region where the drink specials live] "Says up there you got a maccharina. Lemme get yer biggest maccharina."
me: [I legitimately started thinking he was fucking around with me] "Like the dance craze? The dance from the 90s?"
cust: "You... you take your job pretty seriously don't you."
me: "Yeah, I guess I do."
cust: "I'm just trying to get your biggest size... your 20oz maccharina."
me: "If you mean the macchiato (I bring out our print menu & point it out), it's a rather small drink (I hold up a demitasse), but if you want-"
cust: "So you're telling me I can't get a 20 oz?"
me: "Well that would just be... I mean that's a lot of espresso. I can do a cappuccino or like... a latte in that size if you want."
I'd like to point out that it's 7:30 in the morning. Well Ben came in at about that time & saw the look on my face. He sent me out to his car to bring in the baked goods; I gladly obliged. When I came back in the guy had settled on a 32oz french press. He finished about half of it. The entire time, he stood there at the bar across from the counter. I don't know... like he was waiting for something.
"Tall motil [moh-teel]." Never figured out what the hell that was supposed to be, but she wound up with a 20oz single shot decaf heavy cream latte. Ew. Actually there's another one like this where somebody butchered the name of the drink, but it's escaped me. I'll update when I remember.
"Latte with half skim, half half & half."
me: "That's um... that's pretty much whole milk."
cust: "No, no, because all the lactose that's really good for you in half and half isn't in the skim, so if you mix the two you get the benefits of both."
And sometimes you learn it's best just... not to argue.
A variation on the "regular" problem mentioned above, which escalated when I asked "for here or to go" (since putting it in a small mug for here would have solved the problem).
cust: [getting belligerent] "Just a regular."
me: "So I'm just trying to figure out how you want me to serve that to you... I have small mugs here, or I could give you maybe a medium paper cup?"
cust: "I'll take it... [ponders] in a container."
I thought maybe he was joking or trying to be an ass about it, so I chuckled. Stopped cold when the stoic bewilderment on his face remained. He got a 12oz.
This has spurned many conversations about how one would serve coffee without a container.
Getting started on this has opened up so many memories of difficult people, and I think I'll have to stop now before this runs any longer.
"Things you can say in the coffee shop to irritate me"
I'm sensitive to this sort of thing, so don't think if you've said this in the past you're eligible for insta-hate or anything. Also, to those of you who stated my blog has an air of pretension, this one's for you.
-Skinny
-Grande
-Venti
-King size
-Middle size (we have four)
-Extra milk
-Extra hot
-No Foam
-2% milk
-Caramel Macchiato/Iced Macchiato
-Frappuccino
-Mochaccino
-Espresso over ice in a large cup (you're obviously trying to rip off some milk)
-Lattee, or brev
-Bold
-Less acidic
-"Could you make that like... half regular coffee and... like... half decaf?" No. You're the first person who's ever imagined such a thing.
-"Do you make the muffins here?" No.
-"You got hot dogs?" No.
-"Do you serve breakfast?" Not unless your breakfast, like mine, is a pastry (or nothing).
-"I'll have it for here, but I'll take it in a cup to go."
-"Regular cup of coffee." Which size? "Regular." 8 ,12 ,16 ,20 oz... "Whichever's regular." 20oz it is.
-Colombian/Costa Rica coffee. Is there a place you can go in and get whatever fucking coffee you want? A lot of the time I have two coffees on, or you can get a french press but what, I have 40 some-odd carafes behind the counter with a shit-ton of old coffee in them? Granted those SAs are more commonly asked for (when they're not being offered I mean), but I've also had people ask for Kona or Jamaican coffee. One guy even got mad that I didn't have it available for our discounted french presses. Like even though we were losing money in the deal it was his right or some bullshit.
-You should have free refills
-You should stamp my card for regular coffee
-You should carry iced decaf coffee
-You should have a sign about X
-You should have X baked goods
-Free advertising. Commonly used in conjunction with some fairly expensive retail product, such as "You should give these shirts away! Free advertising!"
-"Actually I was hoping I could talk to the manager?" Yeah, uh... he's not in.
-"May I speak with Mr. Thomas Roberts?" No.
-"Is this Northgate?" Yeah, I just don't like to answer the phone that way.
-"Which of your coffees is organic?" This one looks good.
-"I'm in a hurry." That'll be 50 cents.
-Adding zero into the tip line for a credit card. Either you're paranoid or just an asshole. I'm not saying you have to tip for a cup of coffee, and some people drop cash tips when they're paying by card... so do they think I'm going to write something in for them? That would be supremely idiotic of me.
While I'm on the topic, a couple of the more bizarre orders I've gotten.
[Woman looks at the menu for seriously a couple of minutes, resists assistance on picking something] "Grande Caramel Macchiato." I was so astonished I whipped around, thinking for a second that some joker might have written it in on the board. They hadn't. Just an idiot.
[This older guy... 60s maybe? Super tall, rather portly, unshaven, and again after poring over the menu, and this time while I was in the middle of helping another customer] "You make a pretty good maccharina?"
me: "A what? A macchiato?"
cust: "I said, 'You make a pretty good maccharina?'"
me: "I don't know what that is, I'm sorry. A macchiato?"
cust: [points at the board, but kind of in the lower region where the drink specials live] "Says up there you got a maccharina. Lemme get yer biggest maccharina."
me: [I legitimately started thinking he was fucking around with me] "Like the dance craze? The dance from the 90s?"
cust: "You... you take your job pretty seriously don't you."
me: "Yeah, I guess I do."
cust: "I'm just trying to get your biggest size... your 20oz maccharina."
me: "If you mean the macchiato (I bring out our print menu & point it out), it's a rather small drink (I hold up a demitasse), but if you want-"
cust: "So you're telling me I can't get a 20 oz?"
me: "Well that would just be... I mean that's a lot of espresso. I can do a cappuccino or like... a latte in that size if you want."
I'd like to point out that it's 7:30 in the morning. Well Ben came in at about that time & saw the look on my face. He sent me out to his car to bring in the baked goods; I gladly obliged. When I came back in the guy had settled on a 32oz french press. He finished about half of it. The entire time, he stood there at the bar across from the counter. I don't know... like he was waiting for something.
"Tall motil [moh-teel]." Never figured out what the hell that was supposed to be, but she wound up with a 20oz single shot decaf heavy cream latte. Ew. Actually there's another one like this where somebody butchered the name of the drink, but it's escaped me. I'll update when I remember.
"Latte with half skim, half half & half."
me: "That's um... that's pretty much whole milk."
cust: "No, no, because all the lactose that's really good for you in half and half isn't in the skim, so if you mix the two you get the benefits of both."
And sometimes you learn it's best just... not to argue.
A variation on the "regular" problem mentioned above, which escalated when I asked "for here or to go" (since putting it in a small mug for here would have solved the problem).
cust: [getting belligerent] "Just a regular."
me: "So I'm just trying to figure out how you want me to serve that to you... I have small mugs here, or I could give you maybe a medium paper cup?"
cust: "I'll take it... [ponders] in a container."
I thought maybe he was joking or trying to be an ass about it, so I chuckled. Stopped cold when the stoic bewilderment on his face remained. He got a 12oz.
This has spurned many conversations about how one would serve coffee without a container.
Getting started on this has opened up so many memories of difficult people, and I think I'll have to stop now before this runs any longer.
Tuesday, October 9, 2007
My bum again
Before I lived in Durham, I would get lost on the way downtown. Once inside, it would inevitably spit me out the wrong way on 85. On more than one occasion I wound up in Hillsborough. I'm tempted to make a reference to the third Pirates movie here, but I'll refrain. While I'm there though, one second to confess that I found their take on the underworld utterly fascinating. If you stop reading here I'll understand.
Now part 3 of this saga will conclude with tales of crazies where I live, but for now we're sticking to Broad Street. I have an image burned into my mind of a man walking in circles between two bushes next to Whole Foods. This is a pretty major thoroughfare we're talking about, and this guy was quite literally bedding in their accents. He wasn't that well concealed (unlike Graah Plate), produced from the back of his drawstring pants a bottle in a paper bag. I hesitate to imagine how it remained perched there until business time. Without tightening his sweats, he squatted and coveted the bottle like a mother bird. He spotted me staring - I was stopping traffic - and still I felt like I was intruding.
Before I was able to establish that our store is not a shelter, the local flavor introduced themselves. The night before opening a couple months ago, a tall black male greeted us as "slim." Slim struck up a conversation about his mother that I barely understood. He then attempted the classic change for a larger bill scam. He proffered a handful of filthy, unrecognizable coins for a dollar. In his wide, withered hand he began to sort them and count unintelligibly before we (truthfully, for once) claimed we didn't have any cash. Slim insisted he wasn't asking for a hand-out, but only for change. Again we refused. The coins disappeared into a fold in his pants, and he extended his hand with purpose amongst us. My father took it and was shaken with vigor. Slim disappeared into the twilight, and I haven't seen him since.
The following day, opening, several employees were hanging around checking things out or tying up loose ends. There weren't many customers (we still sort of looked under construction). Rochelle was out front managing the plants when a short, rotund white male in his... 50s? approached. I couldn't hear the interaction well; she ushered him inside with promises of fresh baked goods. Even at that time, when the layout wasn't obvious, customers approached the register (especially since I stand there) instead of the service counter. There were tall boxes at that side of the counter, so he had to be forward to get as far around as he did. Anyway the logistics aren't that important except that I didn't have to be close to notice his smell. Nick, who was in the opposite corner on the stage perked up at the aroma like his bum-sense was tingling. Something sure was tingling. His scent had matured in the summer sun, and one could actually distinguish sweat from what was undoubtedly originating from his shirt. The shirt was stained... like sweat stains... but they weren't from sweat unless he had some bizarre seepage problem. I will reproduce a condensed version of the conversation (I apologize in advance for attempting dialect), since some of his queries were not the sort that had answers, such as his opening:
bum: "Been walkin' five miles already today, y'know?"
me: "Sure, what can I do for you?"
bum: "I need somethin' ta eat."
me: "Okay, well we have small pastries and such" [I indicated the bake case, which he ignored]
bum: "You got no sandwiches or taters or nothin'? Whatchoo got for me to eat?"
[I concluded firmly at this point that he wasn't intending to pay for anything]
me: "We have small pastries, but nothing to give away. We've only just opened."
Rochelle, I think it was, interjected: "We'll have more in the future." I believe this to have been a mistake.
bum, with growing agitation: "You ain't got nothin' ta eat? Where you get somethin' ta eat around here?"
me: "There's uh... there's a grocery store up the-"
bum: "Grosshry store! I don't have any money! I'm lookin' for somethin' ta eat!"
His emphasis on that word made me wonder... did he think we misunderstood him?
me: "Sorry, I don't know. We just opened up here."
bum: "You ain't got nooo sandwiches. You got pertaters?"
me: "Potatoes? No. Nothing like that."
bum: "What about that one?"
me: "That what? The muffins?"
bum: "No, that right there [pointing at the counter], that potato right there!"
me: "No potatoes, I don't have any potatoes. This? Do you mean this?"
In disbelief I held up a squat cup with a latte, recently produced by Stephanie during her training.
bum: "Yeah, that potato right there."
me: "This is a latte... a... a coffee drink."
bum: "Coffee? I don't need nothin' ta drink."
me: "Well this is a coffee. This is a coffee shop."
He started to walk toward the door, and Rochelle directed him.
bum: "Where's a guy get somethin' ta eat around here!"
Rochelle: "There's another cafe down the street [they were closed - we're not evil]. Another coffee shop."
bum: "I don't need no coffee, I need somethin' ta eat, E-A-T eat!
Yes, he spelled it out for us. After he left that day I endeavored to call him "Potatoes," but I didn't see him except in passing. He's worn the same filthy blue shirt, and he's always travelling North on Broad. He's lost some weight, for sure. I haven't seen him in a month or so. Maybe he found his potatoes...
Since this is running long, I'll just tell about one last bum, my bum. When he first walked in, the second day of business, I called Slim to mind. This guy is a little younger than Slim I believe, though he has told me different ages from time to time (from 30s to 50s). He was the hardest to understand of the bunch, but only because he mumbles. Whenever he wants to get something across, he can do so emphatically. He walked in with purpose that first time, scoped out the customers sitting with their computers, and chose one [now] regular to join at his table. I could tell by the look on this guy's face that he hadn't been waiting for anyone, so I called out asking if he knew the gentleman who had joined him. As the customer shook his head subtly, our guest kept his gaze transfixed without acknowledging me. I had to address him directly. Had I asked him not to come back right then, I might have avoided the difficulty that followed. Instead I tried to play it nice & it bit me in the ass.
I saw him once every few days at varying times. He would often ask to use the phone, go to the restroom for long periods, complain about the temperature of the drinking water, and mutter about his daughter to anyone who would (half) listen. His trick to try to get something out of me was to tell me he was diabetic, information which he also offered readily. Finally I produced an ancient block of crumb cake from the back that he was quick to complain about. Beggars can be, as you may well know, quite choosy. When this effort was not concluded to his satisfaction, he on a later occasion bothered me relentlessly while I had a trainee. He tried to take a chocolate ball, and I informed him it would be fifty cents. Christina promptly rang it up on the register like the trooper that she is.
"I can't have this?"
"They're fifty cents."
"Man I'm a diabetic."
"Sorry, they're fifty cents."
"I ain't got fifty cents."
"I'm sorry then."
He tossed the ball into the basket and exclaimed, "Maaan, you are tight. Tight, tight, tight!" Hence his new nickname, Triple T. After that, coupled with the frequent harassment of one of my female coworkers, I had to ask him three separate times not to come back.
So what makes him my bum instead of just any old bum? Well I kept seeing him while I was out downtown. After I'd been warned by a police officer that he would steal things, I ran into him at the Federal. He sat at the bar and asked each customer one by one for... I'm not sure. I presume drinks, but he may have just been asking for money. I went up to the opposite end of the bar to warn the bartender, but in doing so I'd been spotted. I tried to ignore him, but he called me out from across the bar repeatedly until I turned and managed a wry smile. I don't remember how I got him to leave us alone, but I'm sure it required persistent ignoring across the board.
Now, when I see Triple T coming I treat him just like family - I hide.
I saw him once every few days at varying times. He would often ask to use the phone, go to the restroom for long periods, complain about the temperature of the drinking water, and mutter about his daughter to anyone who would (half) listen. His trick to try to get something out of me was to tell me he was diabetic, information which he also offered readily. Finally I produced an ancient block of crumb cake from the back that he was quick to complain about. Beggars can be, as you may well know, quite choosy. When this effort was not concluded to his satisfaction, he on a later occasion bothered me relentlessly while I had a trainee. He tried to take a chocolate ball, and I informed him it would be fifty cents. Christina promptly rang it up on the register like the trooper that she is.
"I can't have this?"
"They're fifty cents."
"Man I'm a diabetic."
"Sorry, they're fifty cents."
"I ain't got fifty cents."
"I'm sorry then."
He tossed the ball into the basket and exclaimed, "Maaan, you are tight. Tight, tight, tight!" Hence his new nickname, Triple T. After that, coupled with the frequent harassment of one of my female coworkers, I had to ask him three separate times not to come back.
So what makes him my bum instead of just any old bum? Well I kept seeing him while I was out downtown. After I'd been warned by a police officer that he would steal things, I ran into him at the Federal. He sat at the bar and asked each customer one by one for... I'm not sure. I presume drinks, but he may have just been asking for money. I went up to the opposite end of the bar to warn the bartender, but in doing so I'd been spotted. I tried to ignore him, but he called me out from across the bar repeatedly until I turned and managed a wry smile. I don't remember how I got him to leave us alone, but I'm sure it required persistent ignoring across the board.
Now, when I see Triple T coming I treat him just like family - I hide.
Tuesday, October 2, 2007
my bum
Okay as a preface here, let me just defend myself of the following by saying that I do, in large part, recognize the plight of the homeless. That's why I use the term "bum" here instead of the many euphemisms that group otherwise dissimilar people. Is it true that the perpetually homeless are often the untreated mentally ill who could not afford hospitalization? I'm sure. Does gentrification create pockets of the destitute where blah blah blah? Yeah you got it lefty. No I'm not getting my lily-white college boy hands dirty here with social commentary.
In Chapel Hill, I did a lot of walking. I walked to campus, I walked home, I walked to Franklin, and I walked to walk-a-thons. I even walked to my car the same distance that I could have walked to the grocery store... but it would have been hard to walk back with all the groceries. The bus system always screwed me over (a story for another time). During that time I encountered bums of all sorts, but very frequently the same people. Anyway, here are some of the better solicitations I got:
-"Drop it like it's hot!"
-[upon being refused] "Come on man, this is my job."
-"I work at Disney World, and I'm trying to get back to Florida."
-"I ran out of diapers for my kid." This was at midnight at my front door. Yes I know she was lying b/c she claimed to be my neighbor. That house was, in fact, occupied by a woman who would walk up and down the street about half a block and take half an hour doing so. You'd better not be trying to park while she was crossing the driveway or you'd be sitting there for awhile.
-[knocking on David's car window] "Hello?" We ignored him. Intensely.
-"Graaaah! PLATE! Grumble..." as he lept for a carryout container I had (was filled with hamburger buns). He missed the container and instead jabbed my crotch. I swear this guy was cloaked in the shadows; he completely came out of nowhere.
This one woman who didn't ask for any money... well I won't call her a bag lady, but she did have quite a few plastic bags filled with trash. So, you know, make of that what you will. I was strolling down Church St. with about 50 lbs of English Lit in my backpack & managed to tune her out until I got close. She was sitting by the sidewalk mumbling, but I pulled a double-take like a cartoon villain when I realized she was looking at me. The only words I could make out were curses. I tried to keep pace, and all I could manage was a little salute as I passed. She went silent once my back was to her. Another 10 feet or so and "Yeah, that's right... You just keeeep on walkin' and makin' money!" I didn't turn back around, but I could feel her stare penetrate Modern Literature brutally. I didn't ever see her again.
Next time, same channel...
"Welcome to Durham."
In Chapel Hill, I did a lot of walking. I walked to campus, I walked home, I walked to Franklin, and I walked to walk-a-thons. I even walked to my car the same distance that I could have walked to the grocery store... but it would have been hard to walk back with all the groceries. The bus system always screwed me over (a story for another time). During that time I encountered bums of all sorts, but very frequently the same people. Anyway, here are some of the better solicitations I got:
-"Drop it like it's hot!"
-[upon being refused] "Come on man, this is my job."
-"I work at Disney World, and I'm trying to get back to Florida."
-"I ran out of diapers for my kid." This was at midnight at my front door. Yes I know she was lying b/c she claimed to be my neighbor. That house was, in fact, occupied by a woman who would walk up and down the street about half a block and take half an hour doing so. You'd better not be trying to park while she was crossing the driveway or you'd be sitting there for awhile.
-[knocking on David's car window] "Hello?" We ignored him. Intensely.
-"Graaaah! PLATE! Grumble..." as he lept for a carryout container I had (was filled with hamburger buns). He missed the container and instead jabbed my crotch. I swear this guy was cloaked in the shadows; he completely came out of nowhere.
This one woman who didn't ask for any money... well I won't call her a bag lady, but she did have quite a few plastic bags filled with trash. So, you know, make of that what you will. I was strolling down Church St. with about 50 lbs of English Lit in my backpack & managed to tune her out until I got close. She was sitting by the sidewalk mumbling, but I pulled a double-take like a cartoon villain when I realized she was looking at me. The only words I could make out were curses. I tried to keep pace, and all I could manage was a little salute as I passed. She went silent once my back was to her. Another 10 feet or so and "Yeah, that's right... You just keeeep on walkin' and makin' money!" I didn't turn back around, but I could feel her stare penetrate Modern Literature brutally. I didn't ever see her again.
Next time, same channel...
"Welcome to Durham."
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Blog is a stupid word
I located my original blog, proof that UNC is no longer deleting accounts of prior students. Looking back, it's good to see that I have always been so goddamn witty.
Right now I don't have anything interesting to write about my current life. Well, anything I want posted on the tubes. I've decided instead to write stories about things that have happened to me. I haven't written anything in a long time... and nonfiction seems to be as good a place to start as any.
To appropriately get your hopes up for magnificence, let me begin by saying this next tale is "The greatest story I have ever heard." Those words are from Evan, a friend and mentor. I will always recognize his voice on WXYC because he ends every sentence sort of like a question - it goes up.
I used to compete in barista competitions (which is a story for another occasion), and I had to buy a shit-ton of stuff to get my routine down. $130 for espresso cups from Vietri (which the judges didn't like). $60 whipped cream canister. $20 ice tongs. $25 drink shaker. On this particular trip I was on my way to the Vietri outlet in Hillsborough where they were having a sale. I wound up buying a wooden tray... $40. The way it's set up is there are tents in the parking lot at the warehouse, and you drive down the road to a grass lot to park. Honest to god there is a shuttle from the lot - about a two minute walk from the warehouse - where chubby wives of retirees cram their sweat-lubricated hams into this box waiting a solid 15 minutes before it's full... and drive down the road for thirty seconds. When I had parked, I briefly considered hopping in, you know, for the experience, but the smell of moth balls and face powder simmering in the summer heat precluded that joyride. As I made my way down the gravel road, I realized I had left my wallet in the car. I knew I would be reimbursed for what I purchased (actually I wasn't), but I wasn't sure my coworker would have the cash on hand. So... I made my way back to the lot as the shuttle scuttled down the road to deposit another load of well-fed sea cows at the very delta of faux-Italian excess.
Now I was in a bad mood. I don't remember why now... I'd worked that morning so I'd probably had some hoser in the store giving me a hard time. I passed a despondent police officer at the entrance to the lot and nodded once in his direction. We made eye contact, but he mostly stared through me, as though he was no longer capable of responding after so many inane conversations with the cellulite bags waiting for the shuttle. I wouldn't mention him except that one should note he was still quite near as the rest of the events unfolded.
My car was easy to find - a foreign economy vehicle among throngs of mid-size SUVs - so I almost missed them as I bee-lined for my wallet. "Sir? Excuse me, sir? SIR!" I turned around. Approaching me was a hydra. The legendary three-headed beast, each wearing a red hat that doesn't suit them. Cut off one head and it regrows, courtesy of cosmetic surgery funded by generous pensions. "Sir, did you come down 86 to get here?" I had. I nodded. Engaging in verbal communication with the beast only grants it power (that's totally in Revelations. Yeah I know there was no hydra in Revelations). I start thinking maybe they want directions on how to get back to the den. "Do you know how fast you were going?" Well, 86 is a 60 mph zone most of the way, so I imagine I was probably going 70. With no response, it continued. "Well you passed us going... I don't even know how fast in a double yellow and a school zone." This was turning into a bizarre Saturday morning, I tell you. Summer school on weekends is a total bitch for those Elementary school kids. I raised my eyebrow with measurable disdain. "And we just wanted you to know, we got your plate numbers, and we're performing a citizen's arrest."
Now in hindsight, there are all sorts of bitchin' things I could have said. I could have laughed in their faces, or maybe brought the cop over to join in the fun. Something totally quippy like "You think you can take me?" would have kicked some WASP ass, too. Instead, I simply started nodding. I closed my eyes and pursed my lips, as though we had reached a profound understanding of each other. Hambeast and barista, barista and hambeast... as one.
Without making further eye contact, I turned around. I went back to my car, got my wallet. As I neared the gravel road again, I saw they had crammed into the shuttle. It was just closing its doors.
So did I pass them on 86? Hell yes I did. My biggest concern was whether any of the other matrons I passed wanted to engage in some everyday assault that morning. Turns out there weren't. After all, those tents had some serious deals on discontinued china.
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