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.
Friday, October 26, 2007
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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