POTATO CHIPS 4
Mr. Stock boy turns away from the store manager. He finishes regurgitating on Miss Sharon’s shoes. The sickening smell of stomach acid and mashed potatoes fills the air.
The crowd quickly disperses. Once again it’s just me, the store manager, security-guard Sharon and the ashen-faced stock boy.
The store manager’s thick chest is heaving with disgust and rage. He points a shaky finger at me as he addresses Miss Sharon.
“Officer, arrest this woman immediately!”
Miss Sharon is busy wiping potato-chip goo from her shoes. “Sorry, but no way, Jose. I’m leaving. I was going to quit this crummy job anyway next week when I resume medical school.
“Besides, this lady said she’d pay for the food items she used. So really, there’s no basis for me to do anything.”
Miss Sharon turns to leave, but the store manager gets in her face.
“No Basis? No basis, you say? Are you nuts, woman? Look around you. My shelves are disheveled. I’m dripping with vomit. Your shoes are unsalvageable. My stock-boy is more useless than ever. I think some kind of retribution is in order. Oh yes, indeed it is.”
The store manager has a wild look in his eyes. His face has developed a nervous tick. Miss Sharon hesitates, cowering under his glare.
“What do you suggest?” she asks, feebly. Mr. Stock boy pipes up.
“I say we put her in the meat freezer and let her cool down for a while.” He tries to laugh but it comes out as an asthmatic wheeze.
“No, that’s too good for her,” says the store manager.
“What happened to the ‘customer’s always right’?” I blurt. “You guys should be trying to make me happy. Wait until the corporate office hears about this. By the time your CEO gets through with you, you’ll be eating your underwear for dinner and asking for more.”
“She has a point, Sir,” wheezes the stock boy. The store manager looks at Miss Sharon for confirmation. But she shrugs unhelpfully. He shifts his unblinking gaze to me, regarding me like a rattlesnake regards a mouse.
“I’m unemployed. I could use a job,” I peep. The store manager’s eyes blaze.
“Excellent idea!” He turns to the stock boy. “Butch, please escort this young lady to the back room and give her a mop and bucket. I want this mess cleaned up, pronto!”
“I was thinking more along the lines of deli or cake-baker person,” I say, trying to think of a way out. “I can dust furniture, but the finer points of water and soap application escape me.”
“Oh, you’ll learn quickly enough.” The store manager has a grin on his face I don’t like.
I clean myself up and don a white deli-counter coat with “Marv” stitched on the pocket. I wheel the bucket and mop to the potato-chip aisle. The sudsy water in the bucket is black and smelly. It probably needs to be changed. But, I don’t care.
It takes me hours to wash down the splattered floor and clean the shelves, all under the watchful eye of Butch. When I’m finally done, I’m exhausted. Butch shuffles off to get the store manager. I’m looking forward to getting paid and exiting this House of Pain.
The store manager walks up and down the aisle. He stoops. “You left a spot,” he says. I look at where he’s pointing, but see nothing.
“Sorry, but I’m not paying for shoddy work. You’re fired.” His grin is broad and bright.
I’ve been had. I tear off my deli-counter coat.
As I stride toward the exit, I yell, “I’ll get you and your mutant chips, too!”
If you're enjoying this over coffee, tea, or whatever, please consider buying me a cup!WRITE TO LIFE
When I sit down, I really don’t know what I’ll write. A phrase may spur me or I have some vague idea. Some past memory may be haunting my consciousness, reminding me of an emotion or a lesson learned that’s calling to express itself. But aside from that, how it will manifests is a guess, even to me.
I write a line or two. I may even have a whole paragraph formed in my head. I review what I’ve written. Then mind kicks in and does what it does best. It accepts stimulus and spins wildly, linking one thought to another. It finds connections that either didn’t exist or were overshadowed by other thoughts blocking its view.
I assess what I see on the surface of that connection and project what lies ahead in the inky shadows too murky to see clearly. I consider the relevance, evaluate, and choose which connections to follow. Riding the tram leading into their tunnels, I race full steam ahead, absorbing the brilliant images whizzing past. These images churn up new connections, appearing as alternate tracks that I switch onto, collecting more images which coalesce into a coherent story.
Usually that story relates to the vague idea I started with, but sometime it completely jumps track and veers into a totally unrelated concept. If that happens, the original idea still lies dormant in the background; ready again to be pursued at another time. Or it fades away into the abyss of things conceived, but never reaching fruition.
Some of the posts almost write themselves, with seemingly little input from me. With those I basically just go along and enjoy the downhill ride, like sledding down a hill freshly packed with snow. Others are laborious and painstaking, like traversing the slippery peaks of the Himalayas while hiking in Teflon® coated shoes, without pitons to tether myself during the climb.
Some of them make sense and even smack of humor and wisdom, from time to time, like an older brother sharing his experience. Others are so arcane they have no meaning to anyone other than myself, as if displaying an ancient hieroglyph from a long forgotten language. In those, readers are bewildered by what I present to the world. Perhaps simply shaking their heads and muttering, “What the hell is he doing?”
Occasionally I have a plan, even an outline. It holds together tightly, as if it were secured with bailing wire and strapping tape. But mostly it’s a stream of consciousness, held together by nothing more than gravity.
There are times when I completely abandon a post I’m struggling with. I throw my hands up in defeat and sit there disgusted. Admitting failure frees the creative mind and urges my creativity to change course. Though sometimes I feel defeated and just walk away until another time.
Writing is almost always rewarding, whether anyone else shows appreciation or not. I do it for me. It’s one of the things that define my value. It provides an avenue to set goals and realize purpose. It gives me something to point to and say, “Hey, I did that.” It allows me a space to interpret events and sort out meaning. I value it for the benefit it provides. I love writing simply because it helps me learn and grow.
I write the same way I live life.
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