I am concerned that Hick might secretly be a member of those Sisters in Crime, the women's mystery-writing group my mom warned me about.
Last evening, he had some scathingly brilliant idea that involved a surveillance sting at a local lake development where we own property. I did not inquire about the details. Sometimes, it's better not to know. However, he let it slip that he wanted to use Genius and his electronic know-how. Genius was not home at the time, and upon my telephone inquiry, emphatically stated, "No way!" Which left Hick to his own devices. I cautioned him that he was not a private investigator, and that slipshod snooping could get him chopped up and dumped into a septic tank. Still, he set out on his own.
We used to go to this lake quite a bit, since our property ownage and the accompanying annual fees allowed us access to the main lake, several ponds, a pool, and various other attractive nuisances. Our attendance has fallen off in recent years. Hick's older boys were just the right age when we had a little pontoon boat, and got our fishing licenses every year. Then we had our young 'uns, who were not pontoon friendly. Nor fishing-pond friendly. Some years, Hick even forgot until the last minute to go pick up our card to hang from the rearview mirror to gain entrance at the guard shack.
I was in my basement lair when Hick returned. He went about his business, and I mine. The fact that I had not been summoned to bail him out of the county jail was a good sign. I watched some late-night TV. Fell asleep in the recliner. And ascended the stairs in the wee hours. As I went to the kitchen to plug in my cell phone, I spied a paper plate message. That's how Hick communicates.
"Did you pay Lost Lake dues they took my card and said my access was denied he took my card he checked the computer & it just said access denied"
See? The first thing this do-it-yourself-detective does is blame the bill-payer. I swear. I am the bad-news Chuck Norris. Everything is my fault. I went to elaborate lengths to not pay our association dues, just so Hick could not solve his mystery. Guess that draft will go into his bottom drawer.
The thing is, had he only asked when he got home, I could have told him in less than five minutes. The records were within arm's reach of my perch at my basement control center. But since he chose the paper plate route, I had to respond in kind. I left a reply on the bottom half of the plate.
"Too bad you didn't mention this last night so I could look it up. I'll have to find the old check register that goes back to November, which is downstairs in last year's taxes, which is right beside where I was sitting for several hours after you got home. Maybe "Access Denied" referred to the computer access to those files."
Smartly, Hick did not add any further message to the paper plate. I just have a hunch that guard shack lever-lifters don't have access to the financial records of the lake association. And that when Hick insisted that the guy look him up and see that the fees were paid, the guy said, "It tells me 'access denied.'" Meaning the files.
Anyhoo...I looked it up this morning, and sent Hick an email with the check numbers, date paid, plat and lot number, owner ID number, and street address of the lot. Of course he did not respond. Are you kidding? It wasn't in his paper plate medium. So I called at noon to see what was going on. Well. Hick is not in the same building all day every day. So his email was unchecked. Is that any way to run a business? I think not. And no way to gather material for a Sister in Crime, either!
Hick had work business towards home this afternoon, and he went back to check on his denied access. Oh. They saw that all fees had been paid. Had no explanation for why the guard shack dude took Hick's card. Nor why the mass emailing or snail-mailing of something-or-other in the records did not include Hick. Unless, perhaps, it was because he had not come into the office to pick up his entrance card for the year.
I think that Sister is gonna need some help in tying up the loose ends of his mystery.
Wednesday, July 31, 2013
Tuesday, July 30, 2013
It Wasn't Exactly a Crime
Just another day in paradise here in beautiful Backroads. I was assaulted by a maximum security correctional center inmate on the way to my mom's house yesterday. Oh, don't worry about ol' Val. She's just fine. Here's how the incident went down.
I was piloting T-Hoe along city streets when I spied a "Men Working" sign. No big deal. It was the third one I had seen on this particular trip. Cresting a little hill by the long-abandoned, razed-building, Coca Cola bottling plant site, I saw a work crew from one of the local maximum security prisons. I'm not sure which one. There are three within 25 miles. Yes, Val lives in the Maximum Security Triangle.
These work crews are all over the place, trimming grass and weeds along the roads. They don't get mowers. Only those on the prison grounds can ride those spiffy, circle-spinning, hand-controlled mowers in jet pilot formation. The ones along the road are only supplied with weedeaters. They are all in the standard uniform white T-shirt with gray slacks. Usually a white prison van is parked nearby, and a brown-uniformed guard with a shotgun stands at the ready. There's never been any trouble that I know of, save for years ago, when we only had one prison, when a work-detail dude ran off and was found hiding under a boat. It's a pretty good gig to get out into the community, I suppose, if you're confined all the livelong day for nearly the rest of your natural born days. So they don't want to do anything to mess up their several-cents-an-hour job.
As I drove past the weed-consuming crew, a gigantic boulder thudded against T-Hoe's left flank. He shuddered. I shook. In the door mirror, I saw all of the incarcerated employees staring open-mouthed after our rapidly receding haunches. That's how hard it hit. I still have not dared inspect the real or imagined damage. I don't want to know. That's because you can't sue the state of Missouri. And I mailed the last payment on T-Hoe last month. We got the title lien release thingy last week. Ain't that always how it goes?
In other news, my day went downhill from there. About a half mile up the road, we noticed that the center stripes and sidelines had been painted. Badly. The center was fine, but one side was larger than the other. In fact, a good three feet of pavement extended past the side line in some places. "It's called The Shoulder," said The Pony. Even though this road had no shoulder before, and no more pavement had been added. Oh, well. He'll learn soon enough when he really starts driving his little truck. Oh, and that line changed intermittently, narrow, then wide, like driving along the falling sands in an hourglass.
I picked up Mom, dropped off The Pony for high-speed internet use, and headed off to redistribute some of Genius's college funds. We encountered another work crew, these in a lift truck with a flagman waving me into incoming traffic. An inmate would have known better. Further up the road, at a speed of 10 mph, we spied the problem many cars ahead. It was a pair of orange highway department road-striping trucks. They were not putting down paint. And they could barely fit between the yellow center stripes and the white sideline. I believe that qualifies as irony.
To add a final insult to my non-injury for the day, a most disturbing incident occurred as The Pony and I wended our way home. I pulled into the gas station chicken store for my 44 oz. Diet Coke. My favorite parking space welcomed me. I unhooked my seatbelt. I picked up my coinage and refill cup. And a scofflaw pulled her car right up beside me in the no-parking zone where it impeded my progress into the store, and blocked the truck pumping gas under the roof. I had no patience left for such nonsense. I flung my seatbelt back on, and told The Pony. "I'm not even dealing with this today." It's hard to keep my uncivil tongue in my mouth when I encounter these parking lot ruffians.
Off under the overpass we went, to The Voice of the Village. Some ne'er-do-well had discarded a 44 oz. styrofoam cup on their parking lot. Oh, the inhumanity! Somebody could have saved forty cents with that cup! I pulled into a regular parking space with the law-abiding parkers of the Village. A man came walking across the lot as I gathered my beverage-harvesting accoutrements. "Oh, no! Just my luck! He's going to get to the soda fountain before me! And with my luck today, he'll get the last of the ice, or the last of the Diet Coke. Wait! Maybe he just picked up some cups off the lot to put in the trash can." Nope. He went in the store with two cups.
I headed in anyway. To be first in line after him. A lady was walking my way with a cup, but she wasn't even close enough for me to hold the door open for her behind me. I waited a respectful distance from the fountain. Dude was on his second soda. Almost my turn. Just as he popped the lid on his last cup, that woman stepped up and started a cascade of ice into her cup. IT WAS MY TURN!
But wait. That was not the worst part. SHE WAS THE CASHIER FROM THE GAS STATION CHICKEN STORE! Getting a fountain soda at her competitor. She looked at me and chuckled. I was polite. You never know when you're going to need a favor when Diet Coke is concerned. "I just came from your store! I was getting out of the car when somebody pulled in there where you have the curb stopper so people won't drive into the building. I hate it when people park there. So I left and came over here."
"Oh, I do, too! They do it ALL the time! I'm working in the kitchen now. Did you know that?"
Well, no. Because she just took my money at the register the day before. Anyway, I asked if she was happy, and she said she guessed so, that she had worked in the kitchen years ago. But she was glad her hours didn't start until 9:00 now, even if it meant cleaning the chicken kitchen at night before closing.
Dang. Busted. I felt like Jerry Seinfeld when he went to a new barber, and Enzo walked in as he was getting his hair cut.
At least I know that NOTHING can make my hair look any worse than it does now.
I was piloting T-Hoe along city streets when I spied a "Men Working" sign. No big deal. It was the third one I had seen on this particular trip. Cresting a little hill by the long-abandoned, razed-building, Coca Cola bottling plant site, I saw a work crew from one of the local maximum security prisons. I'm not sure which one. There are three within 25 miles. Yes, Val lives in the Maximum Security Triangle.
These work crews are all over the place, trimming grass and weeds along the roads. They don't get mowers. Only those on the prison grounds can ride those spiffy, circle-spinning, hand-controlled mowers in jet pilot formation. The ones along the road are only supplied with weedeaters. They are all in the standard uniform white T-shirt with gray slacks. Usually a white prison van is parked nearby, and a brown-uniformed guard with a shotgun stands at the ready. There's never been any trouble that I know of, save for years ago, when we only had one prison, when a work-detail dude ran off and was found hiding under a boat. It's a pretty good gig to get out into the community, I suppose, if you're confined all the livelong day for nearly the rest of your natural born days. So they don't want to do anything to mess up their several-cents-an-hour job.
As I drove past the weed-consuming crew, a gigantic boulder thudded against T-Hoe's left flank. He shuddered. I shook. In the door mirror, I saw all of the incarcerated employees staring open-mouthed after our rapidly receding haunches. That's how hard it hit. I still have not dared inspect the real or imagined damage. I don't want to know. That's because you can't sue the state of Missouri. And I mailed the last payment on T-Hoe last month. We got the title lien release thingy last week. Ain't that always how it goes?
In other news, my day went downhill from there. About a half mile up the road, we noticed that the center stripes and sidelines had been painted. Badly. The center was fine, but one side was larger than the other. In fact, a good three feet of pavement extended past the side line in some places. "It's called The Shoulder," said The Pony. Even though this road had no shoulder before, and no more pavement had been added. Oh, well. He'll learn soon enough when he really starts driving his little truck. Oh, and that line changed intermittently, narrow, then wide, like driving along the falling sands in an hourglass.
I picked up Mom, dropped off The Pony for high-speed internet use, and headed off to redistribute some of Genius's college funds. We encountered another work crew, these in a lift truck with a flagman waving me into incoming traffic. An inmate would have known better. Further up the road, at a speed of 10 mph, we spied the problem many cars ahead. It was a pair of orange highway department road-striping trucks. They were not putting down paint. And they could barely fit between the yellow center stripes and the white sideline. I believe that qualifies as irony.
To add a final insult to my non-injury for the day, a most disturbing incident occurred as The Pony and I wended our way home. I pulled into the gas station chicken store for my 44 oz. Diet Coke. My favorite parking space welcomed me. I unhooked my seatbelt. I picked up my coinage and refill cup. And a scofflaw pulled her car right up beside me in the no-parking zone where it impeded my progress into the store, and blocked the truck pumping gas under the roof. I had no patience left for such nonsense. I flung my seatbelt back on, and told The Pony. "I'm not even dealing with this today." It's hard to keep my uncivil tongue in my mouth when I encounter these parking lot ruffians.
Off under the overpass we went, to The Voice of the Village. Some ne'er-do-well had discarded a 44 oz. styrofoam cup on their parking lot. Oh, the inhumanity! Somebody could have saved forty cents with that cup! I pulled into a regular parking space with the law-abiding parkers of the Village. A man came walking across the lot as I gathered my beverage-harvesting accoutrements. "Oh, no! Just my luck! He's going to get to the soda fountain before me! And with my luck today, he'll get the last of the ice, or the last of the Diet Coke. Wait! Maybe he just picked up some cups off the lot to put in the trash can." Nope. He went in the store with two cups.
I headed in anyway. To be first in line after him. A lady was walking my way with a cup, but she wasn't even close enough for me to hold the door open for her behind me. I waited a respectful distance from the fountain. Dude was on his second soda. Almost my turn. Just as he popped the lid on his last cup, that woman stepped up and started a cascade of ice into her cup. IT WAS MY TURN!
But wait. That was not the worst part. SHE WAS THE CASHIER FROM THE GAS STATION CHICKEN STORE! Getting a fountain soda at her competitor. She looked at me and chuckled. I was polite. You never know when you're going to need a favor when Diet Coke is concerned. "I just came from your store! I was getting out of the car when somebody pulled in there where you have the curb stopper so people won't drive into the building. I hate it when people park there. So I left and came over here."
"Oh, I do, too! They do it ALL the time! I'm working in the kitchen now. Did you know that?"
Well, no. Because she just took my money at the register the day before. Anyway, I asked if she was happy, and she said she guessed so, that she had worked in the kitchen years ago. But she was glad her hours didn't start until 9:00 now, even if it meant cleaning the chicken kitchen at night before closing.
Dang. Busted. I felt like Jerry Seinfeld when he went to a new barber, and Enzo walked in as he was getting his hair cut.
At least I know that NOTHING can make my hair look any worse than it does now.
Monday, July 29, 2013
Help Wanted. Murder Accomplice.
I need a new accomplice.
Last night, just as I settled down to watch my Sunday night TV lineup, a fly buzzed around my head. Circled it like a family pet meeting a new ball of fluff for the first time. Don't think my home is crawling with pests, other than the two-legged kind. It's not like some odorous rural garbage dump, back when "landfill" was just a gleam in the eye of political correctness. It's not like an establishment named Ye Olde Pigge Entrails Shoppe, run by an Original 13 Colonies ex-pat in the teeming equatorial rainforest. It's not that upstairs bedroom window in The Amityville Horror. No, we have issues because the only time Genius decides to chat with me is while he's on his way out the front door. He's like an anti-doorman, letting in all critters indiscriminately, even if they're wearing acid-wash jeans, Crocs, and poofy-sleeved pirate shirts.
When that fly flitted insolently about my noggin, I declared, "NO MORE!" Even though I was comfortably-reclined, I stretched my right arm to reach my handy baby-blue flyswatter. It's on the table by my plier-lamp (read about that plier-lamp in the upcoming Not Your Mother's Book...on Home Improvement, due out September 10), right next to my red wooden backscratcher that I got for Christmas one year. So intent on murder was I that I did not even chortle at the thought of how my mom used to whack my sister with a wire flyswatter handle for lying as a youngster.
In one fell smoosh, I thumped that thousand-eye-er forthwith. He deanimated instantly. I called to The Pony, laying on the couch waiting for Big Brother to come on. "Hey! Get him! Use that Puffs I just cleaned my glasses with. Pick him up in it and squeeze it. Put it in the trash bag."
The Pony trotted over to the wooden TV tray on legs that acts as my end table to hold remote controls. "Where? I don't see it."
"Right there. By the Puffs."
"Where?"
"How can you not see that? Right in front of you!"
"Oh. There." He picked up the Puffs.
THE DEAD FLY ZOOMED STRAIGHT AT MY FACE AND LANDED ON MY RIGHT CHEEK, JUST UNDER THE LENS OF MY GLASSES!
"Yuck! Get it off!" I clawed at my face, ousting the poop-crawler from my flesh. "What were you thinking? I can't believe you just did that! How could you not see him, laying there with his feet up in the air, dead?"
"Actually, he was not laying on his back. I saw his guts all over his back."
"EWW! And he landed on my face! A poop-crawler with oozing guts was right THERE on my face! Now he's flying around here, suffering a painful, lingering death. I hope."
The Pony shrugged and plodded back to the couch. As you may remember, this is his second failure at corpse removal. What's a hit-man to do?
I am advertising for a new accomplice. Only clean people need apply. Uh huh.
Last night, just as I settled down to watch my Sunday night TV lineup, a fly buzzed around my head. Circled it like a family pet meeting a new ball of fluff for the first time. Don't think my home is crawling with pests, other than the two-legged kind. It's not like some odorous rural garbage dump, back when "landfill" was just a gleam in the eye of political correctness. It's not like an establishment named Ye Olde Pigge Entrails Shoppe, run by an Original 13 Colonies ex-pat in the teeming equatorial rainforest. It's not that upstairs bedroom window in The Amityville Horror. No, we have issues because the only time Genius decides to chat with me is while he's on his way out the front door. He's like an anti-doorman, letting in all critters indiscriminately, even if they're wearing acid-wash jeans, Crocs, and poofy-sleeved pirate shirts.
When that fly flitted insolently about my noggin, I declared, "NO MORE!" Even though I was comfortably-reclined, I stretched my right arm to reach my handy baby-blue flyswatter. It's on the table by my plier-lamp (read about that plier-lamp in the upcoming Not Your Mother's Book...on Home Improvement, due out September 10), right next to my red wooden backscratcher that I got for Christmas one year. So intent on murder was I that I did not even chortle at the thought of how my mom used to whack my sister with a wire flyswatter handle for lying as a youngster.
In one fell smoosh, I thumped that thousand-eye-er forthwith. He deanimated instantly. I called to The Pony, laying on the couch waiting for Big Brother to come on. "Hey! Get him! Use that Puffs I just cleaned my glasses with. Pick him up in it and squeeze it. Put it in the trash bag."
The Pony trotted over to the wooden TV tray on legs that acts as my end table to hold remote controls. "Where? I don't see it."
"Right there. By the Puffs."
"Where?"
"How can you not see that? Right in front of you!"
"Oh. There." He picked up the Puffs.
THE DEAD FLY ZOOMED STRAIGHT AT MY FACE AND LANDED ON MY RIGHT CHEEK, JUST UNDER THE LENS OF MY GLASSES!
"Yuck! Get it off!" I clawed at my face, ousting the poop-crawler from my flesh. "What were you thinking? I can't believe you just did that! How could you not see him, laying there with his feet up in the air, dead?"
"Actually, he was not laying on his back. I saw his guts all over his back."
"EWW! And he landed on my face! A poop-crawler with oozing guts was right THERE on my face! Now he's flying around here, suffering a painful, lingering death. I hope."
The Pony shrugged and plodded back to the couch. As you may remember, this is his second failure at corpse removal. What's a hit-man to do?
I am advertising for a new accomplice. Only clean people need apply. Uh huh.
Sunday, July 28, 2013
The Pony Ride
Hey! Guess who's 15-and-a-half and has his driver's permit! If you guessed THE PONY, you are correct. Because he needs to practice practice practice, even though he has not asked how to get to Carnegie Hall, he needs a vehicle. One that he can learn to drive now, and feel comfortable taking his driver's test in. Hick found a bargain on Friday.
Is that little Ford Ranger not as cute as a bug's ear? It's even cuter without the camper shell. That camper was not on it last night when Hick drove it home. Yeah. That's how the salesmen get their hooks in you. They keep your high-mile Chrysler Pacifica on the lot, and let you smell the new-car spray in the vehicle you show an interest in. I'm surprised the wiper fluid didn't shoot out a rainbow, and dancing unicorns did not lead a processional out of town. I had no idea that Hick would score a FREE camper shell in the deal, especially after the paperwork was already completed. This is a 2002, same year as Genius's Ford Ranger, which is red, instead of maroon. Best of all, it has 4WD, which is a necessity out here in Outer Backroadsia.
You might notice that a certain sweet, sweet doggie had to insert herself in the foreground. The background is filled with the $1000 Caravan, the Hick-rigged roof of his Gator, the faded-out cedar-sided garage, and Genius's old basketball goal cranked down to might-as-well-NOT-catch the wind.
Many thanks go out to The Pony's grandma, my very own slaw-lovin' mom, who donated a healthy sum towards the purchase of first vehicles for each of her four grandchildren. The Pony is the fourth. She rocks, that selfless septuagenarian! The Pony called her this evening, to tell her all about it. He's not much of a talker. After pawning the call off on me, he high-tailed it back to his computer games. Mom was ecstatic that he sounded so excited. This might just be the prod he needs to log some drive time.
Hick and The Pony are taking his Ranger to Mom's house tomorrow to show it off. She might even get to go for a ride, though I doubt that The Pony will take the wheel in town.
It's gonna be a long way to Carnegie Hall.
Is that little Ford Ranger not as cute as a bug's ear? It's even cuter without the camper shell. That camper was not on it last night when Hick drove it home. Yeah. That's how the salesmen get their hooks in you. They keep your high-mile Chrysler Pacifica on the lot, and let you smell the new-car spray in the vehicle you show an interest in. I'm surprised the wiper fluid didn't shoot out a rainbow, and dancing unicorns did not lead a processional out of town. I had no idea that Hick would score a FREE camper shell in the deal, especially after the paperwork was already completed. This is a 2002, same year as Genius's Ford Ranger, which is red, instead of maroon. Best of all, it has 4WD, which is a necessity out here in Outer Backroadsia.
You might notice that a certain sweet, sweet doggie had to insert herself in the foreground. The background is filled with the $1000 Caravan, the Hick-rigged roof of his Gator, the faded-out cedar-sided garage, and Genius's old basketball goal cranked down to might-as-well-NOT-catch the wind.
Many thanks go out to The Pony's grandma, my very own slaw-lovin' mom, who donated a healthy sum towards the purchase of first vehicles for each of her four grandchildren. The Pony is the fourth. She rocks, that selfless septuagenarian! The Pony called her this evening, to tell her all about it. He's not much of a talker. After pawning the call off on me, he high-tailed it back to his computer games. Mom was ecstatic that he sounded so excited. This might just be the prod he needs to log some drive time.
Hick and The Pony are taking his Ranger to Mom's house tomorrow to show it off. She might even get to go for a ride, though I doubt that The Pony will take the wheel in town.
It's gonna be a long way to Carnegie Hall.
Saturday, July 27, 2013
One Man's Junk is Another Woman's Job, Part 4, THE END
Yes. I promise. This is the end of the Junk Store Chronicles.
None of the big muckety-mucks wanted to work weekends. Even if you've made your career as a junk store supervisor, you desire Monday-Friday, 9:00-5:00 hours. Still, such a booming business could not be entrusted to mere minimum-wage workers. Emmett was our designated guy in charge. Only 17, he WAS the son of Joy, the floor supervisor. We had an uneasy truce. We wouldn't divulge his shenanigans, and he was lax on break times.
We cashier girls soon learned Emmett's idiosyncrasies. He liked working the cash register, to a point. After a while he grew bored, and preferred to ride a stick-horse around the store waving a cowboy hat, or talk to the boot girls. During the slow morning hours, Emmett assigned us to straighten various departments. As customers grew more numerous, he would use one of us to open the second register. But beware the call, "Val to the front, Val to the front." That meant Emmett was going to ask for a break, never to return, and you were stuck at the register until closing. Once elderly Harriet and I caught on, he had to get trickier. "Val to the front for returns. Val to the front!" Harriet had more backbone than I. "Screw him. I'm going to sit back here in the rubber boots. He can't come find me."
Emmett loved cutting up credit cards. We used a VeriCheck box to slide cards through. When it was declined, we had to call an 800 number. Often, we were told to destroy the card. Emmett did this with a flourish. He held it shoulder high, grabbed a heavy pair of black-handled scissors from the shelf below the register, and snipped. "Sorry! Your credit card company says it's no good." Usually folks pulled out another card to try.
He also loved to play Big Man in Store. For instance, a woman wearing a fur stole might wheel up a cart with two lamps. "I want THIS lamp, marked $10, but I want it for the $5 marked on this identical lamp. See?" During the week, Charlene would handle the situation like this: "Oh, honey. That lamp is marked $5 because it doesn't work. If you want the working lamp, sweetie, you'll have to pay $10." Emmett used this tactic: "Those pricers! They can't do anything right! Both of those lamps should be marked $10. I'll have a talk with those pricers." Then he would put the $5 lamp in the return basket. And put it back on the shelf as soon as the customer left.
This job gave me my first and only opportunity to take a polygraph test. And by opportunity, I mean I had no choice. The polygraph dude came in and set up in the Old Man's office in the basement. I don't think he took a crap while he was down there. By the time I got to work, polygraph talk was rampant. Every employee had to take it. Even those who were off were called in. Charlene and Joy and Flora and Boot Boss and all the upstairs and downstairs workers were polygraphed, whether they had access to the cash register or not. Seems that money had come up missing more than once. A hundred or so per week.
Have you ever had a polygraph? It's quite interesting. Maybe you saw Jerry Seinfeld hooked up to determine if he watched Melrose Place. The process might have changed by now, but I was asked to sit in a chair with a stretchy rubber tubing kind of band around my chest and stomach area, a blood pressure cuff on my arm, and a thingy on my fingertip kind of like a pulse-ox machine, then asked a series of baseline questions. I could watch the needle on the graph recorder thingy the whole time. The dude started with questions about my name and age, easily verifiable stuff. I was told to tell a lie on ONE answer. Then he proceeded with the actual questioning. Most of it was basic info about store operations. The kicker was the question: "Do you think you know who took the money?" I answered "yes." At no point was I asked if I took the money. Or who the person was. Maybe they got all of that from somebody else, or maybe somebody confessed later, because I was never questioned further.
I really enjoyed this job. All the employees got along. We went to Silver Dollar City, we had a barbecue, we went out dancing. Good times. They welcomed me with open arms, because I did my job. I don't mean to brag, but after only two months, I GOT A TEN-CENT RAISE! Flora was wriggling like a tickled pup when she told me. "I talked to Mr. Old Man about how well you're doing, and I'm giving you a TEN-CENT RAISE! Uh huh." I later learned that raises were quite unusual for my kind of job. Flora went on to tell me that she was so happy she hired me. "That first day, I told Mr. Old Man, 'She looks clean. I'm going to hire her.' Uh huh. I hope you stay with us as long as you can. Uh huh."
Yep. I stayed a whole year, until my Master's was complete, and I landed another teaching job. All those people who say they can't get a job because they are overqualified? They are either too choosy. Or they're lacking in the personal hygiene department.
None of the big muckety-mucks wanted to work weekends. Even if you've made your career as a junk store supervisor, you desire Monday-Friday, 9:00-5:00 hours. Still, such a booming business could not be entrusted to mere minimum-wage workers. Emmett was our designated guy in charge. Only 17, he WAS the son of Joy, the floor supervisor. We had an uneasy truce. We wouldn't divulge his shenanigans, and he was lax on break times.
We cashier girls soon learned Emmett's idiosyncrasies. He liked working the cash register, to a point. After a while he grew bored, and preferred to ride a stick-horse around the store waving a cowboy hat, or talk to the boot girls. During the slow morning hours, Emmett assigned us to straighten various departments. As customers grew more numerous, he would use one of us to open the second register. But beware the call, "Val to the front, Val to the front." That meant Emmett was going to ask for a break, never to return, and you were stuck at the register until closing. Once elderly Harriet and I caught on, he had to get trickier. "Val to the front for returns. Val to the front!" Harriet had more backbone than I. "Screw him. I'm going to sit back here in the rubber boots. He can't come find me."
Emmett loved cutting up credit cards. We used a VeriCheck box to slide cards through. When it was declined, we had to call an 800 number. Often, we were told to destroy the card. Emmett did this with a flourish. He held it shoulder high, grabbed a heavy pair of black-handled scissors from the shelf below the register, and snipped. "Sorry! Your credit card company says it's no good." Usually folks pulled out another card to try.
He also loved to play Big Man in Store. For instance, a woman wearing a fur stole might wheel up a cart with two lamps. "I want THIS lamp, marked $10, but I want it for the $5 marked on this identical lamp. See?" During the week, Charlene would handle the situation like this: "Oh, honey. That lamp is marked $5 because it doesn't work. If you want the working lamp, sweetie, you'll have to pay $10." Emmett used this tactic: "Those pricers! They can't do anything right! Both of those lamps should be marked $10. I'll have a talk with those pricers." Then he would put the $5 lamp in the return basket. And put it back on the shelf as soon as the customer left.
This job gave me my first and only opportunity to take a polygraph test. And by opportunity, I mean I had no choice. The polygraph dude came in and set up in the Old Man's office in the basement. I don't think he took a crap while he was down there. By the time I got to work, polygraph talk was rampant. Every employee had to take it. Even those who were off were called in. Charlene and Joy and Flora and Boot Boss and all the upstairs and downstairs workers were polygraphed, whether they had access to the cash register or not. Seems that money had come up missing more than once. A hundred or so per week.
Have you ever had a polygraph? It's quite interesting. Maybe you saw Jerry Seinfeld hooked up to determine if he watched Melrose Place. The process might have changed by now, but I was asked to sit in a chair with a stretchy rubber tubing kind of band around my chest and stomach area, a blood pressure cuff on my arm, and a thingy on my fingertip kind of like a pulse-ox machine, then asked a series of baseline questions. I could watch the needle on the graph recorder thingy the whole time. The dude started with questions about my name and age, easily verifiable stuff. I was told to tell a lie on ONE answer. Then he proceeded with the actual questioning. Most of it was basic info about store operations. The kicker was the question: "Do you think you know who took the money?" I answered "yes." At no point was I asked if I took the money. Or who the person was. Maybe they got all of that from somebody else, or maybe somebody confessed later, because I was never questioned further.
I really enjoyed this job. All the employees got along. We went to Silver Dollar City, we had a barbecue, we went out dancing. Good times. They welcomed me with open arms, because I did my job. I don't mean to brag, but after only two months, I GOT A TEN-CENT RAISE! Flora was wriggling like a tickled pup when she told me. "I talked to Mr. Old Man about how well you're doing, and I'm giving you a TEN-CENT RAISE! Uh huh." I later learned that raises were quite unusual for my kind of job. Flora went on to tell me that she was so happy she hired me. "That first day, I told Mr. Old Man, 'She looks clean. I'm going to hire her.' Uh huh. I hope you stay with us as long as you can. Uh huh."
Yep. I stayed a whole year, until my Master's was complete, and I landed another teaching job. All those people who say they can't get a job because they are overqualified? They are either too choosy. Or they're lacking in the personal hygiene department.
Friday, July 26, 2013
One Man's Junk is Another Woman's Job, Part 3
REET! REET! REET! That's the Psycho stabby sound. Just when you thought it was safe to return to read a "normal" post from Val, you discover that she is still beating the old junk store into submission.
Security guard Ronnie was surprisingly effective at stopping boot theft. First of all, he dressed like a rent-a-cop. And he had shifty eyes. I'm sure many a scurvy thief re-evaluated his sticky-footed plan to abscond with a fine pair of ostrich or crocodile or python boots. One particular evening, Ronnie watched as a dude nodded to him and walked out the entrance. "Hey, buddy. Come back here." Thief took off down the parking lot. Ronnie followed. Rush hour traffic on Glenstone, the main drag, slowed Thief enough for Ronnie to close the gap. They both found breaks in traffic as the light changed. Thief made it across first, and climbed up on the railroad overpass that ran beside the store. He headed back the way he had come. Ronnie yelled at him to stop again. They continued to run down the tracks, an every-slowing smoker's pace, sucking the humid sunset air. "Stop!"...wheeze...wheeze..."Stop..."
"All right, dude"...wheeze...wheeze..."I give up..."wheeze..."It's not worth it"...wheeze...wheeze...Thief laid down on the tracks. Ronnie grabbed the boots off his feet and yanked him up to march him back to the store.
"Jesus, buddy! All this for a pair of two-for-$19.99? What's wrong with you?"
Ronnie had a habit of sneaking up behind people and breaking their necks. At least that's what it looked and sounded like. He said he was an amateur chiropractor. He grabbed his victims by the chin with one hand, and the top back of the had with the other, and yanked until a giant CRACK was heard. After the initial shock, the victim walked away declaring how much better he felt. Most likely it was joy to still be alive and able to move all four limbs.
Undoubtedly the best day of Ronnie's work life that I observed was when the foreign girls came to town. I don't know where they came from. I don't know their exact ages. All I know is that they were pale, talkative, excited by our long racks of prom dresses, and spoke in a language I did not recognize. Not English, not Spanish, not French, not Italian, not Russian. Perhaps some kind of Eastern Bloc dialect. Apparently, it was customary in their country to try on clothing before buying it, without the benefit of a dressing room. They were stripping right and left, hiking formals over their heads with abandon. I went up front to report the activity and see what we should do. Ronnie had just spied it on the four-sectioned security camera display. Flora called Charlene to the front, and together they went to diplomatically explain that trying on must be done in the store bathroom, or over their clothes. A lot of pantomiming and pointing got the message across.
Ronnie also had to watch out for big sales rip-offs. The middle of the store sported a gaping hole with wide stairs that led to the basement. It housed paint, tile, and wallpaper. We did a tremendous business in hardware. The parking lot was half full of lumber and bathtubs and shower enclosures and toilets. Any hardware had to be rung up with a ticket written by a salesman, and no materials could be loaded without a salesman assisting the customer. Salesmen worked on commission. It was a cutthroat operation. They were assigned rotating duties such as parking lot, wallpaper, paint, and hardware. Parking lot was prime, because that was the big lumber sales. Two had that duty each day. They stood near the doors, ready to pounce on customers eyeing the outside goods. If both were busy, and a customer asked who to see about lumber, the cashier called a salesman of her choosing. That's why it paid to be nice to the cashiers, and not act like a jackass.
The problem with the hardware department was that customers like to take a dump in the wallpaper bin aisles. Seriously. A sure sign was when Charlene was called over the intercom to assist in the basement. That meant she was picking up turds in a wastebasket to bring up to the bathroom for flushing. Charlene was our go-to gal when the toilet overflowed, too.
On weekends, Charlene and Joy were off. Flora only worked half a day. That meant I had to be a cashier. Chaos and anarchy skipped hand in hand down the flower-petaled path to not-heaven on weekends.
To be continued...
Security guard Ronnie was surprisingly effective at stopping boot theft. First of all, he dressed like a rent-a-cop. And he had shifty eyes. I'm sure many a scurvy thief re-evaluated his sticky-footed plan to abscond with a fine pair of ostrich or crocodile or python boots. One particular evening, Ronnie watched as a dude nodded to him and walked out the entrance. "Hey, buddy. Come back here." Thief took off down the parking lot. Ronnie followed. Rush hour traffic on Glenstone, the main drag, slowed Thief enough for Ronnie to close the gap. They both found breaks in traffic as the light changed. Thief made it across first, and climbed up on the railroad overpass that ran beside the store. He headed back the way he had come. Ronnie yelled at him to stop again. They continued to run down the tracks, an every-slowing smoker's pace, sucking the humid sunset air. "Stop!"...wheeze...wheeze..."Stop..."
"All right, dude"...wheeze...wheeze..."I give up..."wheeze..."It's not worth it"...wheeze...wheeze...Thief laid down on the tracks. Ronnie grabbed the boots off his feet and yanked him up to march him back to the store.
"Jesus, buddy! All this for a pair of two-for-$19.99? What's wrong with you?"
Ronnie had a habit of sneaking up behind people and breaking their necks. At least that's what it looked and sounded like. He said he was an amateur chiropractor. He grabbed his victims by the chin with one hand, and the top back of the had with the other, and yanked until a giant CRACK was heard. After the initial shock, the victim walked away declaring how much better he felt. Most likely it was joy to still be alive and able to move all four limbs.
Undoubtedly the best day of Ronnie's work life that I observed was when the foreign girls came to town. I don't know where they came from. I don't know their exact ages. All I know is that they were pale, talkative, excited by our long racks of prom dresses, and spoke in a language I did not recognize. Not English, not Spanish, not French, not Italian, not Russian. Perhaps some kind of Eastern Bloc dialect. Apparently, it was customary in their country to try on clothing before buying it, without the benefit of a dressing room. They were stripping right and left, hiking formals over their heads with abandon. I went up front to report the activity and see what we should do. Ronnie had just spied it on the four-sectioned security camera display. Flora called Charlene to the front, and together they went to diplomatically explain that trying on must be done in the store bathroom, or over their clothes. A lot of pantomiming and pointing got the message across.
Ronnie also had to watch out for big sales rip-offs. The middle of the store sported a gaping hole with wide stairs that led to the basement. It housed paint, tile, and wallpaper. We did a tremendous business in hardware. The parking lot was half full of lumber and bathtubs and shower enclosures and toilets. Any hardware had to be rung up with a ticket written by a salesman, and no materials could be loaded without a salesman assisting the customer. Salesmen worked on commission. It was a cutthroat operation. They were assigned rotating duties such as parking lot, wallpaper, paint, and hardware. Parking lot was prime, because that was the big lumber sales. Two had that duty each day. They stood near the doors, ready to pounce on customers eyeing the outside goods. If both were busy, and a customer asked who to see about lumber, the cashier called a salesman of her choosing. That's why it paid to be nice to the cashiers, and not act like a jackass.
The problem with the hardware department was that customers like to take a dump in the wallpaper bin aisles. Seriously. A sure sign was when Charlene was called over the intercom to assist in the basement. That meant she was picking up turds in a wastebasket to bring up to the bathroom for flushing. Charlene was our go-to gal when the toilet overflowed, too.
On weekends, Charlene and Joy were off. Flora only worked half a day. That meant I had to be a cashier. Chaos and anarchy skipped hand in hand down the flower-petaled path to not-heaven on weekends.
To be continued...
Thursday, July 25, 2013
One Man's Junk is Another Woman's Job, Part 2
...continued from yesterday, wherein I had just been hired by Flora, bookkeeper at the insurance salvage store.
I reported to Flora for my first day of work. She introduced me to Charlene, a six-foot-tall Dolly Parton lookalike. "You'll be working with Charlene in the pricing department. But we always start new people out in Rubber Boots. Charlene will show you what to do."
Charlene took me to the opposite corner of the store from Flora's ivory aerie. The place was as big as a Walmart Supercenter, but not as well-lit. Charlene picked a couple of boots off the floor. They were an assortment of black and green rubber boots. The kind dairy farmers wear. Some were hip boots for fishermen. And some had liners, like kids wear in the snow. "People are always digging through these. Find the mates, and line them up according to size. Go to Flora when you're done, and I'll come get you."
Talk about a Herculean task. Which became a Sisyphean task every night. It was hotter than forty hecks in that place. No air circulated back in the corner. No windows in the whole place. Only the IN double glass doors, and the OUT double glass doors up by Flora's perch. I was sweating like a member of the world's oldest profession in a house of worship by the time I set the boots straight. I went to Flora. "Oh, you're done already?" She called Charlene, who took told me to clock out so we could go to lunch. That was to become our practice a couple times a week. I could take an hour lunch, or a half-hour lunch, so long as I clocked in and out, and worked my allotted hours. Lunch with Charlene meant walking across the blacktop parking lot to the Chinese takeout restaurant next door, where we feasted on sweet & sour chicken, or cashew chicken. It was delicious. The rest of the state does not do cashew chicken like Springfield does cashew chicken.
My days were spent writing prices on items with a black magic marker. No price tags for people to rip off and lie about. Some crafty customers actually brought in their own magic markers and tried to change prices, but our staff knew our writing, and price placement. All the merchandise came from insurance buyouts. The Old Man might buy three boxcars full of merchandise from a store damaged by fire or flooding or some other calamity. He got stuff for pennies on the dollar. Not everything was damaged. A lot of our best stuff was returns from J. C. Penney. Nothing wrong with it. I still have a wonderfully warm comforter that I bought there. We got an employee discount, too. The way pricing worked was that Charlene would give me a box of stuff and a J. C. Penney catalog. Then I looked up the items and wrote a figure that was half the catalog price on the merchandise. On the bedding and clothes, we wrote it on the tag. Stuff that couldn't be found in the catalog went to Charlene. She had a calculating mind, and was pretty spot-on with her assessments. She would have been a champion on The Price is Right.
When there was no pricing to be done, I was farmed out to Joy, the floor manager. The first day of work with Joy was always Toys and Pet Supplies. That involved picking up items off the floor and rehanging them on the pegboard. It was Joy's version of Rubber Boots. After proving myself to the cynical, Chuck-Berris-looking Joy, I graduated to moving racks, re-arraning displays, and folding Levi jeans. That was actually one of my favorite duties. We had tables and tables of Levi jeans. If you looked close enough, you could find red tabs. I don't know where the jeans came from, but they were worn just enough to be broken in. We did quite a lot of business in them, and they were forever getting toppled and unsized. The tables were near the cash registers and front door, and I could chat with Ronnie the security guard and one of the cashiers when business was slow.
One day a weird dude in a Member's Only jacket was weirding his way around my area. I kind of watched him, but I didn't know what he was up to. I found out soon enough. He went to pay for some single item off a pegboard near the register, and I heard Emmett, Joy's high-school-age son who was cashier that day, tell him he couldn't leave. The guy became indignant, demanding to know why. Ronnie stepped over to the register. Emmett said, "Because of what you have stuffed in your jacket." After much hemming and hawing, Weird Dude unzipped his Member's Only and out fell about ten packs of men's underwear. That's the thing. I should have noticed that normal people don't wear a jacket in late-summer heat. Weird Dude declared that he would never buy our cheap crap, and stomped out. Good enough to steal, but not good enough to buy, I guess.
Ronnie stood at the IN door and looked at every customer's feet as they entered. That's because the boots were the most valuable item in the store, and nobody was gonna walk out in a pair on Ronnie's watch.
To be continued...
I reported to Flora for my first day of work. She introduced me to Charlene, a six-foot-tall Dolly Parton lookalike. "You'll be working with Charlene in the pricing department. But we always start new people out in Rubber Boots. Charlene will show you what to do."
Charlene took me to the opposite corner of the store from Flora's ivory aerie. The place was as big as a Walmart Supercenter, but not as well-lit. Charlene picked a couple of boots off the floor. They were an assortment of black and green rubber boots. The kind dairy farmers wear. Some were hip boots for fishermen. And some had liners, like kids wear in the snow. "People are always digging through these. Find the mates, and line them up according to size. Go to Flora when you're done, and I'll come get you."
Talk about a Herculean task. Which became a Sisyphean task every night. It was hotter than forty hecks in that place. No air circulated back in the corner. No windows in the whole place. Only the IN double glass doors, and the OUT double glass doors up by Flora's perch. I was sweating like a member of the world's oldest profession in a house of worship by the time I set the boots straight. I went to Flora. "Oh, you're done already?" She called Charlene, who took told me to clock out so we could go to lunch. That was to become our practice a couple times a week. I could take an hour lunch, or a half-hour lunch, so long as I clocked in and out, and worked my allotted hours. Lunch with Charlene meant walking across the blacktop parking lot to the Chinese takeout restaurant next door, where we feasted on sweet & sour chicken, or cashew chicken. It was delicious. The rest of the state does not do cashew chicken like Springfield does cashew chicken.
My days were spent writing prices on items with a black magic marker. No price tags for people to rip off and lie about. Some crafty customers actually brought in their own magic markers and tried to change prices, but our staff knew our writing, and price placement. All the merchandise came from insurance buyouts. The Old Man might buy three boxcars full of merchandise from a store damaged by fire or flooding or some other calamity. He got stuff for pennies on the dollar. Not everything was damaged. A lot of our best stuff was returns from J. C. Penney. Nothing wrong with it. I still have a wonderfully warm comforter that I bought there. We got an employee discount, too. The way pricing worked was that Charlene would give me a box of stuff and a J. C. Penney catalog. Then I looked up the items and wrote a figure that was half the catalog price on the merchandise. On the bedding and clothes, we wrote it on the tag. Stuff that couldn't be found in the catalog went to Charlene. She had a calculating mind, and was pretty spot-on with her assessments. She would have been a champion on The Price is Right.
When there was no pricing to be done, I was farmed out to Joy, the floor manager. The first day of work with Joy was always Toys and Pet Supplies. That involved picking up items off the floor and rehanging them on the pegboard. It was Joy's version of Rubber Boots. After proving myself to the cynical, Chuck-Berris-looking Joy, I graduated to moving racks, re-arraning displays, and folding Levi jeans. That was actually one of my favorite duties. We had tables and tables of Levi jeans. If you looked close enough, you could find red tabs. I don't know where the jeans came from, but they were worn just enough to be broken in. We did quite a lot of business in them, and they were forever getting toppled and unsized. The tables were near the cash registers and front door, and I could chat with Ronnie the security guard and one of the cashiers when business was slow.
One day a weird dude in a Member's Only jacket was weirding his way around my area. I kind of watched him, but I didn't know what he was up to. I found out soon enough. He went to pay for some single item off a pegboard near the register, and I heard Emmett, Joy's high-school-age son who was cashier that day, tell him he couldn't leave. The guy became indignant, demanding to know why. Ronnie stepped over to the register. Emmett said, "Because of what you have stuffed in your jacket." After much hemming and hawing, Weird Dude unzipped his Member's Only and out fell about ten packs of men's underwear. That's the thing. I should have noticed that normal people don't wear a jacket in late-summer heat. Weird Dude declared that he would never buy our cheap crap, and stomped out. Good enough to steal, but not good enough to buy, I guess.
Ronnie stood at the IN door and looked at every customer's feet as they entered. That's because the boots were the most valuable item in the store, and nobody was gonna walk out in a pair on Ronnie's watch.
To be continued...
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