Category: worth reading

Adventures with Gravity

September 28, 2004 / / 0 Comments

I’m lucky not to be dead or hospitalized tonight.

I was on a ladder in the stockroom, trying to get a case of shoes from a shelf fifteen feet off the ground. The ladder was positioned in a tight spot: to one side was the shelving, and to the other was the inclined dock where trucks back in to be unloaded. There’s a metal fence between the side of the dock and the walkway. There were only inches to spare on either side of the ladder.

As I turned to walk down the ladder, carrying the large box, the ladder shifted underneath me and I fell headfirst into the dock. As I fell, I managed to grab ahold of the fence. My body weight ripped my fingers from the fencing, but the momentary anchor flipped me head-up again. I landed flat on my ass on a roll of carpeting. Stunned, I looked up the ten feet to where I had been standing seconds ago.

Surveying my injuries, I found that my only wounds were a sore shoulder, a large hard bruise on my left pinky, an abrasion to the back of my right hand, and rug burn on my back where I had slid off the roll of carpeting.

I can’t really claim that grabbing the fence was intentional. I think that primal behavior took over as I fell. The only thing I really remember about the fall is the topsy-turvy feeling you get when you flip head over heels and pain from my hand as it was ripped from the fence.

It could be have been far, far worse. If any number of things had been different, I’d be in a lot of pain right now. If I hadn’t grabbed the fence, I would have landed head or face first. If the carpeting hadn’t been there, I could have broken my tailbone. There were rolling garment racks within two feet on either side of where I landed: if I had fallen on those, I’m sure I’d be in exquisite pain right now. If the ladder had fallen on me, it probably would have cracked my head open.

I count myself extraordinarily lucky. To get up and walk away from a ten-foot headfirst fall onto concrete is a feat most people can’t claim.

A New Low

September 27, 2004 / / 0 Comments

Well, today was a new personal low for me.

The day started as usual: lying in bed, staring at the ceiling, dreading the interminable day of work that awaited me. With a heavy sigh, I crawled out of bed and took my morning shower. As I started my car to go to work, things were actually looking up. My car, which had been lurching and jerking like a Parkinson’s victim, started and ran without a hitch.

Yeah, things weren’t so bad until I got to work. Unfortunately, around 10:30, I got a call from the asset protection woman. She had been sitting in the camera room, watching the solitary customer in the store when she noticed that he had an erection and was playing with himself through his shorts. Wait: it gets better. He was in the little girls clothing section.

Well, that’s just great. And you want me to what about this, exactly? Wander by so he knows there are employees around? Yeah, thanks for calling me. Great. No, I’ll do it. Yeah, I see him. Hang on. I’ll call you back.

By the time I got off the phone, he had wandered into shoes and his erection had subsided. I’m fairly sure he heard me say “I see him,” and was less than conversational. He left, and I went back to stocking shoes.

Later that day, as I was still stocking shoes, I heard a familiar voice. “Marc?” I turned to look, and there was Errin Schlapbach, a girl I’d known from the time I was five until I was eighteen. The first girl I ever kissed on the cheek, and “married” on the playground when we were in first grade. We went all the way through school together and had no desire to stay in contact with each other in the following years.

Fuck. I knew that eventually this would happen. Someone that I knew from high school would walk into Gordman’s, and I’d have to admit that I’m working a menial, stupid job after earning a bachelor’s degree. I was hoping that at least I’d be carrying a clipboard and looking important when it happened.

We had a brief, awkward conversation, and then she walked off. I’m pretty sure that she didn’t believe me when I said that I’m starting a web design business. I’m not sure that I would have believed me. Maybe I’ll see her in another five years. I hope not. This encounter was humiliating enough. I think I’d have been less humiliated if I somehow hadn’t been wearing pants.

Just before I left for the day, I heard another interesting tidbit from the asset protection woman… the sick fuck from earlier that day had actually picked up a job application.

On the short ride home, I took off from a stoplight and heard a BOOM! followed by the sound of something metal grinding against concrete. Realistically, I knew damn well that it was my car, yet I looked around for a likely scapegoat. With a shitty looking Mazda next to me, I assumed that it had backfired while accelerating, and didn’t give it another thought. When the Mazda turned off and a carload of people passing me appeared to be laughing and staring, I accepted that the noise was coming from my car. Fine. Screw it. I’m just going to finish the drive home and deal with it then.

Unfortunately, I didn’t get that far. Thanks to a sudden bump, my car was now one muffler lighter. I looked back in time to see cars swerving to avoid hitting it. I kept right on driving.

Once I got home, I called my dad. How much for a new muffler, Dad? Oh, I don’t know. Probably about fifty bucks for a crappy one. Why a crappy one? Because a quality one would outlast the rest of the car. Great. Thanks.

A few minutes later, Pedro asked me plaintively, “Do you have any food? I don’t have any, and I don’t have any money.” Yes, fine. We’ll figure something out. Dinner eventually consisted of Stovetop stuffing mixed with corn and hot dog chunks, all prepared in the microwave. The stove has been broken for a week, and the maintenance guy seems unconcerned about fixing it. I doused the hot dog chunks with habanero sauce in an attempt to make them more palatable. It worked, to an extent. The stuffing wasn’t bad.

As we “cooked,” Jason had turned to me and said, “No one must know of the hot dog/corn/stuffing experiment. I don’t want people to know that I’m this poor.”

Yeah, well, we are that poor. And I have no problems with burdening others with that knowledge.

And now, as I sit here slowly drinking a beer because there’s nothing else to drink in the place, I heave another deep sigh. Because tomorrow I have to get up and do it all over again.

Widower

July 8, 2004 / / 0 Comments

I was at Kmart yesterday putting away a pile of batteries that had accumulated at the service desk. (The department manager never does shit.) As I was crouching down and searching for a convenient spot to ditch a handful of double A’s, a quiet voice behind me said, “Excuse me.”

I stood up and turned around. A wizened old man wearing a green polyester John Deere jacket and worn overalls stood staring expectantly at me. He had hair growing in tufts out of his nose, and one long hair growing out of the tip. The red bottoms of his eyes drooped considerably. He was an old farmer. Good people. I liked him immediately.

“Hi,” I said, trying to sound cheerier than a restless night and a shitty job allowed for. “Can I help you?”

“Do you know how to work the picture machine?” He asked.

“Sure.”

We have a Kodak Picture Maker sitting next to the camera case. I’ve long since accepted that old people don’t want to bother with technology, so I don’t mind making a picture or two for them. They’re always nicer than any other customers I get, and usually happy with the results. It’s even a little rewarding for me to do it.

I made him an eight-by-ten copy of an old black and white photo of a couple standing in a restaurant, and three four-by-sixes of a blurry woman from an ancient sepia photograph. Surreptitiously looking closely at the couple on the Picture Maker’s screen, I realized that the well-dressed gentleman in the restaurant and the stooped old man standing next to me were one and the same.

He seemed pleased with the photos, and so was I. I realized after I finished the eight-by-ten that I should have made a few adjustments to make for a slightly better photo. Still, it looked good, and I doubted he would know the difference. I rang him up and was about to go about my business when he asked me where the underwear are.

“Oh, they’re over there in the corner.” I pointed in the direction of the underwear, but didn’t bother to walk over and show him. There’s a lot of them. They’re hard to miss.

“Well,” he said, “I’m a little new at this. I lost my wife not too long ago. What size would I need?”

Fuck, I thought. This is an old farmer. They can be really stodgy and traditional. What do I say? Do I say “I’m sorry?” Is that too personal? Would that embarrass him? Are his eyes so red from crying? Does this kindly old man sit alone in his empty house and cry because the woman he loved for forty years died last week? Dammit, what do I say?!

I stared at him dumbly what seemed like an uncomfortable length of time… I’m sure it was only a second. And least, I think that’s what it was. I hope so.

“What waist size are you?”

Dammit. The moment to be act like a normal human being is gone. Saying anything after that will just make both of us uncomfortable.

I guessed that he would probably wear mediums, and he wandered over to the general area I had indicated. I went back to work for a bit until I noticed that he was nowhere near the underwear… and looked confused.

I walked over and showed him exactly where the underwear were, and left him alone again. I know I wouldn’t like having someone standing over my shoulder while I was picking out underwear, and I assumed he wouldn’t feel any different.

I looked up after him as I did my work for the next couple minutes. He’d gone into the fat womens’ section, and didn’t seem to know what to do. He wandered around for a while longer, and eventually began walking towards the exit empty-handed.

Should I help him? Maybe he didn’t find what he was looking for. Does he even know what he’s looking for? Would it be obvious if I came up behind him and asked him if he wants help? Would he even want help? Shit…

As I watched him shuffle away, defeated, I decided not to help him any further. I felt terrible, but I didn’t know what else to do. To try to walk up behind him nonchalantly and ask if he needed anything now would be impossible. To do anything else would let him know that I had watched him try–and fail–to purchase underwear.

I just wish that I would have done something for him. I feel so guilty that I couldn’t do something so simple as get the man a pair of damned underwear.