Alright, alright... I had another set of events occur over this past weekend
at work. It's been a bad week, I know. Nearly killed four times, yelled at
more than I care to admit, and getting myself in trouble with just about
everybody over AIM. *sigh*
But anyway, here's the events as Darien, the cynical bagger, would have seen
and handled them. And, yes, this is somewhat of a 'prequel' to Orange
Sunkist and Peanut M&Ms... on the other hand, it's a little stickier --
closer to TAFFy than WAFFers, as I would say...
NOTES: OSHA is Occupational Safety and Hazards Administration
If you are vegetarian, don't take offense -- this is fictional
If you are openly fanatically religious and any comment about
religion just "lights your fire," please pass up this story
If you are Canadian, replace the word 'restroom' with the word
'washroom' and add 'eh' to the end of every sentence
Sit back, have a bit of TAFFy, and enjoy!
To Catch A Vandal...
PG
Alternate Reality
The worst kind of criminal is the kind that you can't for the life of you
catch. This criminal is constantly defacing walls, doors, mirrors --
nothing is free from their sense of "artistry." I am, of course, speaking
of the Vandal. Perhaps my situation will help you to understand precisely
what a vandal is...
At the beginning of last week, I leisurely strolled to the front doors of
the store. I sighed. Another day at work. I wasn't paying attention to
the doors as I walked towards them, rather I was watching for cars. Cars
are vicious, evil things that will take any opportunity to run over anything
they can at any moment. They had tasted my blood, and apparently liked it.
Ever since, I've had to keep on my toes to avoid the chromed killers.
The doors shook as I crashed into them. I stepped back and admired the
smear my face had created on the polished glass surfaces. Those glass doors
were to be polished at all times. If the store was in crisis, you were the
only checker there, and the line of people went down the aisle, back to the
meat department, around the corner passed the dairy, and ended halfway up
the cracker aisle, you were to drop everything and make sure that those
glass doors had not a single fingerprint on them.
I growled deeply and waved my hand in front of the sensor. The doors began
to open... very, very slowly. I sighed. Those things needed to get fixed.
I helped the doors open a bit faster and allowed the angry customers behind
me to enter before I did. Why they assumed I worked there was beyond me.
Perhaps they can just sense this air of an employee. If I gave off any airs
of being an employee, I assume that I just hadn't showered long enough.
I stepped into the doors and was immediately blasted with the friendly
currents of air conditioning. The lobby was filled with carts; a good sign
-- not many customers today. The second set of sensory-operated doors were
held at bay from closing, courtesy of what appeared to be the meat
department's entire ball of twine. I entered the store and took an
immediate right. I glared evilly at the three younger boys stuffing candy
bars into their pockets. They didn't even flinch. I shrugged and walked up
to the service desk. The door to the right held the stairs to the employee
break room, more popularly known as the "Living Death."
People didn't speak of the upstairs break room... not since the accident.
Come to think of it, there were an awful lot of things we employees didn't
discuss due to "the accident." Golly, a full list would require an entire
cartridge of printer ink. The meat department, I believe, was the first to
deserve this title. As for the problem involved? I don't speak of it--not
since "the accident."
I walked into the door. I sighed. The time clock. My best friend and
worst enemy. Currently, I hated this thing with a passion. Come lunch
break and, eventually, the end of the day, it would become my lover. I
sighed and punched in. My fingers worked themselves on the padded keys.
The 'in' key-6-2-I didn't even remember my employee ID number. I could,
however, trace the pattern it held on the rubber-buttoned, phone-fashioned
number pad. I let my fingers do the job of punching me in as I reviewed the
employee weekly hours sheet and the new work schedule. My forefinger landed
on the large blue button marked 'enter.'
The stairs leading into the "Living Death" were rather narrow, and covered
with a rubbery substance. I turned at the top of the stairs and retrieved
my apron from the coat rack. A set of lockers sat to the left of the coat
rack. I had never been offered a locker. I wondered if anybody in that
store was assigned a locker. I'd bet a day's salary one of those lockers
housed the reason that we didn't speak of the meat department. I'd bet a
week's salary that the lockers were there simply to satisfy some OSHA
requirement or another. I'd bet a week's salary at my new job that the
minute OSHA actually visited this store they'd be shut down.
I walked out of the break room door and ignored the swarm of people at the
checkstands in desperate need of a courtesy clerk. I was a day-time freight
member, not some measly bagger. As I crossed the store to the backroom, a
voice crackled over the PA system.
"Darien, come to the deli. Darien, to the deli..."
My voice moved in sync with the repeat of the message. I have been told
that I capture the true spirit of a disgruntled employee. I believed that
was a good thing, and was prepared at any moment to defend that position --
with fists, if necessary.
I poked my way back to the front of the store and towards the deli. The
deli was home of what one would deem "hot" food, if hot were defined as
"above freezing."
The manager approached me. His brow was furrowed with the heavy mantle of
walking around the store everyday. His impossibly-tight button up white
shirt fit evenly amongst the large roll of fat that hung from his belly.
The look of pure and utter "I am the boss" was placated across his upset
features.
Humperdinck is what one would deem a jackass. No ifs, ands, or buts about
it, the man was simply a mule. He wouldn't budge if the county dam broke
and a million gallons of water were heading in his direction. More than
likely, he'd ask somebody to stop the water for him. Albeit, he'd still
drown, but he'd be cursing and screaming at you for not having done your job
properly all the way to his watery grave.
"What are you doing?"
Managers had this way with words. A simple four word question was easily
substituted for an entire phrase such as "I don't care what you are doing
right now because whatever I have for you to do requires your immediate
attention. I don't care if you cut your arm off in the meat grinder, this
MUST be done before you go to the hospital."
"Jus--"
"Great, someone has written on the walls in the handicapped stall in the
men's restroom. Get some of that spray stuff that you use and clean it.
Prioritize man, prioritize!"
Apparently, prioritize was going to be the word of the day. I swear, the
man has a special dictionary in his office upstairs simply titled
"Inspirational Words for the Uninspired."
"That spray stuff," as he referred to it, was a set of chemicals produced by
Deckers and so thoroughly mixed with water, that any amount of cleaning
power that may have at one time existed within them was lost.
I nodded and opened my mouth to confirm the statement, but found that he had
already migrated passed me, as managers were so fond of doing. He patted a
customer on the back and looked genuinely interested if the customer was
"finding everything alright." However, when the gentleman opened his mouth
to respond, Humperdinck had already moved several feet away and was ignoring
the man entirely. I don't see why the elderly gentleman became so upset at
Humperdinck's actions, as an employee, I didn't even get a pat on the
back...
At least, I sighed to myself, it was the men's restroom. Last time an act
of vandalism had been reported, it was in the women's restroom. I had to
clean that one up to. And what really scared me -- the message was written
on the ceiling and in blood. I didn't want to think about it...
I prodded my way through several customers and the litter of pallets that
had conglomerated at the front of the store. The service desk, luckily, was
not too busy. I had to give them my traditional greeting, otherwise the
other employees might think there was something wrong with me.
"Good morning."
"Morning? @&$!, are you smoking crack or something? It's @&$!in'
two-o'-clock in the afternoon!"
I hate fellow employees. Many times, they are worse than the customers.
Nobody understands my greeting either. "Good morning." It is the single
most inspiring phrase one may greet another with. Those two, simple words
granted the ability to start the day anew.
As was also custom, I pulled my "tail" from my backpocket and proceeded to
tickle the occupants of the service desk with it. My "tail," as everyone
referred to it, was no more than a feather duster that I kept in my back
pocket.
Ignoring the flurry of assorted profanities flung flippantly at me, I
retrieved the Thoro and the Pink Creme from underneath the counter. I then
stole a roll of paper towels from underneath one of the checkstands and
crossed the store to the men's restroom.
As I entered, three boys were pushing magazines down their pants. I held
the door open for them as they walked out and silently hoped that one of
them would receive a fairly painful paper cut. It wasn't my problem that
they were shoplifting. On the other hand, those three would have an awful
lot of explaining to do come Judgement Day. I'd let them take it up with
God.
Upon entering the restroom, I was greeted with the customary pile of human
fecal matter splayed in the center of the room. It would appear there
existed another irate customer within the store. I sighed and stepped over
the putrid pile of poo.
The handicapped stall was the last stall in the bathroom. I swung the door
open and peered at the penciled message written on the wall before me.
I stared.
I cocked my head to one side.
I cocked my head to the other side.
I grinned.
I chuckled.
I laughed outright.
I fell over with laughter.
I rolled on the floor with laughter...
... right into the pile of...
"CRAP!" I shouted.
Luckily, I keep a spare uniform in the unspoken-of break room. After
changing, I returned to the scene of the supposed crime. Scrawled on the
wall in pencil, each letter standing two-inches high, was the phrase
Jesus loves animals. Eating Jesus is sin. Eating animals is sin. Don't
eat Jesus. Eating animals is a sin against God.
It was either a vegetarian or a religious fanatic -- or a conspiracy by the
United Produce Company of Some-Religion-or-Another.
This mess didn't even deserve to be cleaned by the glory that is a Deckers
chemical. I spit on the wall and wiped the pencil markings away with a
paper towel. Satisfied, I returned everything to its place and finished out
my sentence for the day.
I sighed as I approached the store the next morning. The door would yet
again not open. I turned it off and cranked the darn thing open manually,
all the while watching for the evil that was a car. I could hear the
customers behind me muttering commentary under their breath about me. I
wasn't even dressed in uniform yet. How could they even begin to think that
I was a viable target for them to direct their anger for the store? Didn't
they realize that I hated the store even more than they?
I clocked in, grabbed my apron, and walked to the backroom. Have you ever
seen that show with Bill Murray where he repeats the same day over and over
and over again? Well, if that ever happened to me, I would definitely spend
my first few months worth of days killing my management in every way
possible. They just didn't know when to quit.
"Darien," my manager's voice crackled over the PA. "Come to the deli.
Darien, to the deli..."
When I say that my manager spoke over the PA system with all of the
intelligibility of an Egyptian raised in China trying to speak fluent
Portuguese, I give him credit. The man holds the phone too close to his
mouth. It's nearly impossible to force yourself to listen to the man, let
alone understand him.
I approached the deli in a similar fashion as the day before. My manager
approached me in the same fashion.
"Somebody wrote on the wall again... could you clean it up?"
He left with a swift-footed pace that just reeked of "I'm going to go tell
somebody else to do something entirely useless and then yell and scream at
them that they didn't do it right."
I once again gathered the chemicals, greeted the employees behind the
service desk, tickled several of them, and then meandered my way across the
storefront, dodging the cattle-brained customers with all of the fury and
pace of Robin Williams' humor.
Once again, I found the three young boys stuffing magazines down their pants
and exiting the restroom. I'd do something about it, honestly, but last
time I brought up the fact that we had shoplifters I got an ear-full.
"Ninety-percent of all stolen merchandise in this store goes out through the
back room!" he had said. "Do you know what that means?"
I nodded as I watched two men wearing nylon over their heads walk behind my
manager and out the back door, each with a cart loaded with groceries.
"I'll bet you don't! It means employees are taking them!" he had said.
I vaguely remember the rest of the conversation. It's amazing how one's
head may continue to nod as one sleeps.
But returning to the point at hand. I walked into the restroom. Luckily, I
did not see a complimentary pile of feces this time. I sighed. At least I
wasn't repeating yesterday.
I threw open the handicapped stall and peered inside. Humperdinck must have
been smoking something, I didn't see any writing. I turned to close the
door and stepped back in shock -- right into the pile of feces that I just
hadn't noticed before. I sighed.
After changing my shoes -- yes, I keep a spare set of them around as well --
I returned to the scene of the crime. The exact same handwriting, size, and
message...
Jesus loves animals. Eating Jesus is sin. Eating animals is sin. Don't
eat Jesus. Eating animals is a sin against God.
The message was written by, as far as I was concerned, some vegetarian with
a death wish. The vandal had decided that permanent marker would be a much
funner medium this time around. Luckily, Deckers had been kind enough to
supply me with the acidic chemical known as Pink Creme. The marker came off
with a bit of elbow grease. And the day passed by yet again. I retired to
my apartment and took my residence behind the computer monitor. The
familiar buzz of a modem filled the apartment and I was suddenly in a
different world. Cheaper than crack and a whole lot more fun, as my
roommate was fond of saying.
Pry open the door. Let the customers in. Growl at their complaints. Punch
in. Get called. Vandalism again. Get chemicals. Tickle employees. Step
in feces. Change clothes. Wash stall. Go home. The day was the same as
the previous two. And the day after continued in the same fashion. Every
day, the message was written in a new medium on a different section of the
stall. I didn't know so many art supplies existed. What began with pencil,
migrated to marker, pen, chalk, watercolor, charcoal, paint, toothpaste...
the list goes on and on. And finally, one day, I lost it.
"They scratched the message into the freaking door! It'd be no less
impossible for me to wash that off than for Cher to get her singing career
back!"
My manager sighed and seemed to be contemplating over the matter before
simply walking away and forgetting the whole thing. I ordered the new stall
door for him.
Of course, I had to take precautions now. This was my door. Nobody would
be allowed to come near it, and I would be the one to see to that...
The bulk of my days consisted of sitting on a stool in the corner of the
restroom, checking the stalls after every time they were used. No vandal
appeared. I waited, day after day, and no graffiti appeared on the grey
door.
And then one day, I fell asleep at my post. I was awakened by my manager.
"What are you doing? The store looks like $*@#!"
"Ten minute break, sir," I muttered. He seemed to let it go after that.
"Well, when you're done with your break, clean this up..." he pointed at the
stall. Sure enough, the thing was covered in markered lettering.
Jesus loves animals. Eating Jesus is sin. Eating animals is sin. Don't
eat Jesus. Eating animals is a sin against God.
I sighed. This was the last time. Sure, I'd clean it, but this was the
end. My mind began to devise a trap.
"Twine?" the meat department manager had asked me. "Sure, I can get you
some twine. How much did you need?"
"We have plenty of bavarian creme," asked the bakery manager. "Why?"
And then the produce manager. "Rotten watermelon? Well, sure I guess so...
do you have pigs to feed or something?"
I grinned. Only one more item to look in to...
I taped the large paper on to the stall door. "Out of Order," it read.
Silently, I was hoping the vandal would decide to ignore the message and use
the restroom anyway. My plan counted on it.
I went home that night with a grin. Come tomorrow, this would all be
done...
The next day, on my way out of the apartment, I grabbed my roommate's set of
walkie-talkies. I nearly forgot to clock in as I was gripped with
excitement. I rushed over to the restroom, leapt over the complimentary
feces, and swung open the door to the handicapped stall. Sure enough, in
large markered lettering, was the scrawl of a fanatical vegetarian.
Step aside, Mr. Grinch, there's a new evil grin in town...
And with that, I set myself to constructing a trap within the stall.
I believe the question on the forefront of my fellow employee's minds was
why I happened to be carrying around a walkie talkie. And, of course, why
the explosive sounds of flatulence echoed from its speaker. I ignored them,
as usual, and managed to work quickly and adeptly. In fact, I had all but
forgotten about my trap when suddenly a scream came from the speaker,
followed by a heavy thud and then several lighter thuds.
Track records were never a thing I really competed for, but if I were
running one at that moment, I would have left every contestant eating my
dust. I hurtled several of the displays with a jumping prowess only shown
by an anime character such as myself, and finally skidded to a stop in front
of the restroom door.
I gulped. My heart was beating frantically. I had triumphed. I reached
down to open the door. Before I grasped the handle, however, the door swung
wide. There stood Humperdinck.
"What is the meaning of this?" he shouted. "Who was supposed to clean the
bathrooms today?" He huffed his way to the service desk as I found my way
into the restroom. Sure enough, my trap had worked.
A man in his mid-twenties lay in a puddle of Bavarian creme on the floor,
the marks his feet had made as he slid were hidden by his body. Three
watermelons had landed directly on top of him, covering the vandal in a
rotten red mess. The twine still held across the door frame, and my Walkie
Talkie's mate was still taped to the post immediately to the left of the
door.
I grinned evilly and kicked the unconcious man in the head. And with that,
my shift was over. Humperdinck couldn't screw anything up further, I was
sure of that... and thus I left the store, happier than I had been in a long
while.
What happened, you ask? Well, I'm not sure to be exact. Apparently
Humperdinck was going to release the kid until he started raving about the
end of the world and that all carnivores would be utterly destroyed. I
think it was at about that moment that the hampster in Humperdinck's head
began turning the wheel.
The police were called in, and the vegetable was removed from the property.
He tried to sue the company, and ended up bringing OSHA down on us... but
that's another story entirely.
at work. It's been a bad week, I know. Nearly killed four times, yelled at
more than I care to admit, and getting myself in trouble with just about
everybody over AIM. *sigh*
But anyway, here's the events as Darien, the cynical bagger, would have seen
and handled them. And, yes, this is somewhat of a 'prequel' to Orange
Sunkist and Peanut M&Ms... on the other hand, it's a little stickier --
closer to TAFFy than WAFFers, as I would say...
NOTES: OSHA is Occupational Safety and Hazards Administration
If you are vegetarian, don't take offense -- this is fictional
If you are openly fanatically religious and any comment about
religion just "lights your fire," please pass up this story
If you are Canadian, replace the word 'restroom' with the word
'washroom' and add 'eh' to the end of every sentence
Sit back, have a bit of TAFFy, and enjoy!
To Catch A Vandal...
PG
Alternate Reality
The worst kind of criminal is the kind that you can't for the life of you
catch. This criminal is constantly defacing walls, doors, mirrors --
nothing is free from their sense of "artistry." I am, of course, speaking
of the Vandal. Perhaps my situation will help you to understand precisely
what a vandal is...
At the beginning of last week, I leisurely strolled to the front doors of
the store. I sighed. Another day at work. I wasn't paying attention to
the doors as I walked towards them, rather I was watching for cars. Cars
are vicious, evil things that will take any opportunity to run over anything
they can at any moment. They had tasted my blood, and apparently liked it.
Ever since, I've had to keep on my toes to avoid the chromed killers.
The doors shook as I crashed into them. I stepped back and admired the
smear my face had created on the polished glass surfaces. Those glass doors
were to be polished at all times. If the store was in crisis, you were the
only checker there, and the line of people went down the aisle, back to the
meat department, around the corner passed the dairy, and ended halfway up
the cracker aisle, you were to drop everything and make sure that those
glass doors had not a single fingerprint on them.
I growled deeply and waved my hand in front of the sensor. The doors began
to open... very, very slowly. I sighed. Those things needed to get fixed.
I helped the doors open a bit faster and allowed the angry customers behind
me to enter before I did. Why they assumed I worked there was beyond me.
Perhaps they can just sense this air of an employee. If I gave off any airs
of being an employee, I assume that I just hadn't showered long enough.
I stepped into the doors and was immediately blasted with the friendly
currents of air conditioning. The lobby was filled with carts; a good sign
-- not many customers today. The second set of sensory-operated doors were
held at bay from closing, courtesy of what appeared to be the meat
department's entire ball of twine. I entered the store and took an
immediate right. I glared evilly at the three younger boys stuffing candy
bars into their pockets. They didn't even flinch. I shrugged and walked up
to the service desk. The door to the right held the stairs to the employee
break room, more popularly known as the "Living Death."
People didn't speak of the upstairs break room... not since the accident.
Come to think of it, there were an awful lot of things we employees didn't
discuss due to "the accident." Golly, a full list would require an entire
cartridge of printer ink. The meat department, I believe, was the first to
deserve this title. As for the problem involved? I don't speak of it--not
since "the accident."
I walked into the door. I sighed. The time clock. My best friend and
worst enemy. Currently, I hated this thing with a passion. Come lunch
break and, eventually, the end of the day, it would become my lover. I
sighed and punched in. My fingers worked themselves on the padded keys.
The 'in' key-6-2-I didn't even remember my employee ID number. I could,
however, trace the pattern it held on the rubber-buttoned, phone-fashioned
number pad. I let my fingers do the job of punching me in as I reviewed the
employee weekly hours sheet and the new work schedule. My forefinger landed
on the large blue button marked 'enter.'
The stairs leading into the "Living Death" were rather narrow, and covered
with a rubbery substance. I turned at the top of the stairs and retrieved
my apron from the coat rack. A set of lockers sat to the left of the coat
rack. I had never been offered a locker. I wondered if anybody in that
store was assigned a locker. I'd bet a day's salary one of those lockers
housed the reason that we didn't speak of the meat department. I'd bet a
week's salary that the lockers were there simply to satisfy some OSHA
requirement or another. I'd bet a week's salary at my new job that the
minute OSHA actually visited this store they'd be shut down.
I walked out of the break room door and ignored the swarm of people at the
checkstands in desperate need of a courtesy clerk. I was a day-time freight
member, not some measly bagger. As I crossed the store to the backroom, a
voice crackled over the PA system.
"Darien, come to the deli. Darien, to the deli..."
My voice moved in sync with the repeat of the message. I have been told
that I capture the true spirit of a disgruntled employee. I believed that
was a good thing, and was prepared at any moment to defend that position --
with fists, if necessary.
I poked my way back to the front of the store and towards the deli. The
deli was home of what one would deem "hot" food, if hot were defined as
"above freezing."
The manager approached me. His brow was furrowed with the heavy mantle of
walking around the store everyday. His impossibly-tight button up white
shirt fit evenly amongst the large roll of fat that hung from his belly.
The look of pure and utter "I am the boss" was placated across his upset
features.
Humperdinck is what one would deem a jackass. No ifs, ands, or buts about
it, the man was simply a mule. He wouldn't budge if the county dam broke
and a million gallons of water were heading in his direction. More than
likely, he'd ask somebody to stop the water for him. Albeit, he'd still
drown, but he'd be cursing and screaming at you for not having done your job
properly all the way to his watery grave.
"What are you doing?"
Managers had this way with words. A simple four word question was easily
substituted for an entire phrase such as "I don't care what you are doing
right now because whatever I have for you to do requires your immediate
attention. I don't care if you cut your arm off in the meat grinder, this
MUST be done before you go to the hospital."
"Jus--"
"Great, someone has written on the walls in the handicapped stall in the
men's restroom. Get some of that spray stuff that you use and clean it.
Prioritize man, prioritize!"
Apparently, prioritize was going to be the word of the day. I swear, the
man has a special dictionary in his office upstairs simply titled
"Inspirational Words for the Uninspired."
"That spray stuff," as he referred to it, was a set of chemicals produced by
Deckers and so thoroughly mixed with water, that any amount of cleaning
power that may have at one time existed within them was lost.
I nodded and opened my mouth to confirm the statement, but found that he had
already migrated passed me, as managers were so fond of doing. He patted a
customer on the back and looked genuinely interested if the customer was
"finding everything alright." However, when the gentleman opened his mouth
to respond, Humperdinck had already moved several feet away and was ignoring
the man entirely. I don't see why the elderly gentleman became so upset at
Humperdinck's actions, as an employee, I didn't even get a pat on the
back...
At least, I sighed to myself, it was the men's restroom. Last time an act
of vandalism had been reported, it was in the women's restroom. I had to
clean that one up to. And what really scared me -- the message was written
on the ceiling and in blood. I didn't want to think about it...
I prodded my way through several customers and the litter of pallets that
had conglomerated at the front of the store. The service desk, luckily, was
not too busy. I had to give them my traditional greeting, otherwise the
other employees might think there was something wrong with me.
"Good morning."
"Morning? @&$!, are you smoking crack or something? It's @&$!in'
two-o'-clock in the afternoon!"
I hate fellow employees. Many times, they are worse than the customers.
Nobody understands my greeting either. "Good morning." It is the single
most inspiring phrase one may greet another with. Those two, simple words
granted the ability to start the day anew.
As was also custom, I pulled my "tail" from my backpocket and proceeded to
tickle the occupants of the service desk with it. My "tail," as everyone
referred to it, was no more than a feather duster that I kept in my back
pocket.
Ignoring the flurry of assorted profanities flung flippantly at me, I
retrieved the Thoro and the Pink Creme from underneath the counter. I then
stole a roll of paper towels from underneath one of the checkstands and
crossed the store to the men's restroom.
As I entered, three boys were pushing magazines down their pants. I held
the door open for them as they walked out and silently hoped that one of
them would receive a fairly painful paper cut. It wasn't my problem that
they were shoplifting. On the other hand, those three would have an awful
lot of explaining to do come Judgement Day. I'd let them take it up with
God.
Upon entering the restroom, I was greeted with the customary pile of human
fecal matter splayed in the center of the room. It would appear there
existed another irate customer within the store. I sighed and stepped over
the putrid pile of poo.
The handicapped stall was the last stall in the bathroom. I swung the door
open and peered at the penciled message written on the wall before me.
I stared.
I cocked my head to one side.
I cocked my head to the other side.
I grinned.
I chuckled.
I laughed outright.
I fell over with laughter.
I rolled on the floor with laughter...
... right into the pile of...
"CRAP!" I shouted.
Luckily, I keep a spare uniform in the unspoken-of break room. After
changing, I returned to the scene of the supposed crime. Scrawled on the
wall in pencil, each letter standing two-inches high, was the phrase
Jesus loves animals. Eating Jesus is sin. Eating animals is sin. Don't
eat Jesus. Eating animals is a sin against God.
It was either a vegetarian or a religious fanatic -- or a conspiracy by the
United Produce Company of Some-Religion-or-Another.
This mess didn't even deserve to be cleaned by the glory that is a Deckers
chemical. I spit on the wall and wiped the pencil markings away with a
paper towel. Satisfied, I returned everything to its place and finished out
my sentence for the day.
I sighed as I approached the store the next morning. The door would yet
again not open. I turned it off and cranked the darn thing open manually,
all the while watching for the evil that was a car. I could hear the
customers behind me muttering commentary under their breath about me. I
wasn't even dressed in uniform yet. How could they even begin to think that
I was a viable target for them to direct their anger for the store? Didn't
they realize that I hated the store even more than they?
I clocked in, grabbed my apron, and walked to the backroom. Have you ever
seen that show with Bill Murray where he repeats the same day over and over
and over again? Well, if that ever happened to me, I would definitely spend
my first few months worth of days killing my management in every way
possible. They just didn't know when to quit.
"Darien," my manager's voice crackled over the PA. "Come to the deli.
Darien, to the deli..."
When I say that my manager spoke over the PA system with all of the
intelligibility of an Egyptian raised in China trying to speak fluent
Portuguese, I give him credit. The man holds the phone too close to his
mouth. It's nearly impossible to force yourself to listen to the man, let
alone understand him.
I approached the deli in a similar fashion as the day before. My manager
approached me in the same fashion.
"Somebody wrote on the wall again... could you clean it up?"
He left with a swift-footed pace that just reeked of "I'm going to go tell
somebody else to do something entirely useless and then yell and scream at
them that they didn't do it right."
I once again gathered the chemicals, greeted the employees behind the
service desk, tickled several of them, and then meandered my way across the
storefront, dodging the cattle-brained customers with all of the fury and
pace of Robin Williams' humor.
Once again, I found the three young boys stuffing magazines down their pants
and exiting the restroom. I'd do something about it, honestly, but last
time I brought up the fact that we had shoplifters I got an ear-full.
"Ninety-percent of all stolen merchandise in this store goes out through the
back room!" he had said. "Do you know what that means?"
I nodded as I watched two men wearing nylon over their heads walk behind my
manager and out the back door, each with a cart loaded with groceries.
"I'll bet you don't! It means employees are taking them!" he had said.
I vaguely remember the rest of the conversation. It's amazing how one's
head may continue to nod as one sleeps.
But returning to the point at hand. I walked into the restroom. Luckily, I
did not see a complimentary pile of feces this time. I sighed. At least I
wasn't repeating yesterday.
I threw open the handicapped stall and peered inside. Humperdinck must have
been smoking something, I didn't see any writing. I turned to close the
door and stepped back in shock -- right into the pile of feces that I just
hadn't noticed before. I sighed.
After changing my shoes -- yes, I keep a spare set of them around as well --
I returned to the scene of the crime. The exact same handwriting, size, and
message...
Jesus loves animals. Eating Jesus is sin. Eating animals is sin. Don't
eat Jesus. Eating animals is a sin against God.
The message was written by, as far as I was concerned, some vegetarian with
a death wish. The vandal had decided that permanent marker would be a much
funner medium this time around. Luckily, Deckers had been kind enough to
supply me with the acidic chemical known as Pink Creme. The marker came off
with a bit of elbow grease. And the day passed by yet again. I retired to
my apartment and took my residence behind the computer monitor. The
familiar buzz of a modem filled the apartment and I was suddenly in a
different world. Cheaper than crack and a whole lot more fun, as my
roommate was fond of saying.
Pry open the door. Let the customers in. Growl at their complaints. Punch
in. Get called. Vandalism again. Get chemicals. Tickle employees. Step
in feces. Change clothes. Wash stall. Go home. The day was the same as
the previous two. And the day after continued in the same fashion. Every
day, the message was written in a new medium on a different section of the
stall. I didn't know so many art supplies existed. What began with pencil,
migrated to marker, pen, chalk, watercolor, charcoal, paint, toothpaste...
the list goes on and on. And finally, one day, I lost it.
"They scratched the message into the freaking door! It'd be no less
impossible for me to wash that off than for Cher to get her singing career
back!"
My manager sighed and seemed to be contemplating over the matter before
simply walking away and forgetting the whole thing. I ordered the new stall
door for him.
Of course, I had to take precautions now. This was my door. Nobody would
be allowed to come near it, and I would be the one to see to that...
The bulk of my days consisted of sitting on a stool in the corner of the
restroom, checking the stalls after every time they were used. No vandal
appeared. I waited, day after day, and no graffiti appeared on the grey
door.
And then one day, I fell asleep at my post. I was awakened by my manager.
"What are you doing? The store looks like $*@#!"
"Ten minute break, sir," I muttered. He seemed to let it go after that.
"Well, when you're done with your break, clean this up..." he pointed at the
stall. Sure enough, the thing was covered in markered lettering.
Jesus loves animals. Eating Jesus is sin. Eating animals is sin. Don't
eat Jesus. Eating animals is a sin against God.
I sighed. This was the last time. Sure, I'd clean it, but this was the
end. My mind began to devise a trap.
"Twine?" the meat department manager had asked me. "Sure, I can get you
some twine. How much did you need?"
"We have plenty of bavarian creme," asked the bakery manager. "Why?"
And then the produce manager. "Rotten watermelon? Well, sure I guess so...
do you have pigs to feed or something?"
I grinned. Only one more item to look in to...
I taped the large paper on to the stall door. "Out of Order," it read.
Silently, I was hoping the vandal would decide to ignore the message and use
the restroom anyway. My plan counted on it.
I went home that night with a grin. Come tomorrow, this would all be
done...
The next day, on my way out of the apartment, I grabbed my roommate's set of
walkie-talkies. I nearly forgot to clock in as I was gripped with
excitement. I rushed over to the restroom, leapt over the complimentary
feces, and swung open the door to the handicapped stall. Sure enough, in
large markered lettering, was the scrawl of a fanatical vegetarian.
Step aside, Mr. Grinch, there's a new evil grin in town...
And with that, I set myself to constructing a trap within the stall.
I believe the question on the forefront of my fellow employee's minds was
why I happened to be carrying around a walkie talkie. And, of course, why
the explosive sounds of flatulence echoed from its speaker. I ignored them,
as usual, and managed to work quickly and adeptly. In fact, I had all but
forgotten about my trap when suddenly a scream came from the speaker,
followed by a heavy thud and then several lighter thuds.
Track records were never a thing I really competed for, but if I were
running one at that moment, I would have left every contestant eating my
dust. I hurtled several of the displays with a jumping prowess only shown
by an anime character such as myself, and finally skidded to a stop in front
of the restroom door.
I gulped. My heart was beating frantically. I had triumphed. I reached
down to open the door. Before I grasped the handle, however, the door swung
wide. There stood Humperdinck.
"What is the meaning of this?" he shouted. "Who was supposed to clean the
bathrooms today?" He huffed his way to the service desk as I found my way
into the restroom. Sure enough, my trap had worked.
A man in his mid-twenties lay in a puddle of Bavarian creme on the floor,
the marks his feet had made as he slid were hidden by his body. Three
watermelons had landed directly on top of him, covering the vandal in a
rotten red mess. The twine still held across the door frame, and my Walkie
Talkie's mate was still taped to the post immediately to the left of the
door.
I grinned evilly and kicked the unconcious man in the head. And with that,
my shift was over. Humperdinck couldn't screw anything up further, I was
sure of that... and thus I left the store, happier than I had been in a long
while.
What happened, you ask? Well, I'm not sure to be exact. Apparently
Humperdinck was going to release the kid until he started raving about the
end of the world and that all carnivores would be utterly destroyed. I
think it was at about that moment that the hampster in Humperdinck's head
began turning the wheel.
The police were called in, and the vegetable was removed from the property.
He tried to sue the company, and ended up bringing OSHA down on us... but
that's another story entirely.