Paper clip update. You will recall the case of Sarah who recently had a baby by Bill Roberts, one of the men accused of abducting, assaulting and brutally raping a young woman outside of a night club on the east side. Sarah is living with her aunt. I pointed out previously that Sarah is exceedingly stupid. Just terribly stupid. Just mind-bendingly stupid. Like a paper clip.
Carl continually defended her because he liked pretty young women and it doesn’t much matter if they are bright enough to work a vending machine on their own. But he is fed up with Sarah. He was all set to throw some work at her so she would have some extras for the baby, etc. But when she told Carl that she was still in love with Bill and wished he would be out of prison so they could all live together as a family, that is all Carl could stand. He no longer contradicts me when I announce that there isn’t a retarded ferret anywhere in the world who does not have a huge leg up on this little twit.
Not that I have been Einstein when it comes to men. I have committed acts of unbridled stupidity that defy reason, myself. But I have never claimed undying love for a violence-crazed misogynistic rapist.
Another of Carl’s less-than-gifted friends, Chris, is in jail. Several years ago she was dating some guy who mistreated her. So she dumped him and started dating his father instead. Dad was a truck driver who was out of town a lot, so whenever he would leave, his son would call Chris and ask for a reconciliation just enough to get his rocks off. Chris fended him off, but he got angrier and angrier. Eventually Chris married the old man because he was decent to her at first.
But matters did not stay that way. The apple don’t fall far from the tree and the tree don’t grow far from the rotted fruit. The old man began to hit her and so forth so she took her kids (not by him) and left. He pulled some strings and had her utilities turned off and then reported to Family Services that her kids were hold up in a place with no heat or electricity. Family Services removed the kids to foster care.
Chris went through endless grief trying to get the kids back and to prove that she is stable and can provide a home, etc. Once DFS suspects you of something your life can be made a shambles.
Chris eventually did get them back and divorced the old man. This upset him. He and his son came over, and in a cooperative inter-generational effort, beat the crap out of her together. Way to bond with your son, huh?
She got a restraining order against the two men. When the son called her up to notify her that he was on the way over to beat her up again, she called the cops. Our friends, the cops. They arrived and were willing to enforce the restraining order, but could not find it in their computer. So they ran her name through the computer looking for it and a bench warrant popped up for $250 worth of traffic tickets she had not paid. So she went to jail and the kids went to foster care. Hundreds are needed to bail her out and there is not a soul in the world to help her. She is frightened and alone in the jail. Fortunately, she is huge, so she won’t be bullied as much as she could be. Plus she is unkempt and her teeth are green.
Do you realize I have never been physically abused by anyone? No pedophiles have ever done me harm; no relatives have wanted to play doctor, no man has ever raised a hand to me. For years I have wondered how I lucked out on this when there are so many women who don’t. It can’t be because of my sweet and loving personality that doesn’t inspire the rage or hatred usually linked to abuse because a) I don’t have a sweet loving personality; I am a bitch and b) I don’t think the temperament of the victim moves an abuser one way or the other.
There was an occasion when I was seven or eight years old when I was in a movie theater and a pervert sat down next to me. He had a trench coat and everything. He put his hand between my legs and rubbed.
Being uninitiated in matters of pedophilia and sexual deviance, and having no idea at all what this touching was about, I did not respond with fear or panic, but with bewilderment and annoyance. I crossed my legs and leaned away from him and he got up and left. I was lucky.
It was years later when I realized I had been molested. I can’t say that I suffered any long term psychological problems because of it. I think the incident had no impact on me whatsoever. As I say, I was lucky.
I wish now I had stood and screamed my head off in the theater until they had to stop the film and have the man arrested. Perhaps something worse happened to some other little girl because I did not. It pays to be educated about everything.
It is because of this episode and all the things that could have happened to me and haven’t that I suspect my life has been charmed in this area. I guess this is only fair since it has been righteously screwed up in so many others.
Saturday, March 22, 2008
How a Man is Like a Sea Lion
I received unconfirmed word that a sea lion living off the west coast of the U.S. may be put to death by wildlife officials because he has killed some 15 to 20 sea lionesses by crushing them to death in an attempt to make love to them. I hate when that happens. The Mike Tyson of sea lions.
I am unfamiliar with sea lions as lovers, but there are men out there who are terrible in bed. I’ve done the field research; I know. There was one guy, Bill, who would have had to improve 1,000% before he could be terrible. When I met him, he was whining about how the love of his life, Sherry, THE relationship, had left him to be with a woman. I felt bad for him. What a blow to ego, self-esteem, etc. After we had done the deed, I had a different attitude. If it is possible to convert to lesbianism, if it’s not actually your nature, Bill was as good a reason as there could ever be. I considered it briefly myself.
Unfortunately, it is my observation that most men know what they are supposed to do, but many just don’t care to be bothered. A shame. I wonder if good ole Bill, the graduate of the pneumatic hammer school of love making, ever found happiness with, say, a female water buffalo or something of a suitable nature.
Let me take this opportunity to say, as the song says, I like a man with a slow hand; I like a lover with an easy touch. I want somebody who will spend some time; not come and go in a heated rush. And I definitely don’t wish to be crushed to death, either. Thanks anyway.
I am unfamiliar with sea lions as lovers, but there are men out there who are terrible in bed. I’ve done the field research; I know. There was one guy, Bill, who would have had to improve 1,000% before he could be terrible. When I met him, he was whining about how the love of his life, Sherry, THE relationship, had left him to be with a woman. I felt bad for him. What a blow to ego, self-esteem, etc. After we had done the deed, I had a different attitude. If it is possible to convert to lesbianism, if it’s not actually your nature, Bill was as good a reason as there could ever be. I considered it briefly myself.
Unfortunately, it is my observation that most men know what they are supposed to do, but many just don’t care to be bothered. A shame. I wonder if good ole Bill, the graduate of the pneumatic hammer school of love making, ever found happiness with, say, a female water buffalo or something of a suitable nature.
Let me take this opportunity to say, as the song says, I like a man with a slow hand; I like a lover with an easy touch. I want somebody who will spend some time; not come and go in a heated rush. And I definitely don’t wish to be crushed to death, either. Thanks anyway.
No Matter How Bad Your Life is, Someone Else's is Worse
I went to grade school and high school with a girl who was severely scarred by a fire as a baby. Her neck and chest and right arm looked as though they were partially melted and huge misshapen globs of flesh rippled like water over rocks in a brook all down her legs. The first time I saw her I was about six, and the sight of her frightened me terribly.
If, in an intimate moment, you would ask her about the fire, she would offer one of several explanations she had prepared. None had anything to do with any of the others. And if you asked her brother, you would get yet another tale. I was never able to determine which, if any of the tales were true, or to what degree. I have often wondered about the secrecy.
After going to school with her several years, though, most of us kids forgot all about the scars. Stopped seeing them. But I was with a deaf girlfriend walking in the neighborhood. We were 8 or 9 at the time. I saw Jeanne with the scars across the street and crossed over to greet her. Sherry, the deaf girl, was obviously terrified of Jeanne and refused to come over. The look of panic, fear and revulsion on her face was clear. I could say or do nothing to smooth it over. I felt worse for Jeanne in that moment than I ever have before or since.
Now I make sure I only hang out with beautiful people. People who are attractive are winners. People who aren’t are losers. I am a winner and only want winners around me. Pathetic ugly people should get off the planet. Image is everything.
Signing off. Jana Meehan. Pioneering new frontiers in superficiality.
If, in an intimate moment, you would ask her about the fire, she would offer one of several explanations she had prepared. None had anything to do with any of the others. And if you asked her brother, you would get yet another tale. I was never able to determine which, if any of the tales were true, or to what degree. I have often wondered about the secrecy.
After going to school with her several years, though, most of us kids forgot all about the scars. Stopped seeing them. But I was with a deaf girlfriend walking in the neighborhood. We were 8 or 9 at the time. I saw Jeanne with the scars across the street and crossed over to greet her. Sherry, the deaf girl, was obviously terrified of Jeanne and refused to come over. The look of panic, fear and revulsion on her face was clear. I could say or do nothing to smooth it over. I felt worse for Jeanne in that moment than I ever have before or since.
Now I make sure I only hang out with beautiful people. People who are attractive are winners. People who aren’t are losers. I am a winner and only want winners around me. Pathetic ugly people should get off the planet. Image is everything.
Signing off. Jana Meehan. Pioneering new frontiers in superficiality.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Virginity Sucks
I met a man named Richard. He was a noted Christian minister, evangelist, author, teacher, prayer warrior—you know the type. He and his Mrs. had been married for about 23 years, no children, when he abruptly left her and married someone else. The someone else was in her mid-twenties and Richard was more than twice her age.
Stories like this are a nickel a dozen, you say? He had an itch, the cad, you say.? A woman stands by him more than two decades and this is how she is rewarded. The pig!
Keep reading.
When Richard took a powder from his first wife, there was no divorce. There was an annulment. Mrs Richard #1 was unable to argue with his assertion before the court that in 23 years of marriage, the union had never been consummated. Richard entered into matrimony in good faith, not realizing that she. had been taught from earliest childhood that sex is horrible, abhorrent, filthy, sinful, and to be avoided at all costs. Her parents, evidently, were so determined that their little princess be a virgin on her wedding night, that they overdid, and she was still a virgin 23 years afterward. And to this day, as far as I know.
What gets me is that this unfortunate man was faithful and patient for this huge span of time, and did without (or so he says). I suspect arguments took place regularly behind closed doors on the issue, but to the outside world, the couple was the epitome of Christian harmony. But she never upped the goodies. At last,he couldn’t stand it anymore.
The new Mrs. Richard was happy to give him children.
What else gets me is the tremendous power that parents have to f--- up their children’s lives. It happens all the time, that our individual pathologies are rooted in our upbringing. But Lord, have mercy! This was child abuse.
My own mother tried her best to convince me that having sex is tantamount to eating pig slop. It is dirty and humiliating, but must be tolerated if one is to have children. I guess I was supposed to be grateful for her sacrifice in bringing me into the world. I, however, am less stupid and more self-aware than some—plus I watch TV—and managed to overcome this conditioning with remarkably efficacious determination. I like sex a lot. A lot. A lot. It would be difficult, in fact, to overstate how much I like it. Or to stop talking about it at times.
My mother, in her defense, was her mother’s daughter. Gram was raised to believe that one does not discuss the topic in polite company—or in any company. When my mom was 14, she went to the bathroom at school and discovered blood, a lot of it, in her underwear. She nearly went to pieces with panic and fear until one of the looser, less ladylike, more jaded girls came in the bathroom and told her what’s up. My mom was angry with her mom, who felt terrible about he failure to warn her daughter, but to her, talking about menstruation was a sin.
My mom made sure I knew everything ahead of time.
Stories like this are a nickel a dozen, you say? He had an itch, the cad, you say.? A woman stands by him more than two decades and this is how she is rewarded. The pig!
Keep reading.
When Richard took a powder from his first wife, there was no divorce. There was an annulment. Mrs Richard #1 was unable to argue with his assertion before the court that in 23 years of marriage, the union had never been consummated. Richard entered into matrimony in good faith, not realizing that she. had been taught from earliest childhood that sex is horrible, abhorrent, filthy, sinful, and to be avoided at all costs. Her parents, evidently, were so determined that their little princess be a virgin on her wedding night, that they overdid, and she was still a virgin 23 years afterward. And to this day, as far as I know.
What gets me is that this unfortunate man was faithful and patient for this huge span of time, and did without (or so he says). I suspect arguments took place regularly behind closed doors on the issue, but to the outside world, the couple was the epitome of Christian harmony. But she never upped the goodies. At last,he couldn’t stand it anymore.
The new Mrs. Richard was happy to give him children.
What else gets me is the tremendous power that parents have to f--- up their children’s lives. It happens all the time, that our individual pathologies are rooted in our upbringing. But Lord, have mercy! This was child abuse.
My own mother tried her best to convince me that having sex is tantamount to eating pig slop. It is dirty and humiliating, but must be tolerated if one is to have children. I guess I was supposed to be grateful for her sacrifice in bringing me into the world. I, however, am less stupid and more self-aware than some—plus I watch TV—and managed to overcome this conditioning with remarkably efficacious determination. I like sex a lot. A lot. A lot. It would be difficult, in fact, to overstate how much I like it. Or to stop talking about it at times.
My mother, in her defense, was her mother’s daughter. Gram was raised to believe that one does not discuss the topic in polite company—or in any company. When my mom was 14, she went to the bathroom at school and discovered blood, a lot of it, in her underwear. She nearly went to pieces with panic and fear until one of the looser, less ladylike, more jaded girls came in the bathroom and told her what’s up. My mom was angry with her mom, who felt terrible about he failure to warn her daughter, but to her, talking about menstruation was a sin.
My mom made sure I knew everything ahead of time.
Heroes Come in All Colors
The Apaches engaged the Mexicans, but were under-manned. Losing, out of arrows, and with broken spears, the Apaches noticed four Mexicans coming over a rise to scout their situation. Goldiya grabbed a spear and killed the first Mexican. As he fell, his sword flew and Goldiya caught it in the air. As he killed the second Mexican, the last two turned to flee. He jumped on a horse and gave chase. As he killed the third, he was in view of the Mexican camp. The Mexicans saw the attack on their fellow and began chanting his name, Jerome, to encourage him to escape Goldiya’s sword. He did not.
The Apaches rallied behind Goldiya and went on to victory in the battle. As they attacked, they also chanted the name of Jerome to mock and humiliate the Mexican criminals. That night at the victory party, the warriors officially changed One Who Yawns’ name to Jerome to honor the warrior. Jerome, in the Mexican language, is Geronimo..
The Apaches were very skilled horsemen. Geronimo was taught at an early age to ride a horse at full gallop using no reins and no saddle, but merely his knees to steer and hold on. This left his hands completely free to wield weapons. This is why Apache were fearsome in battle. They could concentrate on their targets.
The Apaches rallied behind Goldiya and went on to victory in the battle. As they attacked, they also chanted the name of Jerome to mock and humiliate the Mexican criminals. That night at the victory party, the warriors officially changed One Who Yawns’ name to Jerome to honor the warrior. Jerome, in the Mexican language, is Geronimo..
The Apaches were very skilled horsemen. Geronimo was taught at an early age to ride a horse at full gallop using no reins and no saddle, but merely his knees to steer and hold on. This left his hands completely free to wield weapons. This is why Apache were fearsome in battle. They could concentrate on their targets.
Swinging on a Star
My dad built a swing set in the back yard when I was little. It wasn’t like most kids’ swing sets. He strung a heavy chain between the two trees on either side of the yard. The chain was about 30 feet above the ground. From there he hung two more chains down to the ground in the center and attached a board between them to sit on. A rope was also attached to the cross chain and one person would pull on the rope and cause the swing to gain great speed and altitude for the person sitting on the board.
But I found out that it was more fun to swing on the rope itself, so my dad got the swing out of the way and put a board in the noose at the end of the rope. I would stand on the top level of the climbing bars he had also made for me. The top was about eight feet high. I would put my right leg through the noose so I could sit on the board that was fixed there. Then I would hook the rope across my body and behind my left shoulder so that it was in effect behind me and out of my view. Then I would dive off the top of the climbing bars like Superman flying off a roof. Basically lying belly down in mid air, I would swoop across the yard and sail up to nearly the second floor window of the house. It was a lot like flying. It was absolutely wonderful. You could go high.
I have often had flying dreams. Lots of people do, and so I don’t know if I have them because I’m like other people or because of my swing set. Dream experts say flying dreams are indicative of ambition and aspiration. Maybe, but mine were indicative of a desire for freedom and power. Things I still seek.
But I found out that it was more fun to swing on the rope itself, so my dad got the swing out of the way and put a board in the noose at the end of the rope. I would stand on the top level of the climbing bars he had also made for me. The top was about eight feet high. I would put my right leg through the noose so I could sit on the board that was fixed there. Then I would hook the rope across my body and behind my left shoulder so that it was in effect behind me and out of my view. Then I would dive off the top of the climbing bars like Superman flying off a roof. Basically lying belly down in mid air, I would swoop across the yard and sail up to nearly the second floor window of the house. It was a lot like flying. It was absolutely wonderful. You could go high.
I have often had flying dreams. Lots of people do, and so I don’t know if I have them because I’m like other people or because of my swing set. Dream experts say flying dreams are indicative of ambition and aspiration. Maybe, but mine were indicative of a desire for freedom and power. Things I still seek.
Friday, March 7, 2008
Some Lessons Learned at the Cash Register
The best job I ever loved was at a small local drug and sundries store in downtown St. Louis in the 70’s. The community was extremely diverse, and that was part of its charm. The clientele ranged from upper level white-shirted executives who filled the surrounding office buildings, to poor, struggling people trying to stretch their welfare checks, to the addicts who slept in recessed doorways and marked their territory with urine and discarded Mad Dog bottles.
The bus lines brought families from outlying parts of the city, and with them, some poignant early lessons for me about the ravages of being poor.
For instance, if she had been a wealthy woman, the lady with a face decorated with tumors might have been able to have them removed. The tumors looked like in-shell pecans hanging from thin pieces of skin on her face and they swung back and forth as she turned her head. They were like Christmas tree ornaments, but weren’t festive at all.
The woman whose right eye was greatly enlarged, dead, hooded, and located where her cheekbone should have been might have also had some help, if she had had some money.
With poverty also comes ignorance quite a lot of the time, and as a dedicated employee, the onus was on me to provide simple, kind answers to some customer questions that defied reason with their stupidity, but originated from a place where the customer simply could not help himself.
One such event was very telling. My boss, Mr. L. was a wonderful guy with an outgoing, sanguine temperament and a loyalty to his employees that I wish I could have enjoyed in one or two jobs I’ve had since.
An angry woman confronted him one day. She was bringing back a punch bowl she had purchased. Her objection was that the punch bowl came with only six drinking cups when she believed it was supposed to have eight. She was adamant. Mr. L pointed out that the box listed the contents as one large punch bowl, six drinking cups and a ladle.
She didn’t care. She had gotten the box home and opened it and found that the packaging was such that there was room for two more cups, but they weren’t there. A cup rested in each of the four corners of the box on two levels, so her confusion was somewhat justified. There were two empty spaces, but the box was clearly labeled.
Repeated reminders that only six cups were promised on the box was to no avail. At last he refunded her money and she stormed out, furious that it took such a fight to get her money for a product that was obviously defective.
I didn’t understand. The box clearly said six, and the picture on the box showed six cups. Why on earth could she not be made to understand?
Mr. L understood. He had been at this a few years and explained it to me: the woman had never learned to read. The contents list on the box meant nothing to her, and having suffered for years with this particular handicap, she had grown accustomed to being cheated, and had learned to be distrustful. So, my anger washed away, and my heart went out to her. She became an object lesson to me in the value of literacy and culture.
There were many object lessons for me in that drug store. I was a college student when I took the job, and I often wonder if it was college or the drug store that provided the richest education.
A teenager was hired after I had been there a year or two. Her name was Angie, but we’ll call her “Dipshit,” at least for purposes of this narrative. She was moderately pretty, but lacking in savvy. Her behavior soon began to manifest a terrible self esteem, and a knack for self destruction.
So when regular customer, Louis the Pimp found her stocking the toothpaste aisle, he asked her for a date. He was 25 years older than she, lived down the street in a flea bag hotel, and was well known for selling girls whom he drugged regularly to keep them compliant. Knowing this was not enough to dissuade Dipshit from spending the night with him. And it took all of a ten-minute conversation for Louis to make the arrangement.
The next day, Louis came by the store again. He came in regularly to buy cough syrup which he was rumored to combine with some other drug as a cocktail for his girls. He told Helen, who managed the tobacco department, that he was throwing Dipshit back in the water. She was too inexperienced to make him any money.
I was pretty sure that Dipshit didn’t even know that her night of passion was actually a test drive. But the fact that he never spoke to her again didn’t seem to bother her.
She didn’t stay with the company long. Her lack of common sense, I suspect, was her career’s undoing.
The object lesson to me that time was visceral. I, too, was young and inexperienced. But I learned a lot that day about the value of thinking well of oneself. And how ugly some men are to women.
And I came away from that lesson feeling a bit charmed. Louis the Pimp was, after all, routinely very nice to me. He never offered such a suggestion, but he did buy me Cokes and candy bars. When I asked him frankly about his line of work, he would say, “Oh, baby, don’t make me lie to you.”
There were some ugly women, too. One of them was hired about the same time as Dipshit. The pejorative nickname I gave this new employee was “The Dysentery Kid.” This, because she was filthy and smelled like a urinal whenever she came to work.
She seemed like a nice enough person, but ravaged by poverty like so many in that community, and I wondered if she had working plumbing at her home. Surely her personal hygiene, or lack thereof, would not be a personal choice. And I liked her, but from a safe distance.
She wore garish make up, wildly teased hair, and ill-fitting thrift store clothes. Dysentery was hired to take the places of various workers who had scheduled vacation time including, unfortunately, Rose, the pharmacy technician.
On Dysentery’s first day in the pharmacy, she arrived at work wearing her white uniform, flaming blue eyeshadow and a huge Dolly Parton blonde wig.
Mr. L. was embarrassed and felt that such a get-up would compromise the credibility of the pharmacy department.
I kept my mouth shut. I believed that someone who smells so unclean and looks so unwashed will compromise the credibility of the entire store no matter what department she worked in. But I wasn’t in charge.
He sent her home to change.
So, given Dysentery’s odor, appearance, and over all lack of good taste, it was a great surprise to me when she announced once at the lunch table that she was with child. I honestly wondered what kind of man would DO that, but, as I said, I was young and inexperienced.
The lunch break at the store was a great chance to socialize and develop the close friendships that I cherished during my tenure at there. There was, of course, the sense of community and team spirit that happens on a lot of jobs. Plus, there were the shared goals of servicing such an eclectic clientele while we all sought to keep our sense of humor.
For the few months following Dysentery’s announcement, the lunch crowd was regaled with stories about her pregnancy. We heard about the morning sickness, the kicking fetus, the frequent trips to the girls room, and the shopping for baby clothes in second hand stores. While this was not her first child, nothing was said about the father, so we didn’t know if he was in the picture. None of her other kids appeared to have fathers in the picture.
The stupid thing I said occurred one week when Dysentery was back in the pharmacy. She was wearing that white uniform to work again, and had it on when she arrived and stopped at my counter on her way to the locker room. I was in the cosmetics department that day, and that was where employee purchases occurred. She set down a box of tampons on the counter, but wouldn’t look at me while I rang them up and calculated her discount.
The stupid thing I said was, “I thought you were off these things for a few more months.”
She looked at me and her expression was one of pain, loathing and contempt. She grabbed her purchase and marched away from me. As she did, I noticed that the backside of her white uniform was soaked in blood.
She had miscarried on the bus.
My education continued as this drug store offered a comprehensive tour into the nuances of race relations.
On the good side, there was Gene. Gene was an elderly black man who sold newspapers at a stand across the street. He shopped with us regularly, and always talked to me in his gentle, homespun way. He delighted me frequently when he paid me for his package of cigars. He would reach across my counter and touch my lily-white earlobe with his finger. Then he would put the finger in his mouth, smile, and say, “Mmmm, good! Vanilla!” Something about that gesture warmed me to my toes. It still does.
But not all of my attempts at race relations were as joyful. One regular customer, a dark-skinned lady, came through my check out line one afternoon. She presented a large leather bag, black, with a zipper top. She unzipped it and began pulling out the items she had to purchase.
Now, I don’t believe that what I said to her should have been a cause for so much anger, but she sure did, and that’s where my education took a leap forward.
“Mrs. Johnson, you know, we have shopping baskets for you to use. I’m afraid that if you are seen putting items into a container like that, there might be an misunderstanding with the security guard.”
She went off. She hurled accusations at me that, at the core, suggested that I assumed that since she is black, she must therefore be stealing.
Now, it was true that there was a lot of pilferage at that store, and it was also true that we had a large black clientele. And I dare say it was true that many of the shoplifters who were stopped at the door were of African descent. And all of those facts were admittedly in my mind when I made the remark. But I merely meant to express that Mrs. Johnson was borrowing trouble for herself.
One important lesson here, as I furthered my education, is that racism can appear very quietly. It can be a hidden enemy lurking surreptitiously in the heart and can jump out unexpectedly and without intention.
And, to mix a metaphor, it isn’t always black and white. There are shades of grey. On the bad side, I may have assumed that Mrs. Johnson was at higher risk of being misunderstood because of her race. On the good side, the side where I defend myself, I was just giving her a heads up. But in my heart, the lines were blurred.
Another important lesson for me here is one that was repeated for years. To wit: black folks, especially poor ones, are often poised and ready to be angry. Many of them have been put upon for so much of their lives by white people with white assumptions, innuendos, and fears that it often takes very little to trigger the pent up rage. Mrs. Johnson was no child. She had been a victim before.
For my part, as a rather sheltered, white 19-year-old, I just wanted to be fair-minded, and to not do anything wrong or cause any trouble. I felt horrible. My understanding of her anger was very limited at that time. It was wholly theoretical. Over the years, and especially following my marriage to a black man, I began to build a knack for walking in black people’s moccasins, as much as that can be done. But at 19, my sheltered upbringing rendered me clueless.
And speaking of our security guard, his name was Bill Bailey. No kidding. He was a large, jolly man with a huge laugh and a high-pitched voice that belied his size. I liked him a lot.
One day I was taking my break in the cafeteria next door and Bill was taking his at the same time. The topic turned to Dysentery, and I expressed some bewilderment about who would care to impregnate a woman with her personal hygiene issues.
(Okay, I was catty. All right, I was VERY catty.)
Bill, who was also kind of catty, explained that Dysentery was a “two-bagger.” It was my first exposure to the term. He explained that with her handicap, it wasn’t enough to put a bag over her head in bed. He’d have to put a bag over his own, just in case hers slipped off.
Yes, it was catty, but I laughed.
Bill was part of a most memorable tale about my employment. A man approached me one day as I was stocking the stationary aisle. He had some sort of deformities. His wire-rimmed eyeglasses had one lens blackened out over the outer half with a felt marker. He was wearing a back pack and also a strap around his neck that held an electronic device that contained a keyboard. The keyboard was cushioned all around it. As he walked, he lurched very dramatically from one side to the other so that the keyboard banged against his rib cage violently. Hence, the cushion.
He brought to me a package of black tape. It was the kind that loads into a label maker. Your message is pressed into the tape and it comes out the other end of the label maker. There is an adhesive backing that peels off.
This gentleman was unable to speak. He pointed at the tape, then pointed at the blackened out half of his glasses lens, and grunted with an upturned sound as if he was asking me a question.
I said, “Sure, that should work. You want to stick the tape on your glasses? Yes, I believe the adhesive should hold.”
He gave me a huge, toothy grin. He lurched backwards three or four steps and pushed two buttons on the keyboard around his neck.
The mechanism said, “THANK YOU” in a deep, electronic voice that was not at all human-sounding. Then the man lurched away, machinery banging against him.
I stood there for a moment, motionless.
Bill came up behind me, and with an astonishing intuition, read my mind, and said to me, “In case you were wondering, you didn’t imagine that. It happened. I saw it, too.”
Ten years passed, and I encounterd that man again with the unusual handicap and the technology to thwart it. He was in a quick copy store making photocopies of the newspaper article that had been written about him.
The bus lines brought families from outlying parts of the city, and with them, some poignant early lessons for me about the ravages of being poor.
For instance, if she had been a wealthy woman, the lady with a face decorated with tumors might have been able to have them removed. The tumors looked like in-shell pecans hanging from thin pieces of skin on her face and they swung back and forth as she turned her head. They were like Christmas tree ornaments, but weren’t festive at all.
The woman whose right eye was greatly enlarged, dead, hooded, and located where her cheekbone should have been might have also had some help, if she had had some money.
With poverty also comes ignorance quite a lot of the time, and as a dedicated employee, the onus was on me to provide simple, kind answers to some customer questions that defied reason with their stupidity, but originated from a place where the customer simply could not help himself.
One such event was very telling. My boss, Mr. L. was a wonderful guy with an outgoing, sanguine temperament and a loyalty to his employees that I wish I could have enjoyed in one or two jobs I’ve had since.
An angry woman confronted him one day. She was bringing back a punch bowl she had purchased. Her objection was that the punch bowl came with only six drinking cups when she believed it was supposed to have eight. She was adamant. Mr. L pointed out that the box listed the contents as one large punch bowl, six drinking cups and a ladle.
She didn’t care. She had gotten the box home and opened it and found that the packaging was such that there was room for two more cups, but they weren’t there. A cup rested in each of the four corners of the box on two levels, so her confusion was somewhat justified. There were two empty spaces, but the box was clearly labeled.
Repeated reminders that only six cups were promised on the box was to no avail. At last he refunded her money and she stormed out, furious that it took such a fight to get her money for a product that was obviously defective.
I didn’t understand. The box clearly said six, and the picture on the box showed six cups. Why on earth could she not be made to understand?
Mr. L understood. He had been at this a few years and explained it to me: the woman had never learned to read. The contents list on the box meant nothing to her, and having suffered for years with this particular handicap, she had grown accustomed to being cheated, and had learned to be distrustful. So, my anger washed away, and my heart went out to her. She became an object lesson to me in the value of literacy and culture.
There were many object lessons for me in that drug store. I was a college student when I took the job, and I often wonder if it was college or the drug store that provided the richest education.
A teenager was hired after I had been there a year or two. Her name was Angie, but we’ll call her “Dipshit,” at least for purposes of this narrative. She was moderately pretty, but lacking in savvy. Her behavior soon began to manifest a terrible self esteem, and a knack for self destruction.
So when regular customer, Louis the Pimp found her stocking the toothpaste aisle, he asked her for a date. He was 25 years older than she, lived down the street in a flea bag hotel, and was well known for selling girls whom he drugged regularly to keep them compliant. Knowing this was not enough to dissuade Dipshit from spending the night with him. And it took all of a ten-minute conversation for Louis to make the arrangement.
The next day, Louis came by the store again. He came in regularly to buy cough syrup which he was rumored to combine with some other drug as a cocktail for his girls. He told Helen, who managed the tobacco department, that he was throwing Dipshit back in the water. She was too inexperienced to make him any money.
I was pretty sure that Dipshit didn’t even know that her night of passion was actually a test drive. But the fact that he never spoke to her again didn’t seem to bother her.
She didn’t stay with the company long. Her lack of common sense, I suspect, was her career’s undoing.
The object lesson to me that time was visceral. I, too, was young and inexperienced. But I learned a lot that day about the value of thinking well of oneself. And how ugly some men are to women.
And I came away from that lesson feeling a bit charmed. Louis the Pimp was, after all, routinely very nice to me. He never offered such a suggestion, but he did buy me Cokes and candy bars. When I asked him frankly about his line of work, he would say, “Oh, baby, don’t make me lie to you.”
There were some ugly women, too. One of them was hired about the same time as Dipshit. The pejorative nickname I gave this new employee was “The Dysentery Kid.” This, because she was filthy and smelled like a urinal whenever she came to work.
She seemed like a nice enough person, but ravaged by poverty like so many in that community, and I wondered if she had working plumbing at her home. Surely her personal hygiene, or lack thereof, would not be a personal choice. And I liked her, but from a safe distance.
She wore garish make up, wildly teased hair, and ill-fitting thrift store clothes. Dysentery was hired to take the places of various workers who had scheduled vacation time including, unfortunately, Rose, the pharmacy technician.
On Dysentery’s first day in the pharmacy, she arrived at work wearing her white uniform, flaming blue eyeshadow and a huge Dolly Parton blonde wig.
Mr. L. was embarrassed and felt that such a get-up would compromise the credibility of the pharmacy department.
I kept my mouth shut. I believed that someone who smells so unclean and looks so unwashed will compromise the credibility of the entire store no matter what department she worked in. But I wasn’t in charge.
He sent her home to change.
So, given Dysentery’s odor, appearance, and over all lack of good taste, it was a great surprise to me when she announced once at the lunch table that she was with child. I honestly wondered what kind of man would DO that, but, as I said, I was young and inexperienced.
The lunch break at the store was a great chance to socialize and develop the close friendships that I cherished during my tenure at there. There was, of course, the sense of community and team spirit that happens on a lot of jobs. Plus, there were the shared goals of servicing such an eclectic clientele while we all sought to keep our sense of humor.
For the few months following Dysentery’s announcement, the lunch crowd was regaled with stories about her pregnancy. We heard about the morning sickness, the kicking fetus, the frequent trips to the girls room, and the shopping for baby clothes in second hand stores. While this was not her first child, nothing was said about the father, so we didn’t know if he was in the picture. None of her other kids appeared to have fathers in the picture.
The stupid thing I said occurred one week when Dysentery was back in the pharmacy. She was wearing that white uniform to work again, and had it on when she arrived and stopped at my counter on her way to the locker room. I was in the cosmetics department that day, and that was where employee purchases occurred. She set down a box of tampons on the counter, but wouldn’t look at me while I rang them up and calculated her discount.
The stupid thing I said was, “I thought you were off these things for a few more months.”
She looked at me and her expression was one of pain, loathing and contempt. She grabbed her purchase and marched away from me. As she did, I noticed that the backside of her white uniform was soaked in blood.
She had miscarried on the bus.
My education continued as this drug store offered a comprehensive tour into the nuances of race relations.
On the good side, there was Gene. Gene was an elderly black man who sold newspapers at a stand across the street. He shopped with us regularly, and always talked to me in his gentle, homespun way. He delighted me frequently when he paid me for his package of cigars. He would reach across my counter and touch my lily-white earlobe with his finger. Then he would put the finger in his mouth, smile, and say, “Mmmm, good! Vanilla!” Something about that gesture warmed me to my toes. It still does.
But not all of my attempts at race relations were as joyful. One regular customer, a dark-skinned lady, came through my check out line one afternoon. She presented a large leather bag, black, with a zipper top. She unzipped it and began pulling out the items she had to purchase.
Now, I don’t believe that what I said to her should have been a cause for so much anger, but she sure did, and that’s where my education took a leap forward.
“Mrs. Johnson, you know, we have shopping baskets for you to use. I’m afraid that if you are seen putting items into a container like that, there might be an misunderstanding with the security guard.”
She went off. She hurled accusations at me that, at the core, suggested that I assumed that since she is black, she must therefore be stealing.
Now, it was true that there was a lot of pilferage at that store, and it was also true that we had a large black clientele. And I dare say it was true that many of the shoplifters who were stopped at the door were of African descent. And all of those facts were admittedly in my mind when I made the remark. But I merely meant to express that Mrs. Johnson was borrowing trouble for herself.
One important lesson here, as I furthered my education, is that racism can appear very quietly. It can be a hidden enemy lurking surreptitiously in the heart and can jump out unexpectedly and without intention.
And, to mix a metaphor, it isn’t always black and white. There are shades of grey. On the bad side, I may have assumed that Mrs. Johnson was at higher risk of being misunderstood because of her race. On the good side, the side where I defend myself, I was just giving her a heads up. But in my heart, the lines were blurred.
Another important lesson for me here is one that was repeated for years. To wit: black folks, especially poor ones, are often poised and ready to be angry. Many of them have been put upon for so much of their lives by white people with white assumptions, innuendos, and fears that it often takes very little to trigger the pent up rage. Mrs. Johnson was no child. She had been a victim before.
For my part, as a rather sheltered, white 19-year-old, I just wanted to be fair-minded, and to not do anything wrong or cause any trouble. I felt horrible. My understanding of her anger was very limited at that time. It was wholly theoretical. Over the years, and especially following my marriage to a black man, I began to build a knack for walking in black people’s moccasins, as much as that can be done. But at 19, my sheltered upbringing rendered me clueless.
And speaking of our security guard, his name was Bill Bailey. No kidding. He was a large, jolly man with a huge laugh and a high-pitched voice that belied his size. I liked him a lot.
One day I was taking my break in the cafeteria next door and Bill was taking his at the same time. The topic turned to Dysentery, and I expressed some bewilderment about who would care to impregnate a woman with her personal hygiene issues.
(Okay, I was catty. All right, I was VERY catty.)
Bill, who was also kind of catty, explained that Dysentery was a “two-bagger.” It was my first exposure to the term. He explained that with her handicap, it wasn’t enough to put a bag over her head in bed. He’d have to put a bag over his own, just in case hers slipped off.
Yes, it was catty, but I laughed.
Bill was part of a most memorable tale about my employment. A man approached me one day as I was stocking the stationary aisle. He had some sort of deformities. His wire-rimmed eyeglasses had one lens blackened out over the outer half with a felt marker. He was wearing a back pack and also a strap around his neck that held an electronic device that contained a keyboard. The keyboard was cushioned all around it. As he walked, he lurched very dramatically from one side to the other so that the keyboard banged against his rib cage violently. Hence, the cushion.
He brought to me a package of black tape. It was the kind that loads into a label maker. Your message is pressed into the tape and it comes out the other end of the label maker. There is an adhesive backing that peels off.
This gentleman was unable to speak. He pointed at the tape, then pointed at the blackened out half of his glasses lens, and grunted with an upturned sound as if he was asking me a question.
I said, “Sure, that should work. You want to stick the tape on your glasses? Yes, I believe the adhesive should hold.”
He gave me a huge, toothy grin. He lurched backwards three or four steps and pushed two buttons on the keyboard around his neck.
The mechanism said, “THANK YOU” in a deep, electronic voice that was not at all human-sounding. Then the man lurched away, machinery banging against him.
I stood there for a moment, motionless.
Bill came up behind me, and with an astonishing intuition, read my mind, and said to me, “In case you were wondering, you didn’t imagine that. It happened. I saw it, too.”
Ten years passed, and I encounterd that man again with the unusual handicap and the technology to thwart it. He was in a quick copy store making photocopies of the newspaper article that had been written about him.
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