The Gooey Diet Pepsi Sticky Syrup Spill

Monday Morning, 6:00 AM:

I've got a small line of people buying pre-work coffee, donuts, newspapers and energy drinks when a woman at the pop machine in the back of the store yells up to me: "You're out of Diet Pepsi!"

Despite the loud pronouncement, she clings onto hope, as I can hear the repeated "click . . .ccchhhhhhh," "click . . .ccchhhhhh," "click . . . ccchhhhhh,"  "click . . . ccchhhhh" . . . as she keeps trying to extract something, anything, perhaps a drop or two, from the fountain spigot. 

"I'll be right with you," I reply.

As the last person in line leaves I see others pulling into the parking lot. The morning rush begins. I hurry back to the woman and tell her I will get some more Diet Pepsi hooked up right away. "It should just take a moment," I tell her. "Thanks for your patience."

"Please hurry," she says. "I need to get to work."

She seems desperate. As I hurry over the little closet of sorts, right next to the swinging-door entrance to the bathroom -- where, behind a black curtain, we keep the Co2 cartridges, regulators, hoses, tubing, fittings, various flavored-syrup boxes and an other inner, behind-the scenes workings of the soda-dispensing world -- I can still hear,  "click . . .ccchhhhhhh," "click . . .ccchhhhhh," "click . . . ccchhhhhh,"  "click . . . ccchhhhh."

I quickly disconnect the BIB (bag-in-box) Connector from the empty box of Diet Pepsi, move it out of the way, pick up a new box, but have difficulty hooking it up. I impatiently struggle. (I figured out later that I was trying to connect the wrong hose -- Coke products are apparently incompatible with Pepsi). The box -- half on the cramped shelf and half under my arm -- slips, hits the floor, and the molasses-like, no-calorie goo spills all over the floor. Or, more precisely: caramel color, aspartame, phosphoric acid, potassium benzoate, caffeine, citric acid, natural flavor, phenylketonurics and phenylalanine. It's a mess. A sticky mess. Like a mini tar-sands oil spill oozing right out into the narrow entrance to the Men's and Lady's rooms.

I quickly glance out to the register. Another small line is forming. I walk out towards the ongoing "click . . .ccchhhhhhh," sound and politely tell the lady, "I am really sorry, but I can't get that hooked up right now, but we do have some Diet Pepsi in cans and bottles over in the cooler."

She looks distraughtly disappointment, but heads for the coolers. I hurry back up front and ring up the customers. The "click . . . ccchhhhh" lady puts two 20-ounce bottles of Diet Pepsi on the counter. I again apologize and tell her one of the bottles is "on the house" (I actually pay for it when she leaves, but I don't mind, she's a regular and usually very nice.)  She smiles and says "Thank you." 

In the meantime, a guy with big work boots heads in to the use the bathroom and, rather than step over the syrup spill, walks right through it. When he's done in the bathroom, he tracks it all over the store -- a black, Family Circus-like trail weaving up, down and around most every aisle -- apparently indecisively in search of the perfect morning snack while talking loudly on his cell phone.  He finally decides on a poppy seed muffing and brings it to the counter.

Whomever he is talking to on his phone is apparently a New England Patriots fan as he keeps repeating, "Man, they don't have a prayer against my Hawks! Put your money where your mouth is!" He gives me an odd hand and arm signal that I am guessing means, "That's all, please ring it up while I continue with a phone call that is more important than being aware of the reality around me."

"Excuse me," I say, "I hate to interrupt your conversation. But are you aware that you walked through a puddle of Diet Pepsi syrup and tracked it all over the store?"  

He looks down at his feet, then at his back trail, and appears, at least for a moment, sincerely surprised. He shrugs his shoulders and proceeds talking into his cell about how damn good Russell Wilson and the Seattle defense is . . .

"Wait, Can I See That One More Time?"

A nice-looking college age guy comes in (a regular custumor) wearing a black hoodie and jeans. He appears pretty stoned, which is not unusual for him. He grabs a bag of nacho-flavored Doritos and a bottle of Mountain Dew, brings them up to the register, then asks me if I saw Sunday's AFC Championship game in which the New England Patriots beat the Indianapolis Colts 45-7.

"Yeah, I thought it would be a closer game, but I am glad New England won," I reply.
"Dude! Me too! I LOVE the Patriots!" he says.

He reaches down and pulls the bottom of his sweatshirt up, apparently in an attempt to show me a T-shirt underneath.

"Look what my Dad gave me dude, an old Patriots T-shirt!" he says.

But I see no T-shirt. Just a well-defined chest, a nice, rock-solid set of abs and a sexy "happy trail" disappearing beneath a pair of Calvin Kleins showing above his jeans and belt.

"Nice abs," I say. "Do you work out a lot?"

He looks down, confused.

"Dude, I thought I had my Pats shirt on . . "
"I think you pulled it up with your sweatshirt," I say.

He looks again, then holds the bottom of his T-shirt down while this time managing to just pull his sweatshirt up. It is a nice shirt. Vintage. Red, with an image of a football helmet with the old Patriots logo of .  . . well, a patriot.

"That's pretty cool," I say. "Can I see it again?"

Again he pulls up both his sweatshirt and T-shirt. All I see is a well-defined chest, a nice, rock-solid set of abs and a sexy "happy trail" disappearing beneath a pair of Calvin Kleins showing above his jeans and belt.

"Very nice!" I say.

As he is leaving I ask, "Wait, can I see that one more time?"

He obliges.

Yes, very nice!

Feeding the Beast?

January 18, 2015

Our gas prices dropped below $2.00 a gallon for the first time in six years or so. Customers are thrilled. Most folks who pre-pay inside with cash (which saves 5 cents per gallon) are now coming back in for change, pleasantly surprised they're getting so much more for their money. Many use the savings to buy better beer, higher-quality cigarettes and more lottery tickets.

There's one regular custumor who ranted about high-gas prices last summer and blamed Obama. I told him I didn't think a President had much control over gas prices. He looked at me like I was stupid. A few nights ago he seemed elated about the lower prices, and told me he plans to go back to a "bigger truck." I asked if he thought Obama was responsible for the lower prices. He looked at me like I was stupid.

Maybe it's because I mostly ride a bike, but I'm uneasy about lower gas prices. I can't help but compare it to a crack dealer lowering prices to keep addicts addicted and coming back for more. With lower prices comes less motivation to conserve and find more efficient ways to extract and use fossil fuels, and less incentive to pursue cleaner, alternative sources of energy and reduce C02 and other emissions that are the driving force behind climate change.

Ironically, part of the reason gas prices have dropped is because of less demand resulting from much of the world using more fuel-efficient cars and driving less -- changes inspired, in large part, by high gas prices. Another reason prices have dropped derives from increased production in the United States using new techniques and technologies such as hydraulic fracturing and shale oil extraction -- techniques and technology that increase pollution and C02 emissions and have huge, negative impacts to water quantity, water and air quality, human health and wildlife habitat.

Is that a price worth paying for cheaper gas?

A few days ago I read how sales of large SUVs, trucks and Hummers have increased by as much as 32 percent with lower gas prices. Pay less, use more; Pay less, pollute more.

I chatted with a custumor about this one night. He looked at me like I was stupid.

Maybe it's because I mostly ride a bike, but I think lower gas prices are just fueling addiction and feeding the beast.        

Snow Devil

3:00 AM:

It's about 20 degrees outside, not accounting for a significant wind-chill factor, and the store has been empty for some time when a young man shows up, having walked from his home up in the South Hills. He stomps snow off his boots, removes his hat and gloves, unzips his heavy down jacket and asks, "Can I please use your phone?"

"Of course!"

I hand him my cell phone and he makes a call. This is what I overhear:

"Please come get me . . . no, I don't want to go back. Please? Just come get me."
He asks me our address and relays the information to the person on the other end of the line.
"Thanks, I'll wait here."

"Everything okay?" I ask, after he hangs up and hands my phone back.
"Yes," he says. "My sister is coming to get me."

He bundles back up and goes out front to wait. I look out a few times and see him shivering. After some time, I go outside.

"You are welcome to wait inside," I tell him.
"You sure?"
"Absolutely. Will your sister be here soon."
"It will take awhile," he says. "She lives in Hamilton."

Hamilton is about 45 miles south of us, in the heart of the Bitterroot Valley.

"Oh, then yes, come inside and wait where it's warm," I insist.

He comes in and I buy him a cup of hot chocolate. He's quiet at first, then with no provocation on my part he suddenly seems to open up:

"My parents got in a huge fight so I left. I want to go to my sister's house," he explains.
"I am sorry to hear," I say. "I hope it all works out for the best."
"They do it all the time," he says.

We chat for a bit. He seems a very polite, if not shy, and intelligent guy.

"How old are you?" I ask.
"I am 15," he says.
"Oh, wow. You look much older," I say.
"Yeah, I get that all the time."
"What school do you go to?" I ask.
"I am home-schooled," he replies.
"How do you like that?"
"I love it, he says. My parents say it's best, so I won't be influenced by non-Christian beliefs."

Not sure how to respond, I simply say, "Huh . . . Interesting."

"It's much better than public schools," he says.
"How do you know that?" I ask, "If you have never been to public school?"

He returned to silence for awhile, seemed a bit confused, seemed to be mulling it over.

"I guess I don't know for sure," he eventually says. "Good point."
"Well, you seem like a pretty nice and smart guy," I say.
"Thanks."

About the time I am ready to compile the shift and daily reports, his sister pulls in, he goes outside, gets in the car and they head south into the dark. The wind is blowing hard. I see a snow devil dance across the parking lot.

Double Exposure (Repeat Offender?)

Night Flakes

3:30 AM:

In the low 20's and snowing -- big, fluffy, snow-globe-like flakes drifting lazily towards the ground like down feathers. (I think I saw two that were exactly alike, but admittedly didn't have my glasses on and I lost them when they joined the million of other flakes accumulating on the store parking lot.) Luckily, I had my camera inside, so I went in, got it, and come back out. Photography is an obsessive addiction of mine, and since nobody was around I thought it would be fun to try and get some cool images of snowflakes at night.

I took shots of the snow coming down from various angles, then laid down on the parking lot and used macro mode to try and get images of the flakes as they landed. I tried different shutter speeds, apertures and modes but wasn't satisfied with what I was getting. Then I looked at the car.

I had borrowed my former wife's car and had parked it at one of the pumps earlier by request of the snowplow driver, so as it wouldn't be in his way as he cleared our parking lot. The car was still sitting under the brights lights so I thought it might be better to try and get shots of the flakes as they landed on the vehicle. Again, I tried various angles; kneeling, looking down, laying down, looking up . . . and then I heard a car pulling up behind me. I turned around to look. It was a police car.

Without my glasses on I at first thought it was a cop who stops by often (my own form of officer profiling, I suppose, since they're both bald) so I smiled and waved. It wasn't who I thought it was.

The policeman pulled up close and rolled down his window. With a concerned, suspicious and perhaps cautious look and tone he asked, "Can I help you?" 
"No thank you, I'm doing fine," I replied.
"What are you doing?," he asked.
"Just taking photos," I said.

I had to do a bit more explaining before his suspicions seemed to subside.

It wasn't the first time this has happened to me. One cold, rainy, sleepless night in late October, during one of my nights off, I ventured out to take night photos of fall foliage. (See Night Fall: A Visit to Another Graveyard.)  At one point I was laying on my back in a puddle on a sidewalk under a Norway Maple, working on a shot of the underside of golden leaves above with water drops dripping down. . . and then I heard a car pulling up behind me. I turned around to look. It was a police car.

The policeman pulled up close and rolled down his window. With a concerned, suspicious and perhaps cautious look and tone he asked, "Can I help you?"
"No thank you, I'm doing fine," I replied.
"What are you doing?," he asked.
"Just taking photos," I said. 

I had to do a bit more explaining before his suspicions seemed to subside.

A Store Product Review: Hawaiian Kettle Chips, Sweet Maui Onion

If the interpretations of an artist working (most likely under contract) for Pinnacle Foods Group, LLC, of Cherry Hill, New Jersey can be trusted as an accurate portrayal of the native, indigenous Polynesian people of the Hawaiian Islands . . .  Well, for the first time in my life I have a desire to visit Hawaii. Or maybe it's a side affect of the dextrose, hydrolyzed soy, maltodextrin, disodium inosinate and disodium guanylate (among other things) added to the delicious, deep-fried thinly sliced potatoes.

Hawaiian Kettle Chips is a brand of Tim's Cascade Snacks, based out of Algona, Washington, which is a subsidiary of Pinnacle. They taste pretty good. I tried the Sweet Maui Onion flavor; I was drawn to them by the attractive packaging. Sweet, salty, crispy and crunchy. . . I recommend they be accompanied by a fine, dark, robust beverage such as Root Beer. They also go well with hot dogs (depending on how long the hot dogs have been sitting on the roller grill in the back of the store) with a squirt or two of cheese from the nacho cheese dispenser machine.

Not all potato chip makers could pull it off, but some guys look good in malos, made of kapa (a barkcloth made from wauke, mamaki, oloa, `akala, or hau plant fibers). The red Mahiole helmets made of tightly-woven feathers add a rugged, yet refined touch. A fragrant flower lei can be sexy. The outrigger canoes are cool.

Anyway, I like them, and I recommend them. They also come in Original, Luau BBQ, Mango Habanaro and Cracked Pepper and Sea Salt flavors. Personally, I am not at all drawn to the Original or Mango Habanaro flavors.

A nice package isn't everything, but it sure helps.    

   

'Twas The Night After Christmas

'Twas the night after Christmas, when all through the store,
Not a creature was stirring, except me (I was mopping the floor).
Fresh coffee was brewed and the beer coolers all stocked,
The bathrooms were clean and so was the parking lot.

When up in the front the door buzzer did "ding,"
I looked up from my mop to see who had walked in.
No matter how slow, it’s no doubt  a sure bet,
Lots of people show up when the floor is still wet.

A young drunk woman staggered in through the door,
She had run out of booze and wanted some more.
When I said “sorry, too late,” she said, “listen my dear,”
And tried to act sexy while Flirting for Beer.

Soon another woman came in, she had blood on her face,
Her boyfriend had hit her so she walked to our place.
At her insistence I decided to not call the police in,
Then wondered all night, Did I do the Right Thing?

Then in came a guy, a very grouchy old man,
When he asked for change he yelled, “PUT IT IN MY HAND!”
He seemed cruel and mean and pitifully rude,
That poor old man was a Crotchety old Scrooge.

A woman arrived so drunk she couldn’t talk
She left a trail of a mess wherever she walked,
A guy she was with seemed desperate (and a wee bit shady),
It was another Return of the Nacho Cheese Bullshit Lady

A black guy was not happy with our small choice of rubbers,
I wished I could have helped; I truly wish we had others.
He said, “I fit the stereotype, my man, it’s the largest you’ve seen,
He emphasized it with this: "I Need the Extra Large, You Know What I Mean?”

A creepy strange guy who seemed mentally ill,
Asked me about the money I keep in the till.
“If I were to rob you, how much would it be?”
“What is this,” I asked, “A Hypothetical Robbery?”

Another guy said I should carry a gun,
So I pretended I did just for giggles and fun.
“I’m a crook and you’re me; I’m gonna rob you,” so I said
Then I pointed my finger and yelled, “BOOM, You’re Dead!”

An intoxicated woman asked me out on a date,
I explained to her why I would not be a good mate.
“Oh, come sleep in my bed and read the Bible, okay?
Honey, One Night With Me and You Won’t be Gay!”

The popcorn was low so I cooked up some more,
But I cooked it too long and it smoked out the store.
In came a sorority girl who I wish I didn’t meet,
When she said of burnt kernels, “That’s What Black People Eat!”

A young guy came in to buy smokes, and beer too,
“I’m sorry,” I said, “but it’s way after 2:00."
"I can’t sell alcohol this time of day,”
To which he replied, “Come on dude, That’s Gay.”

Another guy was shouting profanities in line,
While waiting to by a 12-pack and wine.
When I refused to serve him because he was rude, drunk and putrid,
He asked, “Why Are You Looking at Me Like I’m Stupid?”

When a man said we charge too much for cigarettes,
I gave him a coupon so he could save 50 cents.
But he was a grouchy old guy and didn’t give a damn,
I now refer to him as The Marlboro Man

There’s another weird guy I find classless and crude,
Who thinks the people of Montana are all rather rude.
He dresses pretty sharp, but he is not a good soul,
I will forever refer to him as the Gentleman Asshole

A woman wanted to buy one of our “beers for a buck,”
When I said it was after 2:00 she said, “Ask me if I give a fuck.”
I looked at her boyfriend, who was tall, rude and fat,
he asked me “What the Fuck Are You Looking At?”

After a cop came and left, a man said “I don’t like that guy,
He’s the asshole who gave me my third DUI."
He said "Yes, I was driving drunk, the third and first two times too,
but I was almost home, and That’s a Douche-Bag Thing To Do."

A guy into sports came in and bragged about his team,
And after awhile he got kind of mean.
When I said I liked New England he threw a big fit,
He said the Patriots suck, and “Tom Brady’s a Faggot.”

A guy from the South who was a racist old prick,
Was offended by lighters that make fun of dumb hicks.
“Those niggers, Jews and fags don’t have it nearly as rough as me,
The real discrimination is towards us Rednecks: America’s Last Minority.”

Just when I thought I couldn’t take it anymore,
An angel of beauty walked in through the door.
He smiled and said, “Hi, my name is Matt.”
And all I could say was, "um . . . uh . . . hey . . . Nice Hat!”

A really nice man caught me sorting through pennies,
I was looking for rare ones, of which he said he had many.
He drove home and then came back before going to bed,
To give a gift for my son, The White Woman Indian Head.

There’s another old man who comes in every day,
Who often cheers me up in a fun, friendly way.
He always seems happy; he always seems nice,
When I ask how’s he doing, he says, “Best Day of My life!”

And then there’s the story, a favorite of mine,
About the charitable man who helped another in line.
“All I ask in return, is just give me your word,
When opportunity arises please Pay it Forward.”

When the small handful of assholes begin getting me down,
I think about all the good customers who are always around.
And when getting along with others seems way too damn hard,
I try to remember this: Divided we Fall: A Lesson from the Graveyard.