'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.

The Christmas Truce of 2014 (Dispatch from the Christmas War Front)

I've attempted to disavow war since I got out of the Marine Corps, but war can indiscriminately and unexpectedly affect everyone and anyone. I was recently inadvertently drawn into it; It was bound to happen -- I said "Happy Holidays" to a custumor. What was I thinking?

"It's CHRISTMAS," the custumor said. Do you know what CHRISTMAS is?"

"Spending a lot of money and exchanging gifts?" I asked.

He gave me a dirty look.

"I suppose you have a 'Holiday Tree' at home?" he asked.

"No, it's a Douglas fir," I replied.

Another dirty look.

"For the record, I try to stay neutral," I said. "I'm like Sweden. I alternate between 'Merry Christmas' and 'Happy Holidays' to be fair and all inclusive."

"What a bunch of politically correct bullshit," the guy said. "People have forgotten what Christmas is about."

"I agree," I said. "It wasn't even a holiday until merchants persuaded President Grant to make it one to boost sales and profits."

Another dirty look. 

It seemed I was escalating rather than diffusing conflict and hostilities. I felt bad. Whatever else Christmas may or may not be, I know it is NOT about war.

Curious about General Bill O'Reilly's bold and glorious assaults against the subversive secular progressive uprising in America, I did a bit of research and recently learned this: 

Christmas was pretty decadent in 17th century Europe. As a result, many of the puritans who fled England and settled America did not celebrate Christmas. In fact, Christmas was actually outlawed in Boston from 1659 until 1681. It wasn’t until the 19^th century that Americans re-invented Christmas and changed it from a "raucous carnival holiday" into a "family-centered day of peace and nostalgia.'

Unemployment was high and gang rioting by the disenchanted classes often occurred during the Christmas season. In 1828, the New York city council instituted the city’s first police force in response to a Christmas riot. This catalyzed certain members of the upper classes to begin to change the way Christmas was celebrated in America. In 1819, best-selling author Washington Irving wrote "The Sketchbook of Geoffrey Crayon, Gent.," a series of stories about the celebration of Christmas in an English manor house. The sketches feature a squire who invited the peasants into his home for the holiday. In contrast to the problems faced in America, the two groups mingled effortlessly. In Irving’s mind, Christmas should be a "peaceful, warm-hearted holiday bringing groups together across lines of wealth or social status." Irving’s book, however, was not based on any holiday celebration he had attended -- historians say his account actually “invented” tradition by implying that it described the true customs of the season.

The North and South were divided on the issue of Christmas, as well as on the question of slavery. Many Northerners saw sin in the celebration of Christmas. But in the South, Christmas was an important part of the social season. The first three states to make Christmas a legal holiday were Alabama in 1836, and Louisiana and Arkansas in 1838. In the years after the Civil War, Christmas traditions spread across the country. Children's books played an important role in spreading the customs of celebrating Christmas, especially the tradition of trimmed trees and gifts delivered by Santa Claus. Sunday school classes encouraged the celebration of Christmas. Women's magazines were also very important in suggesting ways to decorate for the holidays, as well as how to make these decorations.

President Ulysses S. Grant declared Christmas a legal holiday in 1870. Since that time, materialism, media, advertising, and mass marketing has made Christmas what it is today. The traditions we enjoy at Christmas today were invented by blending together customs from many different countries into what is now a national holiday.

A happy holiday! A holiday known as Christmas.

So in the true spirit of Christmas -- in the spirit of the famous "Christmas Truce" of 1914 when British and German soldiers took a break from killing each other during WWI and crossed trenches to peacefully mingle on Christmas day -- I decided to use a more peaceful tactic.

"Well, then,  Merry Christmas to you!" I told the custumor.

He smiled.

"Thanks, and Merry Christmas to you as well," he said

The Gentleman Asshole

3:00 am:

The final step in cleaning the cappuccino machine is to push the right sequence of buttons to let hot water run through each of the five spigots to ensure all the pieces have been correctly put back together. It's not so loud that I didn't hear the door "ding" when a custumor came in, but I couldn't hear what he said.

He was a distinguished looking grey-haired man, perhaps in his 50s, dressed nicely enough that I could envision him on the cover of a hybrid between GQ magazine and an LL Bean catalog.

"I'll be right with you," I said, and hurried up to the register.

While walking through a narrow spot to get behind the sales counter there are some coolers stocked with frozen deli sandwiches, burritos and ice cream with a loud enough buzz that again I did not hear what he said. So when I got behind the register, with just a three-foot-wide counter between us, I said, "I'm sorry, I did not hear you, could you please say that one more time?"

"How many times do I need to say it?" he asked.
"Oh, just one more time should do it," I replied.

Then he said, very loudly: "I WOULD LIKE $20 ON PUMP TWO!"
"Um, okay, you got it!" I said, and rang it up.
"That will be $20."

He just stared at me with a scowl on his face while an awkward moment passed.

I repeated: "That will be $20. please."
He points to a $20. bill he had already placed on the counter, near the basket of bananas. I hadn't seen it. "What are you deaf and blind?" he asks.
"Sorry, I didn't see it. Will that be all?"
"Well open your eyes," he says.
"What is your problem?" I ask.
"What is your problem?" he replies. "I am just trying to buy some gas."
"Well, you seem pretty rude about it," I said.
"I am not rude," he replies. "I am a gentleman. This town is rude. This state is rude."

I've heard Missoula and Montana called a lot of things, but rude is not one of them.

"I suspect what you perceive as rude is a response to you being an asshole," I said. "Perhaps you should take a good, long, hard look in the mirror."

He shook his head in disgust, scowled once again and left. I watched him pump gas, get in his SUV and leave. He had Washington plates.

I hope he at least took a good, long, hard look in his rear view mirror as he drove away headed west. 

At Least He's Honest About His Dishonesty

A high school student comes in to prepay for gas with cash (which saves about six cents per gallon at our store).

"Twenty-five on pump two," he says.

I hit "2" on the register, then the "prepay" button, then "2500" and "total."

"Will that be all?" I ask.
"Yes sir," he says.

He hands me $25.00 and I complete the transaction.

"Thank you," I say. "Have a great day."
"Thanks," he replies. "You too."

As he's headed out the door he suddenly remembers something and turns back around.

"Oh, I need my receipt please."
"No problem," I say.

I hand him his receipt.

"My mother makes me bring her the receipts, to make sure I put all of the money she gives me towards the gas. She doesn't trust me."
"Well that's too bad," I say.
"I don't blame her," he replies. "Last week she caught me only putting $20.00 in when she gave me $30.00."
"Ah! So it's justified, hey?" I ask.
"Oh yeah, totally," he replies.

The Malicious Minority

After reading most of my graveyard blog posts a friend responded (a bit facetiously, I hope): "When I lived in Montana in the 1960s it was a really friendly place; what happened?" Others have said things such as, "How do you put up with that shit every night?"

Fortunately, I don't. An overwhelming majority of customers are super nice people. Many are regulars. I've become friends with a few. I went on a date with one. I recently got drunk with some of them (see: One of THEM! (Again)).

But if I were to write about most of my interactions with customers, it would be something like this: "A really nice person came in and bought stuff. We exchanged in a bit of chit chat and pleasantries. As they were leaving they said, 'Have a good night Dave,' and I replied, 'Thanks, you too.' They rode off into the sunset happy as a spring meadowlark." 

That would be pretty boring.    

One of THEM! (Again)

Last night for the first time in a long time I went to a bar to down a few drinks with a friend. It's a lounge and casino called the Lucky Strike -- stumbling distance from the store where I work. On Sunday nights they have $1.00 well drinks all night. Attractively dangerous.

When I got there it seemed half the folks in the bar were people who often show up at the store after the bars close. Some of them have been pretty obnoxious. Some of them are in my stories.

I was in their lair; I found the nest! I briefly, humorously considered being obnoxious to them on their own turf; but they wouldn't notice -- most were already obnoxiously drunk. So after one-too-many vodka tonics I rapidly assimilated. I was happily obnoxious and got along well with all. I became one of them. Again. (see I Am One of My Stories! (Dude)).

Except I didn't stagger to the store afterwards.

Frozen Turkey Dinners and Free Black Friday Coffee

Nobody camped out in our parking lot or trampled others to get through our doors in the blackness of Friday morning, but it was a surprisingly busy Thanksgiving night. A lot of folks stopped by for wine, beer and cigarettes after the annual, national mastication -- several expressing exasperation with family but most in happy, if not drowsy, post-feast festive modes.

Some people stopped by for dinner.

There was a woman who bought a turkey frozen dinner, potato chips and a bottle of Pepsi on her EBT (food stamp) card. After paying, heating it up in the microwave and eating, I watched her go outside and dig through butts in the ashtray in search of remaining smokeable ones. I went out and gave her a few cigarettes.

"Thank you," she said.
"You're very welcome. Happy Thanksgiving."
"Thank you! You too!"

And off she went.

Soon after a guy pulled up in a new Humvee and broke a $100 bill to purchase a .99 cent Arizona Tea. 

There was a guy who came in for our "two hot dogs and a fountain drink" $3.00 special. He added a bag of Cheetos to it then stood at the back of the store and ate while seemingly staring at me the whole time. When he finally left I cleaned up all the Cheetos and other crumbs he had let fall around his feet and then I began making coffee, lots and lots of coffee.

Free coffee at our store all of Black Friday. Many people stopped by in the wee-darkness of early morning on their way to work at Walmart, Cabela's, Best Buy and other stores. None seemed thrilled about facing the madness, but free coffee cheered a few up. One guy smiled and gave me a "high-five for free coffee!" when I told him there was no charge. (It's the little things.)

One regular custumor was on his way to Home Depot, pretty excited about a special sale on tool boxes. A college student was on his way to purchase a computer at Best Buy. A cop came by in his squad car at 4:45 to fill up on gas and said things were getting pretty crazy at some of the box stores. Another cop stopped by for coffee on his way to assist Walmart with security. A regular customer who works in "asset protection" at Cabela's was dreading the day.     

Although I could sure use the money, and appreciate the time-and-a-half Holiday pay, I don't know why stores are open on Thanksgiving. I don't at all relate to or understand Black Friday. All symptoms of a sick society, the way I see it.

"Why don't people stay home with their families, be thankful and relax instead of venturing out to fight other people over special deals on stuff?" I asked a friend.
"Perhaps it's better to fight with strangers than to stay home and fight with family," he replied.

STUFF Guys Need (for the Love of Healthy Jerky)

There's a guy in line waiting to pay for a package of Duke's Original Angus Beef Jerky. He looks behind him at another guy in line who is waiting to buy Slim Jim Bacon Jerky, Hickory Smoked. 

First Guy: "Dude, you don't want to eat that crap, it's pretty bad for you."
Second Guy: "But I like it . . . What do you have? Is it any better?"
First Guy: "Way better, dude. Way healthier. Check it out."

He shows the guy the Duke's nutrition label:  A one-ounce serving has 50 calories, five calories from fat, 0.5 grams of saturated fat and 210 mg of sodium. They compare to Slim Jim (same serving size): 120 calories, 70 from fat, 8 grams of saturated fat and 550 mg of sodium.

First Guy: "Not only that, it's all natural (which is true; it says so on the package) with no artificial ingredients."

So they compare ingredients. Duke's: Soy sauce, 2-percent or less cane syrup, apple juice concentrate and natural flavor. Slim Jim: Sodium phosphate, sodium erythorbate and sodium nitrate.

The package of Duke's says, "For the Love of Jerky."  Slim Jim says, "Made from the STUFF guys need."  The first guy clearly doesn't need sodium phosphate, sodium erythorbate and sodium nitrate. He's a healthy guy. He prefers a more natural brand, for the love of jerky.  Plus, as the first guy points out to the second, "Duke's is made in Boulder, Colorado, dude."  Which is apparently way more "cool" than Omaha Nebraska, where Slim Jim is made ("Redneck Country!," the package says).

Clearly Duke's is the healthier choice (unless you're a cow), and it's $2.00 cheaper.

The first guy is persuasive; the second guy goes back to the jerky aisle and switches Slim Jim for Duke's.

The first guy finally gets to the register and puts his Duke's on the counter.

Me: "Will that be everything for you?"
First Guy: "No, a pack of Marlboro Reds, please."

The Great Mop Flop Flood of 2014

I keep flexible deadlines in my head of when various chores need to be done if I am to complete the entire two-page list of chores before morning: Have the beer cooler stocked and locked by 2:00 am; have the coffee pots, cappuccino machine, pop machine, hot dog machine and various other non-machine things clean by 3:00 am; have at least two pots of coffee ready before 4:00 am for the real early birds, and have the floors mopped and clean by 4:00 am when it's time to do the daily report.

So I had it all mopped up the other night, having mopped my way to the front door where I finished up and moved outside to clean up the parking lot while the floor dried. I was happy this particular night that no one pulled in and tracked up and down every aisle as soon as the mopping was completed and floors still wet, as usually happens. But one guy pulled in just at about 4:00 am as the floors finished drying and I was about to go back inside.

"Bad timing?" he said, as he got out of his car. "Are the floors wet? I can wait until they're dry."
Thank you," I said, "but your timing is perfect! The floors are dry." 

I opened the door for him and as soon as he went in I started pulling the mop bucked back inside -- but it hit the door jam, tipped over and flooded a large portion of the front of the store near the register.

"I guess it's wet again now," I said to the guy.

It wasn't my first mop flop:

When preparing to mop the floor I put a bit of the green cleaner into the mop water from a white plastic container with a green label. There is a similar white plastic container of the same size and shape with a grey label; that is the concrete cleaners. One of the first nights I worked I was in a hurry, tired and inadvertently poured a bit from the grey label into the mop bucked.  It melted the wax on the floor. The floor was sticky for a week -- like walking on a giant fly trap. It had to be re-waxed.

Oops.

As I said in "Private Bing: 'I'm Dreaming of a White Christmas . . .", before I took this job I hadn't mopped a floor since my Marine Corps days. I'm apparently a bit rusty. 

CAN THE BOBCATS! (and Help the Hungry)

The store where I work, I’m proud to say, is a sponsor and participant of the “Can the Bobcats” Food Bank drive, giving customers the opportunity to donate $1.00 or more to a friendly community rivalry to help the hungry. 

Since 1897 there has been an intense football rivalry, called the “Brawl of the Wild,” between the Montana State University (MSU) Bobcats in Bozeman and the University of Montana (UM) Grizzlies in Missoula. There have been years the game was not played: From 1905-1907 MSU abolished its football program. The game was cancelled in 1911 because of the death of an MSU player. In 1918 the game was not played because of World War I, and was not played from 1942-1945 because of World War II. This coming Saturday, November 22, will be the 113^th Brawl of the Wild. The Grizzlies have thus far won 70 games, the Bobcats have won 37, and five games ended in ties.

For the past 15 years, there has also been an off-field rivalry (called “Can the Griz” in Bozeman, and “Can the Bobcats” in Missoula) to raise much-needed donations and awareness for local Food Banks. Last year, Bozeman “canned the Griz” by gathering 100,937 pounds of food and raising $47,445 in cash for the Gallatin Valley Food Bank. Missoula gathered 54,656 lbs and raised $60,000 in cash for the Missoula Food Bank. 

The real winners, of course, are the estimated one-in-seven people in Montana who struggle with hunger.

I can relate.  A few years ago a combination of economic downturn, personal struggles and unemployment brought me to a point where I could no longer afford even bread, milk or a jar of peanut butter. (See "Helping the Hungry: Missoula Food Bank a Friendly, Helpful, Nourishing Place.") I felt frustrated, desperate, guilty, sad, embarrassed, anxious, stressed and scared all at once - a burdensome bundle of humbling and conflicting emotions. And like many people, I don't particularly like asking for help. That is, until I finally got hungry enough to reluctantly head for the Missoula Food Bank.

There were a diversity of people there of all ages from all walks of life, all in a similar situation as myself. No one is turned down, and it's a pretty friendly place thanks to the helpful volunteers who work there. The place is like a mini grocery store -- several aisles of canned and packaged goods, a frozen foods section, and dairies and produce. I loaded up my shopping cart with bread, beans, chicken, milk, eggs, bacon, cheese, tuna fish, cereal, rice, peanut butter, hot dogs, potatoes, onions, carrots, salad, yogurt, a frozen pre-cooked steak dinner and lots of other good food. After barely stuffing it all in my big backpack, I rode my bike home and enjoyed the best, most healthy meal I had eaten in a long, long time.

The Gallatin Valley Food Bank and the Missoula Food Bank are partner agencies of the Montana Food Bank Network, a statewide private nonprofit working to eliminate hunger in Montana through food acquisition and distribution, education and advocacy. The organization solicits, repackages, stores and transports donated food and distribute it to charitable programs that serve needy families, children and seniors -- distributing food to all 56 counties in the state of Montana and on all seven reservations. They also assess the needs of the hungry and work diligently before the state legislature to raise awareness and seek assistance for those most in need. It's Montana at its finest: farmers, ranchers, food processors, businesses, organizations, politicians, individuals and volunteers all over the state working together to provide safe, healthy, good food for those who need it.

An overwhelming majority of the customers I ask at the store donate a dollar or more to help the Food Bank and “Can the Cats.” Many say they’ve already donated elsewhere.  A dollar may not seem like much, but according to the Montana Food Bank Network, $1.00 enables them to provide three meals to the hungry.

So if a friendly store clerk happens to ask, “Would you like to donate $1.00 to help the Food Bank and ‘Can the Bobcats?’” please say yes!

(To learn more about how you can help, and the locations of donation sites and food drop off locations, please click here: Can the Bobcats.)

"COME IN! NOW! SPEND MORE MONEY NOW!"

2:30 am:

The phone rings and I answer.
"This is Dave, how can I help you?"

It's a woman who is calling from an apartment complex across the street, at least a hundred yards away. She says our TVs are keeping her awake.

There are TVs at each of the gas-pumping stations, playing news and running ads saying things like, "Cold? Come on in for a hot cup of coffee!" . . . "Don't forget snacks for the road! We carry an assortment of favorite snacks and beverages!" . . .  "Come in!" . . . NOW! . . "YES! You! Come in!" . . . "Spend more money!" . . .

Seems a bit Orwellian.

They're pretty quiet. Granted, I have bad hearing, but I can hardly hear them 20 feet away. Others, with good hearing, might have difficulty from 30 feet away. It's difficult to believe they could keep someone awake from a football-fields distance on a brutally cold night when I imagine windows must be shut. 

Still, I was empathetic.

"I am sorry to hear that," I say. "I do not know how to shut them off, but I will pass it on to the manager in the morning. Would you like to give me your name and number in case she wants to call you?"
"NO!" she snapped. "I want them shut off NOW!"
"I am sorry," I repeat, "But I do not know how to shut them off. The best I can do is pass your complaint on to my manager in the morning."
"NO!" she snaps again. "SHUT THEM OFF NOW!"
"I am sorry, but I don't know how to shut them off, I will have to wait until the manager arrives in the morning."
"NO! CALL YOUR MANAGER NOW!" she yells.
"I am sorry, but I am not going to call and wake up my manager right now, but I assure you I will let her know in the morning."
"CALL HER NOW! RIGHT NOW!"
"I am sorry, but I will not do that," I say.
"THEN  I WILL CALL THE POLICE!" she says.

It just so happened there was a policeman at the store, chatting with me. He overheard my conversation and I explained. He said I handled it well. It wasn't long before he gets a call on his radio; it's in regards to the woman complaining about the noise from our TVs.  The policeman explained to me how, in response to such complaints, he will use a device that measures decibel levels to see if the noise is in violation of the law and could reasonably be considered a nuisance. He said our TVs were clearly not in violation and he, too, wondered how someone might hear them from the apartments across the street. The traffic on the road between the store and the apartments is far louder.

He did point out to me that our TVs are kicked on by a motion sensor when someone pulls in for gas, and they shut off when nobody is there. (I did not know that.)  At two of the stations the sensors were not working and the TVs remained on, nonstop.

I let the manager know (when morning came). They will soon be fixed.

In the meantime, perhaps nocturnal subliminal messages will kick in and the woman will come in and purchase lots of snacks and beverages.

"COME IN! SPEND MORE MONEY NOW! . . . COME IN! NOW! SPEND MORE MONEY NOW! . . . COME IN! NOW! SPEND MORE MONEY NOW . . . COME IN . . . "

Flirting for Beer

A lot of people try to persuade and bribe me into selling them beer after 2 am, which is illegal in Montana. (Most of them are so obnoxiously drunk I wouldn't sell them beer even if it were before 2 am, as it's also illegal to sell beer to people who are obviously intoxicated.)

One guy offered me $100 if I would sell him a six-pack of Budweiser. Another guy threw a $50 bill on the counter and walked out with a 24-pack of Pabst. (I followed him out. After explaining to him he was on camera and I had his license plate number he reluctantly returned the beer and took his money back.)

But my favorite happened a few nights ago:

A good looking college-age couple came in and brought a 12-pack of Coors in bottles up to the counter.

"I'm sorry," I said, "But I am not allowed to sell beer after 2:00."
"Oh come on!," said the woman. "It's my boyfriend's birthday and we need to celebrate."
I looked at the guy and said, "Happy birthday, but I am sorry I can't sell beer after 2:00"
"Don't be an asshole," the guy said.

The woman cut him off and looked at me in a very sexy, flirtatious manner.

"Oh come on, won't you sell beer to me?" she said.
"Are you trying to flirt with me for beer?" I asked.

She smiled.

"Well, if you've got it, use it, right?"
"I suppose," I said, "But you got the wrong guy. Your boyfriend would have a better chance at that, but it still won't work."

To which her boyfriend immediately responded: "Hey, I ain't no faggot dude!"

The woman holds the beer out over the floor and says, "What if I drop this?"
"Well, I suppose I would be cleaning up the mess while the police are on the way," I replied.
"I would just say it was an accident," she said.

I point to one of the cameras.

"Smile, you're on candid camera," I say. "The police can watch and listen to this whole conversation." 

They put the beer down on the counter, and they both call me an asshole.

"Happy birthday!" I shout to the guy as they're leaving.

I Did Not Do the Right Thing (I Should Have Called the Police): A Follow-Up

The other night a Missoula city policeman stopped by the store to introduce himself.

“I understand you are a Marine,” he said.
“Yes, indeed. How did you know that?” I asked.
“Well, I happened to read a blog of yours. . . ”

Turns out, he found my blog through a mutual Facebook friend. He, too, is a Marine ("once a Marine, always a Marine") having served active duty as a musician in a Marine Corps field band. It was a cold night -- our first heavy snow of the winter with an arctic front arriving – and so business was slow. He stayed and chatted for awhile.

He’s a nice guy, and obviously a good, dedicated, knowledgeable and professional policeman. The conversation eventually came around to my post, “Did I Do the Right Thing? (Should I Have Called the Police?)” which he took particular interest in.

The Missoula Police Department is well-trained on domestic violence issues; it is one of their top priorities. Although the officer was not at all judgmental (and told me several times “Don’t beat yourself up over it”), after speaking with him at length and learning more about the issue I feel I should have called the police.

Here are some statistics:

* An estimated 1.3 million women are victims of physical assault by an intimate partner each year.
* About 85% of domestic violence victims are women.
* One in every four women will experience domestic violence in their lifetime.
* One in six women and one in 33 men involved in intimate partner violence results in more than 18.5 million mental health care visits in the United States.
* More than 40 percent of the women murdered in the United States were killed by an intimate partner.
* Up to 60% of perpetrators of intimate partner violence also abuse any children who live in the household.
* Boys who witness domestic violence are twice as likely to abuse their own partners and children when they become adults.
* On average, it takes about six attempts before a victim is able to break out of a domestic violence situation -- and that's if they receive help and are trying.
* In Montana alone there are an estimated 11, 500 victims of domestic violence a year and about a dozen of those result in death.

Domestic violence and abuse is usually accompanied by emotionally abusive and controlling behavior and is part of a systematic pattern of dominance and control -- often resulting in physical injury, psychological trauma and sometimes murder. The consequences of domestic violence can cross generations and last a lifetime.

Having myself spent nearly five years in a relationship with a bipolar, verbally abusive alcoholic I am, unfortunately, intimately familiar with the repeating cycles of abuse: A buildup to abuse when tension rises until an incident occurs; A reconciliation stage in which the abuser may be kind and loving; A period of calm during which the abused person may be hopeful that the situation will change . . . then the tension builds and the cycle starts again.

Most cases of domestic violence are never reported to the police and the cycle can continue with dangerous and deadly results. 

The officer who stopped by the store explained to me that when police respond to a domestic violence incident (regardless if it’s an opposite sex relationship, same sex or otherwise) they evaluate the situation to determine who is the predominant aggressor, take the predominant aggressor into custody to diffuse the situation and protect the victim, file a report and refer the victim to counselors, domestic violence program advocates and other programs that provide information and support and are experienced in providing assistance, creating safety plans and helping identify options appropriate for various individuals and situations. If necessary, they can also help find safe accommodations, housing, and obtain legal and financial assistance.

If nothing else, there is a report on record so the police, court, advocates and others are aware of the situation in case the cycle continues and escalates.

I hope to never witness such a thing again, but if I do I will call the police -- it can help break the cycle and save lives.

(Special thanks to the Missoula officer who took time to visit and explain things in a very nonjudgmental, informative, courteous and professional manner; we are fortunate to have a great, dedicated, responsive police department here in Missoula, Montana.)  

Addendum: After I posted this, a friend pointed out that if I had called the police, the woman may have left. I discussed that with the policeman. If such an incident were to occur again, I would do what I could to comfort the person and would call the police from the backroom so they would not know. The police could then take it from there.

Did I Do the Right Thing? (Should I Have Called the Police?)

Just after midnight I stepped out to look at the moon and a woman arrives, walking, with blood on her face. She is maybe 25 or so and seems drunk. Despite temperatures in the low 20s she is wearing a green T-shirt and light black jacket, both of which are also stained red with some blood. She asks for a cigarette.

"Are you okay?" I ask.
"Yes," she says, and starts crying.
"What happened to you?"
"Nothing."
"Did you fall down?"
"No."
"Did someone hit you?"

Her crying grows into heavy sobbing.

She tells me that her boyfriend hit her so she left their apartment and walked down to the store. I invite her to come inside, get warm, have some coffee, wash the blood off and offer to call the police. She begs me to not call the police. About then, a regular custumor -- who is a very nice guy -- pulls in and sees us, still standing out in the parking lot, and offers to help in anyway he can. She asks if he can give her a ride up South Hills a half-mile to her mother's house.

And so he does.

The incident still haunts me: Did I do the right thing? Should I have called the police?

The Asshole Hunters

About 4:15 am, soon after finishing the daily report, I head to the back of the store to make coffee and finish cleaning the cappuccino machine when two elk hunters arrive. They fit all the stereotypes; living cartoons -- Elmer Fudds, only with NRA hats and Cabelas camouflage jackets.

"You don't have coffee made yet?" the larger, more obese of the two says.
"Not yet, just getting to it if you don't mind waiting a few minutes," I reply.

I get a pot of Columbian started. 

"Do you realize it's a Saturday morning during hunting season?" he asks.
"I'm well aware of that," I say. "Been a busy morning, but will have some freshly brewed here in a few moments."
"I ain't got all morning," he says. "Elk don't sit around waiting all day."

I point to the cappuccino machine. "I can have that put back together pretty quickly and you can have some of that if you want?"

He shrugs his shoulders and nods. I assume it means yes, so I get it up and running in less than a minute. He puts his cup under the French-Vanilla-flavored spout, pushes the button, and the cream-colored liquid begins dispensing. He quickly pulls his cup away while the coffee continues pouring all over the counter and floor I had just cleaned a half-hour earlier.

"That looks like crap," he says. "That ain't French Vanilla."
"Yes, it is French Vanilla," I reply. "Why did you let it spill all over the counter and floor?"

About that same time, the other Fudd decides to remove the coffee pot before it's finished brewing and Columbian coffee also spills all over the counter and floor.

No apologies. Not even an "oops." Instead, the more obese Fudd says, "Don't you got any coffee ready?"

"I was trying," I said. "But you've spilled half of it, and don't even seem to give a shit. I just finished cleaning all of this . . . "
"Ain't that your job?" obese Fudd says.

My response: "Get the fuck out of this store. NOW!"

They did.

"Why are you looking at me like I'm stupid?"

There's an obnoxious guy in line, waiting to pay for a six-pack of Bud Ice he's holding in one hand while talking loudly on his phone in the other hand. I'm too busy to pay attention to the conversation but hear the word "fuck" a lot. He seems to be offending the other customers, particularly the nice, older woman I am helping who keeps glancing his way and shaking her head. I get the guy's attention and ask him to please keep it down and watch his language. He shoots me a dirty look.

When he gets to the register I ring up his beer and a Swisher Sweet cigar he asks for. He fumbles his credit card while getting it out of his wallet and struggles to pick it up off the counter.

"Why are you looking at me like I'm stupid?" he asks.
"I'm not looking at you like you're stupid," I reply. "I am looking at you to determine if you are drunk and clearly you are."
"So what?" he says.
"So I can't sell you beer," I say. "Sorry, but I am not allowed to sell alcohol to anyone who is clearly intoxicated."

I subtract the price of the six-pack from the total and put it aside.

"Would you still like the cigar?" I ask.
"You're really not going to sell me beer?" 
"No. Sorry."
"Why are you being rude to me?"
"I am not being rude to you."
"You are being very rude," he says. "You're being an asshole."
"Look, it was you who was being rude while talking loudly on your phone and cussing and making other customers uncomfortable," I say. "Now would you like your cigar or not?"
"Why are you looking at me like I'm stupid?" he asks again.
"I am not looking at you like you're stupid. I am looking at you like you're drunk. I am not selling you beer. Now do you want the cigar or not?"

He thinks about it.

"No," he says. "I don't like how rude you're being. I will take my business elsewhere."
"Okay," I say, "You do that. Are you driving?"
"No, I'm walking."
"Good," I say. "Be careful."
"Thank you," he says. "That is very kind of you."

From the Graveyard: All Hallows' Eve Edition

On most nights if someone wearing a mask walked into the store I'd be a bit nervous. Last night it was fun at first, but quickly became annoying. 

The traditional focus of All Hallows' Eve revolved around the theme of using "humor and ridicule to confront the power of death."  In a modern-day American college town the theme seems to be “dress up and get obnoxiously shit-faced drunk.”  I used humor, ridicule and even anger to confront the irritatingly inebriated.

Early in the evening it was mostly a typical, happy and pleasant assortment of ghosts, goblins and monsters stopping by for beer and cigarettes. There was also a sexy, barely-dressed gladiator and a pretty cute astronaut.

After the bars closed things got scary, creepy, frightening and downright evil. A Superman got in a fight with a clown (the clown was getting the best of him before I broke it up).  A prostitute threw up on the floor. A witch got bitchy because I wouldn’t sell her brew after 2:00.  A hot devil knocked over a display of candy and spilled 44-ounzes of Mountain Dew. A Playboy bunny got angry and cussed out a priest who was hitting on her. A fake cop passed out in the bathroom requiring a real cop to come get him out. 

There were still kings, fairies, vampires, zombies, axe murders and lumberjacks coming in at 4:00 am when hunters were arriving – at least I think they were real hunters (difficult to tell nowadays).   

The graveyard was hellishly, ghoulishly full and alive all hollows’ eve. 

It was the night of the living dead.

Pay it Forward

A guy comes up to the register to buy some Red Bull energy drinks and a pack of Pyramids in the short red box. Total: $13.62. He swipes his credit card and it’s declined. He tries again; declined. He tries another card and that too is declined. He seems conscientious and apologetic about the line forming behind him and says, “Sorry. Apparently I do not have as much as I thought in there. Tomorrow is pay day, I will have to come back then. Sorry for the inconvenience.”

“No problem,” I say. “Been there myself; no worries.”

As I am about to void the ticket the guy in line behind him says, “Let me get it for you.”

“Oh, I can’t let you do that. It’s okay. But thanks.”
“I insist, it will be my good deed for the day.”
“Oh, I really appreciate it but . . . “
“Please, let me. You can pay it forward sometime.”

The good Samaritan puts his liters of Pepsi and A&W Root Beer on the counter, asks for a pack of Camel Wides and requests I add it the other guy’s tab. New total: $20.08. He pays with a $50.00 bill.

The first guy is very appreciative, and as they leave and part ways I hear him say, “Thank you, again . . . and yes, I will pay it forward.”

Nice Hat!

A tall, strikingly handsome guy comes in regularly. He seems nice. He seems smart. He looks beautiful. The other night he comes in wearing a nice winter hat of a style and color I've been looking for at local stores with no success.

"Where did you get that hat?" I ask. "I've been looking for one like that."
"I'm not sure where it came from," he says. "My boyfriend gave it to me."

That caught me way off guard.

"Your boyfriend?" 
"Yes"
"Well . . .um . . .wow . . . your boyfriend has excellent taste!"

Awkward pause. (I might even be blushing a bit.)

"Um . . . I mean . . . I meant to say he has excellent taste in hats . . . yes, excellent taste in hats is what I meant to say . . . "

He smiles (a contagiously infectious smile.)

"Oh, hell . . . he obviously has excellent taste in men too."

"Thank you," he says, still smiling (and seemingly blushing just a little himself). 
   

Night Fall (A Visit to Another Graveyard)

Night Fall: One of the photos I took last night

Even though I didn't work last night I couldn't sleep; it's difficult to adjust from weekend graveyard hours. It was a cold, rainy night so what else to do but don my parka, hop on my bike and head out to take photos for a hobby album I am working on called "Night Fall." After a few hours I got a bit wet and chilly and so pedaled over to the South Avenue Market, an all-night convenience store and gas station on the east side of town.

I met a nice, smart, interesting guy named Josh working the graveyard there. I explained to him that I had been taking photos all night and needed to warm up and have a snack. (I bought a sesame-seed muffin and an Arizona green tea with honey.) We ended up standing out front, under the overhang and out of the rain, swapping graveyard stories. I told him about my "Tales from the Graveyard Shift" blog. He had a few good stories of his own.

He recently started working graveyard on weekday nights because his construction work had slowed down and he's a single father who could use the extra income. We shared similar stories about early morning hunters stopping by and, it turns out, he is a fellow nimrod who, like me, seems to love and appreciates the wilds, wilderness, wolves and grizzly bears. I told him about Backcountry Hunter's and Anglers, the Montana Wildlife Federation (for which I served two terms as president) and Hellgate Hunters and Anglers (a group I helped start). He was interested. I hope he gets involved; we could use more conscientious, conservation-minded hunters fighting to protect, restore and sustain the wildlife and wild places we all cherish. 

After awhile he said he had to get back inside, back to work and finish his nightly duties.  I understood and could relate. If nothing else, I can now swap graveyard stories with the best of them! 

And perhaps I just might now be one of his graveyard stories.

Midterm Complications

A woman comes up to the register to purchase a couple packs of Jolly Ranchers, a King-size Almond Joy bar and a Twix. As I'm ringing it up she sees and grabs a pack of Now & Later Soft Quick Chew Taffy on display at the front counter and says, "It's not nice to tempt a pregnant woman with these!" 

"I know, terrible of us isn't it?" I reply. "We also have ice cream."

She laughs.

"Oh, my husband has been buying me plenty of that!"
"I bet!"

We chat. She's due in March. It will be her second child. She's hoping for a girl.

I ring up her items, "That will be $5.28."
"Oh, wait," she says, "I also need a pack of Camel Crush Bolds, please."

After she leaves and gets in her car I watch her unwrap the pack (throw the cellophane out the window of course), light up a smoke and drive off.

"SURGEON GENERAL'S WARNING: Smoking causes lung cancer, heart disease, emphysema, and may complicate pregnancy."

I have read that on the side of empty packs of Camel Crush Bolds and other brands I find crushed and tossed in the parking lot.

(See also: Nicotine for the Fetus.)

The White Woman Indian Head

Sometimes when bored I lay coins out on the counter and sort through them in search of old and interesting ones. Late last night a regular customer named Paul came in while I was sorting through pennies. I told him that I have found a few Lincoln wheat pennies – mostly made in the 1940s but one that was minted in 1916 – and that my 14-year old son Cory has taken an interest in them. Paul asked if I had found any Indian head pennies. I told him I hadn’t, but that Cory has read and talked about them and is hoping I might find one for him. Paul left, then returned a half-hour later and handed me an Indian head penny. “Give that to your son,” he said.

It’s dated 1906.
 
I’ve done a bit of Googling and this is what I’ve learned: Indian head pennies were minted from 1859 to 1909 in various sizes and designs that changed with the times. (It was replaced by the Lincoln penny in 1909.) U.S. Mint Director James Ross Snowden chose the Indian head design over other proposals at the urging of an engraver named James B. Longacre who, in 1858, wrote this:  

“From the copper shores of Lake Superior, to the silver mountains of Potosi, from the Ojibwa to the Aramanian, the feathered tiara is as characteristic of the primitive races of our hemisphere as the turban is of the Asiatic. Nor is there anything in its decorative character repulsive to the association of Liberty . . . It is more appropriate than the Phrygian cap, the emblem rather of the emancipated slave, than of the independent freeman, of those who are able to say ‘we were never in bondage to any man’. I regard then this emblem of America as a proper and well defined portion of our national inheritance; and having now the opportunity of consecrating it as a memorial of Liberty, 'our Liberty', American Liberty; why not use it? One more graceful can scarcely be devised. We have only to determine that it shall be appropriate, and all the world outside of us cannot wrest it from us.^” 

The facial features of the ‘Indian’ on the coins are Caucasian; supposedly a white woman wearing the headdress of a Native American man posed for the engraver. Mint Director Snowden said this of it: "The artists at the Mint evidently not realizing the absurd incongruity of placing this most masculine attribute of the warrior brave on the head of a woman.”  

Nevertheless, my son Cory is grateful and excited. We looked up the value: About $2.00 to $6.00.

The coin was minted when Theodore Roosevelt was president (the same year he won a Nobel Peace Prize). Here’s a few other things that happened in 1906: A massive earthquake destroyed most of San Francisco and killed nearly 4,000 people; Jack London wrote his novel White Fang; the Wright Brothers patented an aeroplane; Henry Ford became president of the Ford Motor Company, and the San Francisco Board of Education sparked a diplomatic crisis when they ordered the segregation in separate schools for Japanese, Chinese, and Korean children.  

No telling how many hands and pockets and places that coin has passed through during the past 108 years. Last night at a 24-hour convenience store at a place where wild grizzlies walked (and native Salish people lived sustainable) in 1906, it went from Paul’s hands to mine and today to my son Cory . . .  and now all the world outside of us cannot wrest it from us.