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.

"Happy as a wild green drake in a cattail marsh!"

I felt like a lucky Christmas-morning kid a few days ago when I not only received my new parka in the mail but then several days of good, cold fall rain hit -- rain, rain, rain. . . and me and my new parka walking everywhere, day and night, even shaking trees so more water would fall on me. I didn't want to come inside. "Like off a duck's back," as they say . . . happy as a wild green drake in a cattail marsh!

Early this morning, after I finished the shift and daily reports and mopping the floor (about 4:30 am) a strong wind hit. A kaleidoscope of  red, yellow and brown leaves were riding with the breeze. Rain was coming down hard at a sharp slant. I watched the yellow plastic "Caution: Wet Floor" sign tumble across the parking lot towards the marsh. I excitedly thought: "This is a job for parka!"

So I bundled up, pulled up my hood and ventured out to retrieve the sign. When I got near the marsh, I saw a quick flash of white in the cattails revealed by dim lights from the gas pumps. Deer, I assumed, but decided to investigate. (I'm always curious to learn where various wild animals choose to wait out storms -- lessons that have helped me more than once on my wilderness adventures.) I pushed through the willows and half crawled and half walked my way to a thick, bushy tree. By now I had entered into darkness and couldn't tell what species until I started slipping, grabbed a branch to keep from falling and felt the sharp pain of something stabbing deep into the palm of my right hand. Hawthorn! Underneath the hawthorn the ground felt dry and warm. I sensed the scent of whitetail.

I looked back at the store and thought I saw headlights through the trees, someone pulling into the parking lot. Crap. I was supposed to be working. I tried to hurry back but stepped off solid land and fell knee deep into water and mud surrounded by cattails. It took a while to get myself unstuck and crawl out.

By the time I got back to the store a guy who is a regular customer was patiently waiting at the counter wanting to pay for a muffin and energy drink.

"I was getting worried," he said. "Where were you?"
"Uh . . . cleaning the parking lot," I replied.
"In this weather?" he asked.

He looked at my muddy shoes and pants, then at my hand.

"Is that blood on your hand?" he asked. "What happened to you? Are you okay?" 
"I fell in the marsh," I said.
"What the hell were you doing in the marsh?" 
"Checking out a whitetail bed," I replied.
"A what?"
"Where a deer was resting . . . I was kind of testing out my new parka and . . . never mind; it's complicated."  

After he left, I quickly stripped down in the back room, rinse the mud off my shoes and pants in the big sinks, washed my hand, mopped up the mess I tracked in and started the coffee just in time for the morning rush.

At first light, after the wind and rain let up, I found the yellow caution sign close to where i fell in. I also found a few deer hairs under the hawthorn.

As for the parka: My work shirt remained dry as a whitetail bed.

Opening Day (Socialist Wolves)

I had forgotten that it's opening day of the general big game rifle hunting season until I started working on the shift and daily reports at 4:00 am and suddenly the trucks began pulling in.

Lot's of big trucks, and trailers towing ATVs, and camouflage-clad hunters wearing NRA and Cabela's hats stopping by for gas, coffee, cigarettes, chewing tobacco, donuts, water and soda pop. Most were cheerful and excited; opening day is like Christmas morning in Montana. This promises to be a good one with a night of rain down low and fresh snow in the mountains. I was feeling a bit left out. 

I offered the usual assortment of opening-day pleasantries:

"Going after deer or elk?"  
"Good luck!"
"Great weather for it!"
"Should have some good tracking snow if you get up high enough."
"They might still be bugling."

Here are some of my favorite responses:

"Damn elk are too hard to find, I'm sticking with deer."
"I'm too damn old to hunt elk!"
"Just going to take my rifle for a walk."
"We'll see if there's any elk left with all these damn wolves we've got around now."

But this one topped them all (from a guy who looked like he couldn't walk half the length of a football field, never mind find, kill and pack out an elk):

"I doubt there's even many elk left out there since Obama and the liberals forced all these damn Canadian wolves on us."

He was serious.

"Probably damn socialist wolves," I said.

He laughed and replied: "You got that right!"

Roll Your Own

It's not unusual for people to come in and dump pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters on the counter to buy cigarettes. Such is the nature of addiction.

The other night a guy comes in and asks for the cheapest smokes we sell. Pall Mall and Pyramids are $5.25 a pack (tax included).

The guy opts for Pyramid lights and dumps change on the counter from a Ziploc bag.

Here's where this guy was a bit different: He had rolled his own pennies into standard 50-cent rolls using lined paper (college-ruled) and Scotch tape.

When he left I opened and counted; he was right on the money.   

Return of the Nacho Cheese Bullshit Lady

She returns -- the young drunk woman I wrote about in "That's Bullshit!" -- drunk again (or still drunk?)  This time she's not alone.

She comes in around 2:15, not long after the bars closed, wanting to buy some wine. I tell her I can't sell alcohol after 2:00. State law. "That's bullshit!" she says. The middle-aged pudgy guy she is with seems a bit embarrassed. He nervously strokes his beard and shrugs his shoulders.  

"I have some wine at my place," he says. "We can open a bottle when we get there." 
"How far is it?" she asks.
"Just up the hill," he says. "Not too far."

She goes to the back to get nachos. She spills hot, melted nacho cheese all over the counter and on her hands. She licks cheese off her hands while reaching for the last remaining hot dog on the grill. It's probably been there for eight or more hours. I'd have been throwing it away soon, recording it as "wasted." Instead, someone wasted is eating it.

She seems to have difficulty opening the little plastic packets of ketchup, mustard and relish. She gets more on the counter than the hotdog and drops the empty packets on the floor. As before, she brings it all up to the counter, leaving a trail of nacho cheese behind her -- like the slime trail of a slug.

As the guy begins swiping his card to pay for it all, she alternates between taking a bite of hotdog and stuffing cheese-covered nachos in her mouth.  Then she grabs a couple sticks of beef jerky from a container near the register, puts them on the counter near the hotdog and nachos and says, with her mouth full, "Get me these, too."

He does.  

"Will that be all?" I ask, as I am about to total it all up.

"NO!" she says, cheese dripping from her mouth. She looks at the guy. "Grab some condoms," she says.

He does.

As they're leaving, she is holding the nachos in one hand, still spilling cheese, and still taking bites of the hotdog from her other hand.

"Well open the door for me!" she tells the guy.

He does.

I clean up her mess.

The Beer Hunt is On! (Be the Envy of Deer Camp)

The hunt is on! Don’t forget to stop by and pick up some blaze orange or camouflage beer before heading off to huntin’ camp.  

Most of the Keystone Light cans are camouflage -- and not just any camouflage, but Realtree camouflage. (I suppose elk and deer can’t see them in your hand?) But if you find one of the rare trophy orange keystone Light cans, and snap and send a trophy photo shot to Keystone, you can win prizes such as an ATV.

Busch took a different approach. Most of their cans are orange (which will be easier to find if hunters leave a trail of them behind their ATVs). The Busch cans feature silhouettes of deer, elk and ducks over a “blaze orange” background. But if you hunt down one of the rare Busch special-edition “trophy cans,” and capture and send in a “creative” trophy photo to enter the “Hunt Down a Trophy Can Contest,” you will be eligible to win “hunting-equipment prizes” along with a shot at winning an “incredible” hunting trip that will be “the envy of everyone else at deer camp,” according to Edison Yu, vice president of value brands at Anheuser-Busch.

The envy-inducing trip is an all-expense-paid hunting trip at Deer Creek Lodge in Sebree, Kentucky, which has its own private deer sanctuary.  While staying in their deluxe lodge you can enjoy “sumptuous gourmet dining,” “personal guides,” “multiple tree stands per hunter” and “Hors d’ouevres and open bar” while pretending to hunt. “Guests in recent years have taken many whitetails scoring over 170,” according to the Deer Creek Lodge website. (There’s no mention of where they took them too.)

Keystone seems more realistic about who they are selling to. An article for the Brand Activation Association puts it this way: “The Keystone Light ‘Can Hunt’ program targets ‘hunters’ who really aren't that interested in hunting. We give these ‘hunters’ a fun, resourceful and social way to enjoy the hunting experience without them having to actually shoot anything.”

A True, Patriotic American!

I barely make a living selling beer, wine, cigarettes, chewing tobacco, lottery tickets and C02-emitting fossil fuels to people who often use food stamps to buy candy, pop, chips, energy drinks and other junk food made by companies such as Coca-Cola and Frito Lay whose CEO's make $12-$14 million a year . . .

I feel like a true, patriotic American!

Duct Tape is the New Black

A young University of Montana student comes in to buy beer wearing nothing but duct tape. Aside from Lady Gaga, I can't think of many people who could pull of a good duct tape outfit. This guy did. He has just the right body for it. 

No shirt, which was fine with me, but a classy touch with a duct-tape bow tie. He wore duct tape wrapped around his upper thighs and waist and crisscrossed around the crotch like a duct-tape loincloth of sorts, or ducty diapers. He was also wearing duct-tape socks and shoes.

I assumed he was dressed for Halloween. He wasn't.

"I'm going to an ABC party," he said.
"A what?" I ask.
"An ABC party -- Anything But Clothes."
 
According to the College Party Guru at collegepartyguru.com: "This is one of the favorite themes of college campuses nationwide. Everyone gets to dress up in silly costumes and hot scandalous outfits. Whether you decide to wrap your body in caution tape or condoms it's sure to be a fun night ahead!. . . Be creative and use your imagination. You can get away with wearing anything for this party but if you want to stick out in the crowd you need to dress a little more risqué."

This guy stuck out.

"Gray is a good color for you," I tell him.
"Well thank you," he responds.

Some guys look good in Anything But Clothes.

The Charitable Binner

Bin-diving, containering, D-mart,  dumpstering, tatting, skipping, dumpster-diving and trash-picking. . .  There are all sorts of names for people who go through others' trash, depending on their motives and where and how they do it. And apparently it's not just for the homeless and needy.

There is an older gentleman, perhaps in his 70s, who arrives at the store soon after sunup every morning with his golden retriever, no matter the weather, and sorts through all nine of our outdoor trash pales in search of aluminum cans. I'm not sure how he can stand the stench. Some of our outdoor trash gets pretty raunchy. I hold my breath every time I have to change the garbage bags.

In some places this guy would be known as a "binner" -- a person who searches through trash to collect recyclable materials.

The first few times I saw him I thought he might be homeless, in need of whatever little change he could earn selling the aluminum cans. He dresses the part; old, tattered baggy pants and shirt. When I talked to him I could tell he was a kind and intelligent man. This morning I learned a bit more: He earned his J.D. from the University of Montana Law School, worked man years as a criminal prosecutor and is now a city attorney. He walks around to various stores collecting cans mostly for the exercise. He also says he would hate to see all those cans end up in the landfill. He donates the them to various charities that cash them in for money.

He's an attorney by trade; a charitable binner by hobby. 

And in case you're wondering: A 1988 California v. Greenwood case in the U.S. Supreme Court held that "there is no common law expectation of privacy for discarded materials." There are, however, limits to what can legally be taken from a company's refuse. In a 1983 Minnesota case involving the theft of customer lists from a garbage can the owner of the discarded information was awarded $500,000 in damages. He had a good attorney.

No need for an attorney if you're just collecting aluminum cans -- unless you want him to help. 

Rednecks: America's Last Minority?

Fortunately, we don’t sell many of the Redneck cigarette lighters displayed on the counter near the Bics. One is called “Redneck Bottom Fishing” and has a cartoon depicting two guys sitting on the bottom of a lake wearing swim goggles. One is holding a bass. There is also a dog swimming around with a mask, and a beer cooler tied down and floating above them. Another is called “Redneck Fishfinder,” depicting a guy in a boat holding the legs of another guy who is mostly submerged under water searching for fish. The “Redneck Bass Fishing” lighter depicts a few guys who just tossed dynamite into a lake, exploding, with fish flying out of the water. “Redneck Fishing Tournament” shows guys using high-voltage electrical wires to shock and kill fish.

I envision stereotypical rednecks getting a "har, har" chuckle out of these lighters as they toss their cigarette butts in lakes and rivers before heading home to watch Duck Dynasty.

The lighters are made in Spain for a company called Buck Wear which sells all manner of hats, shirts, coffee mugs and other merchandise stereotyping rural folks. (Ironically, they also sell merchandise that supports the stereotypes they make fun of, such as “Patriotic,” “God Bless America: Love it Or Leave It!,” NRA “You Can Have My Guns When You Pry My Dead Fingers Off It” sort of things. In other words, they apparently profit by selling stereotypes to the people who proudly fit the stereotypes.   

But not everyone who fits the stereotype is amused – like the older, gray-bearded man who came into the store one evening to buy a six-pack of Bud Light. He was wearing an NRA hat. As I was ringing him up he says, “I gotta tell you, I am greatly offended by these lighters.”

He has a strong southern accent.

“I can understand that,” I say. “I am kind of offended by them too. They definitely perpetuate stereotypes.”  
“Damn right they do,” the man says. “I am from Georgia and find it very offensive.”

I thought I knew where he was coming from. I had recently read an article in Salon by Alexandra Bradner called “America’s favorite joke is anything but funny,” about making fun of rural people, particularly on TV reality shows such as “Buckwild” (which I have never seen).

Bradner tells of a controversial proposal to make a show called “The Real Beverly Hillbillies” and quotes U.S. Congressman Harold Rogers of Kentucky who said, “No one would dare propose creating a program focusing on stereotypes about African-Americans, Muslims or Jews … Why then would it be okay to bash those of us living in rural America?”

Good question. Bradner takes a good shot at answering it:

“Of course, we all know why. Suffering people are so entertaining. There’s nothing more humorous than decades and decades of exploitation at the hands of the coal and natural gas industries, both of which have ravaged the landscape and choked its people in miserable jobs, hundreds of dark miles beneath the Earth’s surface. We love to chuckle at insurmountable educational challenges, like the fact that, in 2007, only 17.3 percent of people age 25 or over in West Virginia had a bachelor’s degree, the lowest rate in the nation. The lack of basic healthcare in some regions, the aging population, the weight management issues, the diabetes, the heart disease, the mesothelioma, the routine chemical spills, and the poisoned drinking water are pretty funny. Household incomes from 2007 to 2011 that are $13,000 lower than the national average and 17.5 percent of the state’s population below the poverty line — riotous. And what’s more laughable than, as of 2010, the ninth-highest teenage birthrate in the country?”

Bradner suggests that we stereotype and make fun of rural folks to insulate ourselves from real issues and needs and to make ourselves feel better, more “sophisticated” than others.

"I can see your point," I tell the customer from Georgia. "I will bring it up with my boss."
“Good,” he says. “But I doubt it’ll do any good. Nobody cares if you make fun of rednecks. We’re the last minority.”
“The last minority?” I say.
“Yes,” he replies. “I bet you would never see anyone selling faggot lighters, kike lighters or nigger lighters.”
“Whoa!” I say. “That is hardly the same thing! Those are terrible, insulting words that degrade people for who and what they are; redneck is a term for how people behave . . . a lifestyle they live . . . many seem to love being rednecks . . . they use the term themselves . . . but they choose to be rednecks; they weren’t born rednecks . . “
“Bullshit,” the man says. “I was born a redneck and damn proud to be a redneck!”
“Wow,” I say. “Do you march in redneck pride parades?”
“I would,” he says.
“Are you offended by Jeff Foxworthy?” I ask.
“No,” he says. “He’s just being funny.”
“We also sell Duck Dynasty hats,” I say. “Are you offended by that?”
“Hell no,” he says. “They tell it like it is. They’re the real deal!”
“I guess that's why they call it reality TV,” I say.

At this point his transaction is complete and I am hoping he will just leave. He doesn’t.

“We’re the last real Americans,” he says. “Yet we’re the only Americans it’s okay to make fun of.”
“You do realize that you are being the stereotypical southern redneck that people make fun of, right?" I say, "The stereotype you claim to be offended by?”
“How so?” he asks.
“Well . . . by being an ignorant, hateful, intolerant bigot who thinks you’re the only true American,” I say.

He looks surprised. And offended.

“That’s a bunch of damn politically-correct bullshit!” he says. “And I’ll tell you what, I ain’t spending my money here again.”
“I’d rather you didn’t,” I say.

In her article for Salon, Alexandra Bradner also wrote: 

“The problem with a stereotype is usually not that it is completely inaccurate, but that it identifies a feature as relevant or important for irrelevant reasons and, in so doing, makes it difficult for the person or entity to break out of the stereotype and beyond it.”

Gas Prices

A lot of customers complain about gas prices. Many blame Obama. Some blame Bush. One guy told me this is why we need to "drill the hell" out of places like Montana for gas and oil. Others say we need to more quickly develop viable, alternative sources of energy. 

We all fill up at the pumps.

Kanye West: Early Morning Cartoon Shit

I was standing out front gazing at the moon and stars, enjoying a bit of slow time and quiet after a busy night. I hear it before I see it, coming from the east. I think I recognize it. It grows louder as it approaches. Soon I see the lights of a small car. The right blinkers flash, it slows down and pulls into pump 12.  Even before the driver shuts off the car and rolls down the windows all I can hear is Kanye West, loud and obnoxious:

“Four in the mornin', and I'm zonin'
Think I'm possessed, it's an omen
I keep it 300, like the Romans
300 bitches, where's the Trojans?
Baby we livin' in the moment
I've been a menace for the longest
But I ain't finished, I'm devoted
And you know it, and you know it . . . “

Kanye’s even louder and more obnoxious when the driver gets out of his car after rolling down his windows so he can hear it, bop to the beat and sing along as he pumps gas. It takes maybe five minutes or so. Kanye won’t shut up.    

“Stop all that goon shit, early morning cartoon shit
This is the goon shit, fuck up your whole afternoon shit
I'm aware I'm a wolf, soon as the moon hit
I'm aware I'm a king, back out the tomb bitch . . . “

When the driver is done pumping he gets back in his car, starts it up, drives away and I hear Kanye fade away into the distance and darkness as they head west.

“Four in the mornin', and I'm zonin'
Think I'm possessed, it's an omen
I keep it 300, like the Romans . . . . “

Quiet again.

I resume gazing at the moon and stars until it’s time to go in and make coffee.

The Neon Ash

My father instilled in me a life-long love for trees. I've developed a particular recent fondness for the ash tree between the fenced-off dumpster and the cattail marsh. There is a picnic table beneath it where I often sit before clocking in to get in the right mindset for work, and I often sit there after work in the morning to wind down.

Trees help me think clearly. Sometimes.

Ash is part of the olive family and produces an oil similar to olive oil. I've read that ash oil can be heated and used to alleviate stomach ailments. In Norse mythology, the first man was formed from an Ash tree. The wood is strong yet flexible. Baseball bats were once made from ash. (It was an ash tree struck by lightening from which "Roy" made his "Wonderboy" bat in Robert Redford's "The Natural.")  When I was a teenager I cut down a small white ash in Connecticut and made my own snowshoes. 

The ash near the store is a green ash; not indigenous to western Montana but sometimes planted as an ornamental. I don't see a lot of them around. I call this one the neon ash.

At night, this ash tree often looks red in the glow of the neon lights on the side of the store, even in the summer. Perhaps neon cuts through the chlorophyll and reveals its true colors.

A few mornings ago after work I was sitting under the ash drinking orange juice and contemplating as the sun came up. At one point I looked up and saw this:

I am glad I had my camera with me.

The sun seemed to cut through the chlorophyll and reveal the tree's true colors. Like a neon sun. 

That night a big wind came through and blew most the leaves off the ash. Temperatures dropped. It rained. Fresh snow in the mountains. The next morning as I sat under the ash and drank my orange juice it looked like this:

I am glad I had my camera with me.

Trees have various moods. Beauty is ever changing. We all have brilliant moments. Sometimes we need a little help to reveal our true colors. Like a neon sun.

Trees help me think clearly. Sometimes.

4:20 a.m.

As I am looking out the window I see a blue Honda CRV pull into the far side of the parking lot, headlights shining on the cattail marsh. They stop, turn off the lights and all goes dark.

Soon after I see the flick of a Bic and in the light of the small blaze I can make out a guy's face as he brings the flame to a pipe in his mouth. Then all goes dark.

A few seconds later the little flame brightens up the passenger seat as another guy lights up the pipe. Then all goes dark.

The scene is repeated, back and forth, several times before the headlights go back on and they drive away, headed east. Then all goes dark.

I look at the clock.

It's 4:20 a.m.

"Dr. Pepper speed drinking champion of the world."

At about 2:15 a.m. I get a mini after-the-bars-close rush of a half dozen people. One of them comes up to the register with a bag of Lays Classic potato chips and a Hershey bar with Almonds. He also puts a one-liter bottle of Dr. Pepper on the counter which is half full (although I am pretty sure he thought it was half empty). He seems pretty drunk.

"Is that one of ours?" I ask, pointing at the Dr. Pepper and wondering if I should ring it up.
"No," he says. "Do you really think I could drink all that since I got here?"
"Just asking," I say. "No big deal."

He takes an old Snickers candy wrapper out of his pocket and throws it on the counter in front of me.

DR. PEPPER MAN: "Here, I brought that with me too. Are you going to accuse me of stealing that too?"
ME: "I wasn't accusing you of stealing anything. I was simply asking if you were buying it from us. Sometimes people come in, grab something to drink, drink some of it while shopping, and bring it up to the register to pay for it. It's really no big deal. I did not think you stole it."

He holds up the bottle and shakes it a little.

DR. PEPPER MAN: "Do you really think I could drink all that in the short time I've been here?"
ME: "I don't know. You never know. I was simply asking. No big deal."
DR. PEPPER MAN: "Try thinking . . . Seems common sense to me. Nobody is going to drink all that that quickly."

(Apparently, he never watched Forrest Gump: "The best thing about visiting the President is the food! Now, since it was all free, and I wasn't hungry but thirsty, I must've drank me fifteen Dr. Peppers." Forrest then tells President Kennedy, "I gotta pee.")

ME: "Look, I don't know you. For all I know you could be the Dr. Pepper speed drinking champion of the world."
DR. PEPPER MAN: "What?"
ME: "Have you ever entered or won a Dr. Pepper speed drinking competition?
DR. PEPPER MAN: "Huh? . . . um . . . no."
ME: "Well see, I didn't know that. If you had told me that earlier I wouldn't have bothered asking you if it was ours. Thanks for the clarification."

"Tom Brady’s a faggot."

A large, heavy-set guy comes in to buy a 12-pack of Coors Light. He’s wearing a Dallas Cowboy hat.

ME: “I didn’t think the Cowboy’s still had any fans.”

He laughs.

COWBOY FAN: “Fuck you! I bet you’re a Seahawk fan?”
ME: “To be honest, I’m not so into football, but I do like the Patriots. I like Tom Brady.  
COWBOY FAN: “Fuck the Patriots. Tom Brady’s a faggot. Fuck Tom Brady.”  
ME: “Now why did you have to go and put that fantasy in my head?”
COWBOY FAN: “What fantasy?”
ME: “Fucking Tom Brady.”
COWBOY FAN: “What?”
ME: “Fucking Tom Brady. I’d fuck Tom Brady.”
COWBOY FAN: “Okay, that’s a little weird.”
ME: “Why? He’s hot, don’t you think?”

He looks confused.

COWBOY FAN: “No . . no, I don’t.”

"I think we've already established that haven't we?"

A woman comes in at about 5:30 a.m. and I say, "Good morning, how are you?" She glares at me for a few seconds and says, "Okay, I guess, not that it's any of your business."

She heads to the back, goes into the bathroom for awhile, comes back out, gets some coffee and brings it to the register. Out of habit, as I am ringing her up, I say, "So how is your morning?"

She shoots me a dirty look and says, "I think we've already established that haven't we?"

"Well you never know," I say. "That was about ten minutes ago, I thought the situation could have changed while you were in the bathroom."

I get another dirty look, but no response. 

Private Bing: "I'm dreaming of a white christmas . . . "

Until I took this job I hadn't mopped a floor since I was a Marine. That was 28 years ago. I was rusty but it came back quick; mopping is like riding a bicycle.

Although I did accidentally use concrete cleaner instead of floor cleaner one night. (The bottles look the same; one is gray and one is green. I used the gray.)  It dissolved the wax on the floor and was super sticky for days, like walking on fly paper. A contractor had to re-wax it.

I usually mop the floors between 3:00 - 4:00 a.m. One morning i was mopping away when a memory popped in my head:

It was summer, 1982, and i was in the middle of 14-weeks of boot camp at Parris Island off the coast of South Carolina. My platoon was on kitchen duty -- helping cook, serve and clean at the chow hall. I was mopping the floor.

I was the recruit drill instructors loved to hate. I was young, tough, stubborn and naive enough to think I couldn't be broke. They saw that in me so tried all the harder to break me. They kept a mountain lion-like eye on me eager to pounce, singling me out at every chance; I tried not to give them many chances.

Kitchen duty was a refreshing break from the constant shadow of drill instructors. As I was mopping the chow hall floor I start singing "I'm dreaming of a white Christmas . . . "  Some of the other recruits joined in. I had just reached the final, "May your days be merry and bright" when I noticed everyone else had gone silent. I looked up from my mopping, saw my comrades locked at attention, and followed their stares towards the drill instructor standing behind me.

"Well look it here, Private fucking Bing!" he said.

It earned me a trip with the DI out to the "Rose Garden," a large sandbox-like pit of deep sand where I did endless amounts of pushups, flutter kicks, sit ups, running in place, eight-count body builders, mountain climbers and all other manner of torture in the brutal, humid South Carolina July heat while the drill instructor screamed profanities until my muscles eventually gave out and I was just thrashing around in sand and sweat like a dying fish.

That night, just before lights out, as we were all lined up in our white skivvies at attention in the barracks eagerly awaiting the command to sleep, the drill instructor called me out:

"I think we'll have Private fucking Bing entertain us with a little rendition of a song. FRONT AND CENTER PRIVATE BING! SING!"

So I did. I did it loud and clear.

"With every Christmas card I write . . . "

With that stuck in my head while mopping the floor at Noon's the other morning, I was singing White Christmas so loud I didn't even hear the "bing" of the door when the customer came in. I didn't know he was behind me until I heard, "Really? Christmas songs? A little early, don't you think?"

"Well, I can't think of any Halloween songs," I replied. "Can you?"

"I wish she'd make up her goddamn mind!"

A burly middle-age man comes in wearing a New York Yankee hat and jacket. He's got a strong New York accent and a curt, direct, tough-guy edge about him that's common along the East Coast. He buys a pack of Virginia Slim Superslim Menthols then goes outside and gets back in his car (a blue Ford Taurus with New York plates) where I can see a woman in the passenger seat.

They begin to pull out, the car stops, then they pull back in and park again. The guy gets out of the car and comes back in into the store. He goes to the cooler, grabs a Mountain Dew, pays for it, goes outside, gets back in the car and hands the bottle to the woman in the passenger seat.

They begin to pull out, stop, and pull back in yet again.

The guy comes back into the store. He doesn't seem happy. He grabs a pack of Trident Tropical Twist gum and, as he's bringing it up to the counter to pay, he says:

"Fucking women! She just keeps sending me back in again, and again and again . . . I wish she'd make up her goddamn mind!"

I ring him up. He pays.

"See you again in few moments?" I ask.

He smiles. Sort of.  

“Dude, I’m dying of a natural, organic cancer.”

Missoula is the kind of place where a lot of folks smoke American Spirits, and I sell a lot of them.

They’re hip. They’re cool. They’re 100-percent natural, additive-free and organic . . . dude.  We Missoulians love things that are organic, natural and overpriced. Smokers of American Spirits can get pretty snooty about it, in the same way that some people who drive a Prius or shop at the Good Food Store do.  

Here’s what a cool hipster-dude-customer told me the other night after buying a pack of “Spirit” organics in the teal-colored box:

“You shouldn’t even sell other kinds of smokes, dude. They’re cool (he holds up the box). They don’t have all that rat poison and shit that other cigarettes do . . . it’s all natural and organic . . . they care about small farmers and the planet . . . dude.”

They are definitely clever with their marketing and advertising.

It’s true that Spirits don’t contain the same long list of additives present in conventional cigarettes. They refuse to do animal testing (In 2001, PETA and other animal activists applauded American Spirit for becoming the first-ever cruelty-free cigarette in the U.S.) They donate money to environmental causes. They encourage consumers to send in cigarette butts for recycling. They provide employee same-sex domestic partner benefits. They use an image of a Native American wearing full head-dress smoking a peace pipe on their packages (“Based on our belief in the traditional American Indian usage of tobacco—in moderation and in its natural state”).  They come in an assortment of bright, beautiful colors. 

They are hip. They are cool.

When I smoke (I’m on and off with it) I smoke American Spirits (sometimes in the bright pretty yellow box, sometimes in the light baby blue box).  

Okay, so granted: They are made by the Santa Fe Natural Tobacco Company which is owned by R.J. Reynolds, the world’s second largest tobacco company (behind Philip Morris), which also owns Camel, Winston, Salem, Kool, Pall Mall and other brands. When I smoke them I am still inhaling carbon monoxide, particulate matter, carcinogenic polycyclic aromatic hydrocarbons and toxic nitrosamines.

But let’s not ruin a cool, hip thing with silly facts.

We smokers of the Spirit can feel pretty self-righteously good about ourselves when, someday in the future, we can proudly say: 

“Dude, I’m dying of a natural, organic cancer.”

"Plus, the guy is gay."

PART I:

Just before 2:00 a.m.: 

A tall attractive guy (maybe 25 or so) comes in to buy a six pack of Coors. Although it’s cold out, his brown jacket is completely open and unbuttoned in the front and he is not wearing a shirt underneath. He strikes me as a bit cocky. As I ring up his beer I ask, “How’s your night going?”
 
“Not so good,” he says. “My shoulder hurts.” He explains that he got in a fight at a party with a “small kid.”

“I didn’t want to hurt him,” he says, “but he kept coming after me. So I grabbed him and held down his arms, but he struggled and we both fell to the ground and that's how I hurt my shoulder.”

“Kind of like a little kitten?” I ask. “Playfully biting and scratching too hard so you want to hold it down but not hurt it?”
“Exactly!” he says. “Plus, the guy is gay.”
“What does that have to do with it?” I ask.
 “Well . . . you know . . . not much of a fighter, you know?” he says.
“I don’t know if I follow you on that one,” I say.

He shrugs his shoulders.

“How do you know he is gay?” I ask.
“Well . . . you know . . . you can tell. You know what I mean?”
“I don’t,” I say. “I don’t think you can always tell. You never know for sure.”

Again he shrugs his shoulders.

He is a very animated talker, moving his hands and lifting his arms a lot as he tells me the story. Every time he moves his arms his coat opens up a bit, exposing his tone, solid, well-defined chest and abs. He has a sexy body. I can’t help but notice. I can’t help but look. I can't help but gawk a bit.
 
“You just never know,” I say. “You just never know . . .” 


PART II:

About 4:30 a.m.: 

A young guy comes in to use the cash machine and buy a few snacks.

“Good morning, how are you?” I ask.
“Not so good,” he says. “I just got back from the hospital.”   
“Oh, sorry to hear,” I say. “I hope it’s not too serious.”   
“It’s not,” he says. “They thought I might have a concussion but I don’t.”  
 “Well, that’s good," I say. "What happened?”   
“Oh, I got in a fight. A guy suckered punched me at a party.”   
“Was he by chance wearing a brown jacket with no shirt underneath?” I ask.   
“Yeah, that’s the guy,” he says, surprised. “How did you know that?”
 
I tell him the story. Then I hear his version: He was at a party when the brown-jacket-shirtless-guy walks up and sucker punches him. He apparently held a strong grudge from their high school days three years prior. I believe him. He’s a nice guy.

“I am curious,” I ask. “Are you by chance gay?”
“No, I’m not,” he says. “Why do you ask? What does that have to do with it?”

I explain. He laughs.

“Even if I were,” he says, “how would he know?”
“I agree,” I say. “You just never know.”