Flip-flops and Buttered White Bread

I won’t bother to tell you why I was arrested, or why on this particular day I chose to wear a black-and-white striped blouse with a black pleated miniskirt to work, an outfit I detested anyway because it was ill-fitting, although now that I think back, it must have been because I hadn’t done the laundry. Hell, maybe my electricity had been cut off. That had happened more than once. Maybe that’s why I love candles so much; they are not only decorative, they are useful. But I digress.

My manager stood up in his office at a little before lunchtime for my shift and motions at me to come in and see him. I put my phone in queue and, annoyed, go to see him. This will affect my call time and denomination for that day because I am not on an official break; surely he knows this. But he’s obviously in a hurry, judging by his mannerisms, so I step up the pace myself. He doesn’t even wait for me to get all the way into his glass cubicle of an office -- he meets me at the door and whispers:

I don’t know what’s going on, but you need to call someone and let them know you’re being picked up.

[giggle, snort] Picked up? Like I’m getting a promotion? Or my grandma is coming to get me because I’m sick? What?

Neither -- the police are downstairs and want me to escort you to their vehicle at the back loading dock.

I stand there agape, mouth wide open, because honest-to-God I have no idea what he is talking about, but this isn’t the first time I’ve been in trouble, so instead of asking, I do as he says.

I tell him I’m going to the bathroom right quick and he nods and I sprint for the bank of phones that are actually right between the women's and men's bathrooms. I have no desire to pee but I probably should have at least tried. But that was the least of my worries.

I dial up "Boris", my one-time boyfriend but long-time good friend, who is also a cop, and tell him what I’d heard. He didn’t know what was going on but he said he would find out while I was enroute downtown.

Well, fuck! I wanted him to just call them up and tell them, look, I know her, she’s a cool chick, just sort of an idiot, I’ll handle this from here.

Mr. Manager comes back to the phone bank, which is also near the elevators, and waits quietly. I hang up and stand next to him. I should be thankful he didn’t make a scene and jerk me around like the criminal I obviously am. He didn’t even try to hold on to me, and I will be forever grateful for that his kindness. Even if he was a Redskins fan.

We go downstairs to the mailroom -- which thank God is huge -- and nobody notices us walk through to the loading dock and down the side stairs. There is a white police car backed up to the dock, with the driver’s side back door already open and waiting.

I put on my bravest smile and simply step in. It could have been a white limo for all the grace I was showing. In return, the officer doesn’t handcuff me; he simply closes the door as if he were my chauffer, and we drive off.

[Here, I could interject the amiable conversation I had with Officer Friendly on the way, but it sounds too trite, even to myself.]

We arrive downtown at the back entrance of the jail, which is new to me; the last time I’d been brought downtown the holding cells were nearer to the river. At least that’s all I can remember. This time, I was sober.

I am brought into a small-ish room that is surrounded by bulletproof glass and joined by a tall black woman in uniform. The thick green doors swish closed behind her as she instructs me to remove my shoes, pantyhose, and any hair ornaments, which I place into the clear plastic baggie she is holding out with one hand, while in her other hand is a pair of green flipflops, the cheapo kind, each made of a hard, molded plastic “Y” that is punched through 1/8” of foam.

She doesn’t search me, which I still wonder about, and she escorts me upstairs to where the other female inmates are housed. On the way, I notice another cop friend sitting at a desk, who glances up at me, then does a double-take as I am whisked past. He doesn’t acknowledge me; just follows me with his eyes as I am handed a thin, scratchy green wool blanket from a cabinet next to a set of big glass doors trimmed in the same green.

A loud buzz sounds, and one set of doors slides open, then closed, as we step into a small foyer, then another set of doors opens, and I am released into a large two-story octagon-shaped room that is made of concrete and painted in drab gray. A few bored looks from a card game is all I am rewarded with, and a voice booms over a loudspeaker:

You’re in H.

Then, another loud buzz, and straight in front of me against the far wall, a single green-and-glass door slides open. I head that way, seeing the big white H embossed in a black piece of plastic, and go straight to the far bunk, which is directly underneath a long then horizontal window that is too high for me to see out of but lets a little bit of light in.

Sitting down on the 1/2” plastic-coated foam mattress, I take notice of my new surroundings, and I am impressed. The jail is newly built so it’s actually pretty clean. Even the stainless steel toilet and tiny sink doesn’t look totally awful.

I am not sure how long I will be here but it will at least be for one night until my arraignment, so I tuck in for the long haul. I curl up on the bunk with one elbow under my head, my legs closed and knees bent with the blanket covering my lower half, since I am, after all, in a miniskirt.

Hey, White Girl! You want your bread?

The door to my cell is open and an older black woman in a pair of pink and purple scrubs is holding out a tray, like the kind you used in school from the cafeteria. I see an unknown meat with gravy, (what I think are) instant mashed potatoes, green beans, and one thin slice of buttered bread. I am not hungry, but the polite thing to do is to at least get up, so I take the proffered tray and look at her blankly as she repeats:

Your bread. You gonna eat it?

When I shake my head no, she delicately removes the bread from atop the meat and nods her thanks. I smile back and start to retreat back to my bunk but she jerks her head toward the main room, so I follow her to a round stainless steel table with a wide bench welded onto the base. There are a couple other girls sitting there too but they scoot over and make room for me. We all sit sort of back-to-back, with our feet on the benches facing out, rather than our butts on the benches and trays on the table, facing in.

I’m a little self-conscious about the stupid skirt, because as I sit, the back of the skirt falls down and I feel my ass being exposed, along with my granny panties, and with my knees pressed tightly together I feel like a total prima donna, when I’d much rather have jeans on, splaying my legs out to show my confidence in this situation. Prim I am not.

Some more gals wander over with their trays, eating with their plastic sporks, but none seem overly threatening, besides, they’re all wearing flipflops like mine, so I figure they just want some fresh news from the outside.

Interrogation over, I take my time eating, looking around, some meeting my eyes, some not. I see that everyone has eaten their bread first before tackling the other food, until I notice the woman I’d given my bread to, and she is carefully mating the buttered side of her piece of bread to the buttered side of another piece of bread, both of which she wraps in her napkin and takes the package to her cell before coming back out to the common area.

That was the night I learned to play Hearts, and soon it was time for showers and bed. You didn’t have to take a shower if you didn’t want to, but some of the women had obviously been there a long time, and this was routine. Some were brushing their teeth, getting ready for bed, or brushing one another’s hair.

It was then that I suddenly became aware of the need and usefulness of the bread: the buttered side becomes a smooth brush that oils their coarse hair and keeps it from breaking. Palming the un-buttered side, they stroke their hair smoothly, using every bit of the bread until they determined they were done. To this day I am not sure how they knew the butter had been used up or if they saved it for the next night, or even for a trade with another inmate.

To this day, I hate flip-flops, and I don’t eat buttered bread when I can help it. Someone else might need it more than me.

Payback is Hell

We were only going to get one of the perfumes that came with a gift, because a friend of ours had just recently started working at the makeup counter of a large department store, and we wanted her to get the credit for a sale. So we drove up to the bigger city north of us and went to the mall.

Erika and I found our friend, and we gleefully exchanged tales of the latest current events, then started looking at the perfumes. At some point in our conversation we asked how her sales were doing and she at first was proud to relate that she had the highest sales figures of anyone that month, but then her face sort of fell as she lowered her voice slightly and whispered, but it doesn’t count.

Turns out, at this particular chain of department stores, if you buy something at Store Y and return it at Store X, the return is taken from the sales figures of the poor fool who had the misfortune of having to wait on your ass at Store X...NOT from the salesperson at Store Y who sold you the product in the first place. And our buddy had logged the most hours at the counter, so a lot of her sales were gone because of these returns.

Not only were we indignant, but we were outright appalled when she continued her story. Evidently, there is one sorry bitch at Store Y that knows this policy and has tweaked it in her favor, by refusing to take a return, period. In some cases, this forces the weak-minded to drive all the way up to Store X and return the item there.

Now, this poses two problems: first of all, that fucking bitch should not be allowed to get away with that; secondly, our new friends at Store X deserved to get their appropriate sale figures back.

So Erika and I discussed this problem at length over a couple beers and formulated a plan.

Later that day, we went back to Store X and purchased ALL of their summer products, which included self-tanning lotions and bronzers of different shades. Erika put it all on her credit card, and off we went down to the other store, after ensuring that The Bitch was indeed at work.

We parked and went inside, looking for the appropriate counter. We knew who she was without even getting a description. She was tall and lean with a severe look about her, as if she had absolutely nothing to smile about, ever, which we would further prove to her that day, and boy did we relish the idea. On the way there we had decided on who would play good cop (Erika) and bad cop (me), and we were both right on cue and perfect for our respective roles.

The snarky bitch, seeing Erika carrying two bags of items, we actually saw her stiffen. And so it began:

Can I help you?

Why yes, I hope so, you see, we were going to have a promotion this week but it’s been cancelled, so I need to return everything.

All of that stuff?

Uh, yeah.

Do you have a receipt?

Yes, here it is. Everything is still sealed, as you can see.

[looking at the receipt] Well, you purchased this from Store X.

Yes, I did, actually… is that a problem?

No, it’s not a problem, it’s just that we don’t take returns from Store X.

[pause] Excuse me?

[blank stare from the Snarky Bitch]

[a little louder but still sweetly] Did you say you don’t take returns from Store X?

[arms now crossed] Yes, that’s what I said.

I’ve returned items to this store before and didn’t have a problem. Is that a new policy?

No, actually, it’s not.

[here’s where I break in and take over] Or is that just your policy? Where is your manager?

He’s in his office…

Then please call him up here.

[eyes rolling] I don’t think that’s necessary, it’s just the way we do business, you have to take your items back to the original store.

[hands on my hips now] Well, I personally have purchased an item here and returned it to that store, without having a problem. So, again, is that your policy?

No, it’s not.

[voice raised] Then you won’t mind getting your manager. NOW.

She gets on the phone without comment, and asks whomever she is speaking to, to come to her counter. We all wait; Erika and I are talking to each other in low voices: how rude the help here is, no wonder Mother won’t come here anymore, for real, and then the manager walks up.

Snarky says nothing. Erika starts her lines again, adding, but she said she doesn’t take returns from other stores.

[manager glances at Snarky] Of course we do, although this is rather a lot of merchandise.

Well, yes, this was going to be quite a large promotion, but it’s been cancelled.

Why don’t you just wait til it’s been reinstated?

[me again now, loudly] Seriously? Are you, too, refusing to take back this merchandise?

Well, no, I’m not refusing to take it back, I’m just…

Wasting our time is what you’re doing. You’re merely wasting our time. Do we need to call YOUR manager?

No, no, now that won’t be necessary…

Then how about let’s get the ball rolling here, we’re on our freakin’ lunch break for Chrissakes.

The manager sighs, gets the receipt from Snarky, picks up both bags, and disappears into a back room near the purses and accessories. Erika and I begin to talk again in low voices, you know I’d heard that this counter wouldn’t accept returns but I didn’t believe it, yeah I’ll never come here again… At which point Snarky decides to pipe up:

That’s probably a good idea.

[me this time] Say what?

That you not come here again.

[Erika and I look at each other, then I say] You know, you got a smart mouth for someone in your position, just a fucking salesgirl.

[raising her pointy eyebrows] I don’t have to listen to this…

Oh yeah you do, that’s your fucking job, and evidently you also seem to think your sorry-ass job entitles you to rape the employees of Store X by making them take all of your returns. What’s the matter? You don’t like it when it happens to you? What horseshit is that?

[Snarky, backing away and sliding out from behind the counter now] If I have to, there’s two people standing over there…

[Rotating my neck sistah-style] Well go get ‘em cause you’re gonna need all the help you can get, Bitch.

She, too, disappears into the back room while Erika and I snicker.

Shortly, the manager comes back with the receipt, Snarky following close behind. This is when I notice she’s taken off her nametag. What.a.fucking.pussy. Typical bully, when you get back in their face they lie down and pee themselves.

The manager is placing the items on the counter, side-by-side, to begin entering them into the register, and to our delight, Snarky’s eyes open wide and she sputters:

But this is all summer stuff!

Did I mention it was Christmas?

You Want The Quarters?

A shadow falls over us as we’re counting our tills up in the Head Cashier’s booth at the local grocery store. Another asshole customer who wants their carton of cigarettes at the last minute before the store closes.  I turn to Andrea and mutter fuckers, then turn to the window to see a pair of old soiled brown boots standing on the ledge outside of the Plexiglas. My eyes quickly travel up to see a sawed-off shotgun coming over the top, and a lanky body following it into the booth with us. He opens a beige-colored cotton sack  and points to the big gray safe looming behind us, motioning for us to open it. Which, of course, we can’t, because neither of us have the combination.

I calmly reach behind the guy, pick up the intercom mic off its hook on the wall, and request the manager’s assistance. That’s when I look out over the line of cashiers and see the other guy with another sack, grabbing money from the till of one of the remaining cashiers on the sales floor. I focus my attention toward the rear of the store where the manager should be coming from, and see the sorry chicken-shit looking at us through the window of the Produce door and realize he’s not coming to help us.

I turn around to the guy, not looking at him directly, gesture towards  the back of the store and tell the guy my manager’s not coming, and we don’t have the combo. Then I move aside and show him the full tills on the counter, and he starts emptying them into his sack.

Andrea is backed into the corner having a hysterical snarking fit so I start picking up the other tills, dumping their contents into the sack, too, then ask you want these rolls of quarters, too? They are shelved in the doors of the outer safe, and that part is open. He does, so I swipe them off one shelf at a time, into the waiting sack and for whatever reason, I want to say Trick or Treat!

The guy departs as quietly and suddenly as he had appeared, along with the other guy. Someone has called the police in the meantime, so it’s almost immediate that the officers are in the booth with us asking questions and taking notes. Suddenly the doors to the front of the store bang open, and there are four cops with the would-be robbers in their grip, one of which is dragging their sack along the ground.

The quarters had slowed them down.

A Real Case of Mad Cow

“The first symptom of Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease (CJD, or Mad Cow Disease) is rapidly progressive dementia, leading to memory loss, personality changes and hallucinations. This is accompanied by physical problems such as speech impairment, jerky movements, balance and coordination dysfunction, changes in gait, rigid posture, and seizures. In some people, the symptoms can continue for years. In most patients, these symptoms are followed by involuntary movements.” –Wikipedia, Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease

Those of you who have known me for a long time know that my other screen name has been madcow or madcow67 since my adoption of the internet using my Mac Performa way back in the early nineties. I’ve always had a thing for cows and even had an actual cow that I named T-Bone, “Bo” for short.

So when I first heard about Mad Cow Disease I always thought it was funny how the symptoms resemble alcoholism. Since I’d started my Air Force career, that’s pretty much when I started drinking heavily, it just fit me, so that’s when I adopted that nickname.

Today, for the first time ever, I decided to donate blood, and I had to answer several questions about my lifestyle and past medical history, among other things. This included whether I had lived in Europe during the years 1980 and 1996. Of course, my answer was yes; I served at Upper Heyford RAF as a Medic (MSS) during the years 1986 - 1990.

Imagine my surprise to hear that I could never donate blood according to standards implemented in 2001 by the Food and Drug Administration (FDA) as a precautionary measure against exposure to the human form of mad cow disease.

I haven’t laughed like that in years.

I may get in touch with Bill about that. Hell, I’ll email him using my new screen name – madalcowholic.

Another Politically-inspired Race?

I am so sick of hearing how they're giving back to the fans of late. Tell that to the fans that sat in the rain waiting for the restart only to be gypped out of approximately 100 more miles of Daytona. I'll wager Ford Motor Company's CEO called up Mike Helton and said something akin to, "Hey look, we just got some bailout money;  how 'bout we send some of that your way to let Ford win Daytona, so we can sell some more cars."

With 50 laps to go there was no excuse for NASCAR pulling the plug on yesterday's race. Their lame excuse was that it could take hours to dry the track. Yeah? So what? I've sat in the rain alongside thousands of other fans for hours at Atlanta, Talladega, Darlington, Bristol, and Charlotte only to find out we had to come back the next day. Whatever happened to that option, Mr. Helton?

And who do you think you're kidding, by the way, when you say you sold out at Daytona? That was crap if I have saw or smelled it. There were dozens of seats available in the backstretch. So you sold out the frontstretch. Well, that ain't selling out Daytona. That's called giving out corporate seating. Give me a break.

Maybe if you had more races than political gnashings, you'd have some damn fans.

She’s Here

OK, I don't spook easily, but I do believe in ghosts and I would like to think that our loved ones are up there looking after us and helping us in little ways we don't normally see. That said, I have to share with you a strange but enlightening experience I just went through.

It actually started a couple weeks ago, when I was having a really hard time at work and trying to make some decisions about finding another job because I wasn't happy here. I had finally made the decision to start looking. Let me preface this next part with a blurb about how my team had recently moved to a new building so I have a new desk that had been cleaned out.

On a Monday morning a few weeks ago, I came into work dressed up for a job fair that afternoon, and I opened up the big bottom drawer of my desk to put my purse inside (as I usually do), and there sat a Loreena McKennitt CD, right where I normally sit my purse. And this is no small purse, people, this is a big piece of baggage, so I was put off to say the least, since I'd never noticed this CD before. It was sitting flat, with the front album cover up.

Now, as you know, I don't pay much attention to my surroundings sometimes, so even though it was in the back of my mind that this just happened to be one of the singers my mom listened to, I just figured it belonged to the woman who used to sit here. So that day I went through the entire desk looking for other personal effects to return to the woman, and found nothing. Since then, I've listened to the CD and liked it, and wound up never returning it.

Today I have to take my physical for my new job, so this will decide whether I "really" got the job or not, but I gave my resignation on Monday anyway, so I am a little nervous that maybe that wasn't the right move, maybe I should have waited til I got the "all clear" before I gave my resignation, etc. In other words, I am anxious about the decisions I have made.

This morning I came into work and went to put my purse away, and there was a Yanni CD sitting in the same place the other CD had been sitting.
Yanni was one of my mom's all-time favorites.

A Technical Writer’s Descent into the M1A1 Abrams Tank

I am high on life and smelling like hydraulic fluid and gunpowder. I've got scrapes on my knees and elbows, a cut on my head, and a smile on my face as wide as the loader's seat in an M1A1 Abrams tank. How do I know how wide the loader's seat is, you ask? BECAUSE I WAS SITTING ON IT!!!!!!

Today was vehicle training for me and four other folks here in Huntsville. One of our jobs will be to run the diagnostics software on the tank to test for fault codes, so we were put through a pretty intense safety training mission which included blowing the exhaust doors on the vehicle building. The fire drill part only took about a minute – our instructor showed us the fire extinguisher hull handle, then gave a rundown of how many gallons of gasoline and hydraulic fluid and oil the tank holds, then pointed to the door, and said, one word. You guessed it: RUN.

When I first walked in the vehicle section of the building, I was greeted by the turret cannon -- pointed straight at the door -- and I stopped dead in my tracks and said WHOA. When you're editing the manuals you see the drawings and photos but you don't really grasp just how HUGE this thing is until you see it up close and personal. Boy, did we!

The whole tank including the turret is over 10 feet tall, and the caterpillar tracks come up to my shoulders. We climbed up onto the hull via a ten-step steel ladder, and ladies went first (that would be me, in case you're wondering who the "lady" was). First off was the driver's seat. The instructor gestures to the big gaping hole on top of the hull and says, "Hop in!" I look around, like, who me? And then I did. Well, not exactly HOP in; I tentatively started to put one foot in then backed up and regrouped, put the other foot in, got one hand on the edge for balance, was sort of stuck in that position while I "walked" my other leg to the edge, then finally just sat down on the edge and stretched one leg down until I touched the seat. It reclines like a dentist's chair, practically horizontal, and the opening itself is only about a foot wider than my shoulders, so it's a pretty tight fit until you get inside. I was allowed to look out the periscope, pull and set the parking brake (BANG!!!), adjust the driver's seat and headrest, and raise the seat for driving with my head outside the hatch.

Then it was up to the turret was went. It fits three crewmembers, and this time I was last so I was the Loader. The other guys got to pull the triggers and stuff while I had to do all the “work”. I unlocked the turret for the Gunner to send it in a circle, then I unlocked and unpinned the 120mm cannon; the Gunner moved it up and down in normal mode, then in manual mode. The Commander got to spin the 360-degree periscope and “fire” his 50mm machine gun. Then we looked in the ammo compartment. It opens with a loud hiss and a spray of vapor that smells faintly of hydraulic fluid. Everything you do is loud and magnified in the small space you're in. When the cannon goes up and down, the back end of it is inside the hatch with us, so you really have to watch your body parts. Talk about keeping your hands and feet inside the ride at all times!

I was so proud to have been able to actually board one of the vehicles I support, and I came away from the experience ecstatic to be in the field we are in and with tons more appreciation for those men & women that we consider our customers, the soldiers in the field.

Chuckie’s on Fire!

My first job as a teenager was working at Chuck E. Cheese –- I was the mouse -– and one of the things I loved to do was harass the little brats that were old enough to see me under that big helmet thingy and point it out to other little kids, for instance, “Chuckie’s a girl!” and the like.

The Chuck E. costume (or Chuckie, which is easier to spell, and not Chucky, which reminds of that awful movie)… it was insanely hot and itchy to wear as it was made out of wool, and Chuckie’s head was pretty heavy although the weight was on your shoulders. Chuckie also had a long, heavy tail made of thick foam rubber that I had to hold in my hand as I walked around waving at the kiddies. It was hard to maneuver in at first but once I got the hang of it I was a pure terror. 

Being a teenager pretty much guarantees that I did not like whining screaming brats so whenever I encountered one being particularly persnickety to his or her parents, “I want it now!” for example, I would swat the kid with my tail. Not hard, but enough to get their attention. The best part was when they started yelling at their parent(s), “Chuckie hit me!” and the parents would walk away as if to say, yeah right, kid.

One particularly bad day at the office, a day in which I was suffering from a major hangover (yes, Dad, I drank when I was a teen), was a Saturday, and that meant one thing: Birthdays. All day. A whole day of screaming brats that I couldn’t swat because they were all right there in my face with the parents not yet having escaped.

If you’ve ever been to Chuck E. Cheese or Showbiz Pizza Place you know the drill. Pay lots of money to make Junior happy on his special day by giving as much junk food to him and his friends and letting them all run around like wild animals, without the liability of doing it in your own home and possibly angering another parent. A parent, by the way, that invariably does not show up at Junior’s party because Ma & Pa are so damn glad the little banshee is out of the house, they have gone back to bed while you suffer alone.

At the birthday party, usually the kids have all had their pizza, and there has been at least one “on-stage” performance by the animatrons. Then out I come carrying Junior’s cake to the table where everyone sings Happy Birthday and the special boy blows out the candles.

Notice I do not mention ever lighting said candles. This is because the candles are lit before the cake is placed in my furry paws, and I am sent out to war without a weapon. Well, almost.

As I lean over to place the cake on the table, a wave of woozy from the boozy hit me and I leaned over too far. Chuckie’s big black enamel-painted nose went straight into the cake.

Ear-splitting peals of laughter soon turn to screams of pure terror, “Chuckie’s on fire! Chuckie’s on fire!”

Now, I don’t know about you, but when someone is pointing at me and screaming that I am on fire, I do what I have to to put the fire out.

I take off my head.

Somehow the side of the “helmet” had slid forward over my shoulders and some of the gray wooly hair on Chuckie’s head was smoldering. This is easily rectified, however, so I didn’t at first understand why the kiddos were still acting so hysterically. Until I noticed the angry looks on the parents’ faces and realized I have just let their children in on the biggest secret a parent will ever keep from their bundle of joy: There Is No Such Thing As Santa.

Needless to say those families all went home to their therapists with full bellies and pockets, and I was relegated to the game room for the rest of my career. There, anyway.

One of the best days of my life.