crapapult

I’ve spent the last few days dealing with someone that somehow brings this memory forward in my mind.

I tended bar in Chicago for several years, and it was very like me to go to a place called The Red Lion up on Lincoln for lessons in drinking and brinkmanship. There was a barman there named Joe, who was a life-long tender and owner. I always respected that he was quiet and to the point, and sensed there was a lot to learn from him.

On a semi-busy night, I was working my way into my cups. There was an older guy being loud and obnoxious at the other end of the bar. He was clearly alone, drunk, and trying to pick an argument with anyone who would listen to him. No one would, which drove him to get louder. I could see that I, and several others, were nearing the point where we would ask him to leave.

Perhaps sensing his pending ejection, he leaned over the bar and said, “Joe, give me two bottles for the road.”

Joe instantly grabbed two beers, put them on the bar, and took the last of the guys cash. The borachio took them, put one in each of his coat pockets, and stumbled out.

“Joe”, I said, “that was 6 kinds of illegal. You could lose your license for something like that.”

“Are you kidding?”, he replied, “I just preempted a fight, sold two beers, AND I got a loudmouth out of my bar.”

Lots to learn from Joe.

I got my first job at 15 working in an ice cream/burger shop. After the first few weeks, the manager who hired me left. Her replacement did not understand why anyone would hire a 15 year old, and thus relegated me to emptying garbage cans and grease traps, restocking the deep freeze, and sweeping the parking lot.

My nemesis at this job was a woman named Severa (pronounced severe-uh). Severa did nothing but work the ice-cream counter and the register. Never in my days there did I see her do anything else. Severa was in her late 50′s, weighed about 250lbs, had a thick accent, and was blessed with a shrill, rattling voice. Though I worked every weekend, and had been given a name tag, she always referred to me as, “hey kid”. We did not get along.

I arrived at work on a particularly hot Saturday afternoon, some 8 months into the job. I came in the back door, finding the stock room chock full of foul, leaking garbage. It had clearly been left over from the night before, plus it appeared that not a bit of garbage collection or cleaning had been done during the AM. Severa waddled into the room as I was taking it all in and started with, “Hey kid – you have to take this out and bleach the room – then you do the front garbage..”

I know she went on further, but I don’t remember what she said. I looked at her and, screamed, “I quit”, walking out the back door. I kept walking all the way home. I think I had just taken off my name tag when I heard the back door open, and then turned to see my Mom come in. She stopped, confused.

“Aren’t you supposed to be at work?”, she said.

“I quit”, I responded, looking for sympathy.

“Nuh uh…”

Now, I was 15, and already the better part of 6 feet tall. I was quite surprised at how well my mother was able to grab me by the wrist and pull me off balance. She more or less dragged me to her car, threw me in and slammed the door closed. She came around, pissed, but also close to tears – rarely had I ever seen her so angry at me.

“You can put in your two weeks notice if you want, but you finish what you started. You don’t just quit – ever!”

So Mom silently, shamefully drove me back to the ice cream/burger shop. I walked through the front door, apologized for walking out, turned in my notice, and started cleaning.

Oh, and I seem to have this work ethic thing that I can’t shake for the life of me.

Happy Mother’s Day Mom. I love you.

Not necessarily related to anything, but I’m having a strong memory of when I was a kid –

My father sold hand-made children’s toys at shows and malls. Usually, selling was the easiest part of the business he ran. He worked hard (non-stop, actually); made good, polished pieces; and sold them for what they were worth. I remember specifically, an event in Denton, TX:

A woman came by and was admiring a wood puzzle with the name “Dustin” cut into the pieces (so kids can learn the letters of their name). I could tell, even at my age of 12, that she wanted it. But, she decided it was too much, so she began haggling with my father. Shortly there after, she became irate… telling my dad that it wasn’t worth what it cost, that it was, “cheap”, and he should give it to her for half price.

Her abuse stretched out to 15 minutes. I was ready to kick her for being so mean. My dad was ever-polite, but didn’t give her an inch. She became red faced and infuriated, and was beginning to make a scene. Just before she seemed as though she would go over the top, he reached over the table, and delicately took it out of her hands.

“I’m very sorry, it’s no longer for sale.”

He put it under the table and instructed me not to sell it to anyone. A few hours later, another woman, looking nervous and behaving strangely, came by and asked if we had a puzzle with “Dustin” in it. We didn’t have one for sale.