For the most part, work was where I spent the most time doing highly repetitive things. Typing numbers into a computer, which in turn sends to numbers to another computer that divides sections of the code into smaller bite-sized packages that are sent to yet more computers. And the people who sit in front of these computers take the numerical series and enter it into another computer which then prints out a copy of all the information to be given to another person who, not wanting to interrupt the chain of progress, enter some of the formulas into their computers. In the end, all of these numbers are stored either on individual sheets of green and white computer printout that can be used to gift wrap a kangaroo or on the hard drive of the computer mainframe. In either case, these numbers are discarded every seven years or so to make room for the newer, better sounding numbers.
Sometimes, I found myself excited about these numbers and I don't know why. The number 777 would sometimes make an appearance. And I was overjoyed. I just wanted to leave a message on everyones voice mail. "Hey! Guess what? I received exactly seven hundred and seventy-seven dollars worth of deli products today!" And despite the protest of those who now had another message to painstakingly delete by pressing the number eight key, they would know how I felt. I can only imagine them sitting in their cubicles, foam gushing from their mouth, trying to restrain themselves by grabbing the legs of the desk and chewing the telephone line where it meets the wall jack in a feverish attempt to disable the telephone before they leave a message for everyone in the company that they just had an authorization code of 1234.
The owner of the company is a frequent customer at my store. He has a fancy for Diet Pepsi, varying flavors of Haagen-Das ice cream and Slim Jims. The store could have rows of empty shelves, as long as those items are plentiful. If not, the end of the world may be coming. As such, we have more Diet Pepsi in inventory than premium unleaded gasoline, enough ice cream to make an entire kindergarten class beg for liver with onions, and Slim Jims that required two cows, forty chickens and an unspecified number of rodents to produce.
Most people think of a Slim Jim as a spicy beef stick. Until they read the label. The first ingredient is beef. Beef is a very vague term. When cows are slaughtered, the prime parts are sent to restaurants and supermarkets. The skin is used to make clothing and accessories. What remains is still loosely referred to as beef. Specifically, the cows tongue, anus, tail and lips. The sort of stuff that would visibly sicken people if sold in the supermarket. It also contains "Mechanically separated chicken." I have no idea what this could be other than chickens that are kept apart from other chickens by a large robotic machine that destroys violators with shoulder-mounted lasers and rockets. In any case, assemble the beef and chicken along with a generous dose of seasoning. Stick it in a tube and you've got a Slim Jim.
I have five employees that work at the store. They are the type of people that would never associate with each other unless captured by terrorists and placed into a small locked room.
The first is a short little girl, about twenty years old. She enjoys her attitude problem. Everyone else suffers with it. She was blessed with the ability to find an excuse any time she was asked to do anything above and beyond keeping the front counter from falling over. She prevented this from occurring by leaning on the counter for her entire eight hour shift. Granted, she did neglect her duty whenever she walked away to get a drink, go to the bathroom or smoke one of the approximate twenty-five cigarettes she enjoyed while on duty.
Another is a tall fellow about my age who usually does a good job. I have, however, developed a theory concerning one of his quirks. Under this theory, he was attacked as a young boy by a robber armed with a stick of Old Spice Deodorant , a bar of Safeguard and a bottle of Prell. Since then, he has had an aversion to anything that might mask the scent of greasy hair and sweaty armpits.
A part-timer who wears pants that threaten to fall to his ankles at any moment is universally agnostic. As far as religion goes, it's safe to assume that he doesn't know whether God exists or not. He isn't certain about anything else, either. I remember giving him an interview for the job and asking him a variety of questions, including "What is your greatest strength", "How many hours a week are you looking for" and "Can I get you a coffee" to all of which he answered "I dunno." Everyday conversation is responded to with the standard "I dunno."
Another is an older gentleman who spent several years on a boat that traversed the rivers of Vietnam and blew up a lot of stuff. Everything that occurs at work reminds him of 'Nam. The floor's as dirty as a Vietcong whore. The basement smells like those rat tunnels. The bottle of iced tea that I dropped down the stairs shattered like a Charlie's head when you crack him upside it with the stock of a rifle. He also enjoys radio programs that point out that the President of the United States is from the hollow earth, where the Nazis and Derro live, and is going to take everybody's guns.
And lastly, a young girl about twenty-two who hair color changes according to an ancient celtic calendar.