These Problems, Now, Are Yours
I am working at the Home Depot, and there is some sort of "casual day" taking place. Employees may dress as they see fit, choose to wear their aprons or not, and eat and drink at their leisure. A good deal of the lights are out so as to keep the atmosphere homey. Even the customers joing the fun, best exampled by a small gathering in the appliance show-room area. There is not a manager to be seen. Everyone is enjoying themself.
Apparently, I have ordered a pizza, because a pizza is delivered unto my person and I pay for it with cash from my wallet. Since I and no one else have put forth the effort, I seperate myself from the party and eat a good deal of the pizza alone. When I am full, I head for the refrigerator we have been using to house pop and things - we have been using a refrigerator to house pop and things.
As soon as I close the refrigerator door, a lady customer opens it back up. I politely step back and excuse myself, thinking she may be retreiving a drink or something. This is not the case: she takes my pizza.
"Thanks again," she says, and turns and walks off.
Herb, the Kitcken and Bath Department Supervisor, is standing amongst the other party-goers. He witnesses the theft.
"Did you see that?" I ask him.
"Well?" he asked me. I give an implying look. "Go get it," he says.
I take chase to this pizza thief, rounding the bend of the light-bulb aisly only to find her gone. Understanding what must be done, I put on my gloves and mask and take flight.
We Cannot Laugh Together
I am bicycling down a residential street. Terrain-wise, it seems to be an amalgamation of Bloomington & Argenta, Illinois. There are pedestrians walking on either sidewalk, away from something, or so it seems - traffic is not heavy, but hurried. Behind the line of houses to my left is a fenced off area, the bottom of a long hill leading up to a school. This is important, but I have yet to discover why.
As I come to the end of a block, I notice a cul de sac seperates the 1700s and 1800s of the north/south street I am traveling up. Standing in the cul de sac is a gang of youths. And not just a group, but a literal gang: they are tough, they deal drugs, they kill people. None of them are older than seventeen. Other pedestrians breeze by the cul de sac without acknowledging the gang. They are nervous. I peddle by and give them all a look over. Finding the apparent leader's eyes, I give a nod a keep on going. He nods back. I'm cool with the gang. The twelve-year-old on his arm whispers something into his ear.
"Hey-yo!" he shouts at me.
I plant my foot and turn back around. "What's up?" I ask.
"You and me are going for a ride," he informs me. "Tweety," he says to another fellow against the fence, "you coming, too."
Now we are in a MacDonald's. Tweety and the gang-leader are ordering at the counter while I stand by idley.
"What you want?" asks the leader. I eye the menu. "But don't make it too much," he instructs me. "I only got eight bucks, and Tweety and me already spend six."
This doesn't give me much to work with, but I order two hamburgers and a small french fry. The leader eyes me carefully and pulls his shirt up to reveal his gun. "Don't worry," I tell him. "Hamburgers are only sixty cents a pop, and a small fry is eighty cents." It is 1987.
The food comes on a tray to the counter, and the gang-leader inspects the receipt. He is not pleased. "Motha fucka!" he gripes. "You said you was ordering cheap!"
"Let me see the receipt," I tell him. He hands it over.
I look over the receipt and read him off everything that was purchased, explaining the abbreviated orders.
"'Chsbrg' is 'cheeseburger'," I tell him. "And both of you got two, which brings that to four dollars. And 'LgFry' is 'large fry', which is two dollars and fifty cents." He counts the items on the tray as I explain. "So already, that's five-fifty. 'ShkChc' is 'chocolate shake', which is another dollar-fifty, and 'RegDrnk' is 'regular drink' - another dollar-twenty: you two spent eight dollars and twenty cents." He looks up slowly, scowling an 'I'm-about-to-shoot-your-smart-white-ass' look. "Now my order was only two dollars," I continue. "'Brg' is 'hamburger', and there are two of those at one-twenty. And a 'SmlFry' is a 'small fry', which was eighty cents." Tweety approaches the counter to retreive the tray, but the gang-leader smacks him across the face, sending him to the ground.
Now I am in my apartment. I notice that there is a video projector in the far corner, and a pull-down screen against the northern wall. There is also a chrome, bejeweled stool next to the door. Joseph comes out of his bedroom and gathers his school things.
"When did you get that projector?" I ask him. "And the stool - is that new?"
"Duh," he says, and exits. It is 1987.
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