Last week, the store got a cardboard display of “magic gloves” and hats and other cold-weather accoutrements. This is the company’s logo:
Now, try to imagine that, two feet tall, on the back of the display. (Yes, my boss covered it.)
Since we’ve already delved into junior high school territory, here’s some additional selling points:
Anyone who’s been reading this blog for awhile, or who’s known me for more than a few months, knows what a big admirer I was (and still am) of Heath Ledger. Today, the one-year anniversary of his death, a brief tribute I wrote has been posted at the Movie Fanatic.
And that’s all I have to say about that.
It’s Wednesday, which means it’s my turn to pontificate over at Publishing Renaissance. This week you’ll find out why I think I’m just like Einstein, except with much better hair. (My fem-mullet back in the late 80’s doesn’t count.)
Last night was pretty rough at work. There’s a girl who comes in from time to time (I call her a girl, but she’s actually in her early twenties). Sometimes she’s by herself, sometimes with her boyfriend. He’s the kind of guy you know from instinct, from vibe, from that little itch in the back of your brain…whatever…is bad news. The kind of situation where you just know she’s being abused. Physically, emotionally, probably both. I know it’s happening. I was even brave enough once to ask her, when she was alone, if she needed some help. The number to a shelter, a cell phone to call a relative, a little cash to get somewhere safe. She denied anything was wrong, but she was lying. I knew it. She knew I knew it.
She came in last night, alone, to buy a bag of tobacco for her boyfriend so he could roll some cigarettes. She stood there silently for a moment, panicked. Because she couldn’t remember what kind he’d told her to get. We have three brands, and none of them looked familiar to her. She doesn’t smoke, so she really didn’t know one kind from another. I wanted to help her out, but I couldn’t. He’d never bought it when I was working, so I didn’t have the foggiest clue which brand he smokes. She finally decided on one, paid for it, and left the store. She was shaking.
The two of them came back a short while later. She was holding the bag of tobacco in her hands. He was gripping her arm. Tightly. He was pissed. She was still shaking.
You guessed it. She brought home the wrong kind of tobacco. It was the right brand, but it was full flavor. He recently changed to menthol.
He proceeded to inform me, and the two customers in the store, that his girlfriend was a fucking idiot. Because it doesn’t take a whole lot of fucking brains to remember what kind of tobacco your boyfriend sends you out for, does it? Or to remember that he’s recently switched back to menthol. And because of her stupidity, he’d had to leave the comfort of his home, after working hard all day, and fix her mistake himself. Because obviously she’s too stupid to be trusted to go to the store by herself. It meant that supper was gonna be late – not that she could cook worth shit anyway – and…
There’s a metal pole behind the counter. It’s got five long, sharp screws poking out of the top of it, in a lovely circle. It looks rather medieval. My boss made it for us to use for protection in case we’re ever in any harm. And what I wanted to do was to use it on this asshole. I wanted start with his big, fat, fucking mouth, paying particular attention to his teeth and tongue, then move right to his nuts and jab at those for awhile. I didn’t want to kill him, mind you. I just wanted to leave him in severe pain. Possibly with some permanent scarring and damage.
I didn’t, naturally. It’s okay to have those kinds of fantasies, but it’s not okay to act on them. I couldn’t verbally eviscerate the shithead, either. I’m not a psychologist, but it doesn’t take a degree to know that he’d just take that kind of humiliation out on the poor girl, too. I could tell the two customers – both of them women – were thinking the same thing. We were all thinking, too, that if he’s this abusive to her in public, what must she have to endure behind closed doors?
Finally I said, “Sir…this is my mistake. She asked me for menthol, but I gave her the wrong bag. I’m truly sorry.” Then I grabbed a bag of menthol tobacco from the shelf behind me and held it out to him. Gently. I even managed the apologetic, “Gee what a pinhead I am” smile I sometimes give customers when I’ve done them wrong.
The change in his manner was immediate and shocking. He almost syrupy with sweetness towards me. No problem, ma’am, that’s alright, ma’am, easy mistake to make, ma’am, no hard feelings, ma’am. The girl handed me the offensive bag of full flavor tobacco. She was still shaking. I offered the fucktard a free cup of coffee, by way of trying to make amends for my hideous mistake. Not necessary, ma’am. We’ll just be gettin’ home now.
To their late, shitty supper.
I harbor no illusions that this made any difference in how the rest of this girl’s night went. Or how her tomorrow is going to be. Or her next week, or her next month. But what could I do? What else could I do?
I’ll tell you what I did. I cried like a frigging baby the moment their car pulled out of the parking lot. Not the kind of crying you do when tears just sort of slip out, but actual sobbing. The kind that hurts your stomach and shoulders. The other women cried, too. It was kind of pathetic, really.
But what else could we do?
Stuff that irritates the ever lovin’ crap outta me, in random order.
1. The term “Cozy mystery.” I like a good mystery as much as the next person, and I know the ‘cozy’ is supposed to make me think of curling up with a nice book on a big, comfy chair, wrapped in a homemade fleece quilt, on a cold winter day, in front of a beautiful stone fireplace, with a mug of hot cocoa (floating with white, fluffy marshmallows) sitting in front of me on a battered-but-quaint coffee table. It doesn’t. It makes me think of a group of conniving marketing executives sitting in a large, cold office in the middle of NY frigging C, trying to figure out how to get the unwashed masses to want to buy a mystery book. Dudes, it’s a fucking mystery book! We’re gonna buy it!
2. “Acupuncture.” If you want to get me into an office and stick me with thousands of sharp, tiny pins, you really need to leave the word “puncture” out of the equation. Take a lesson from traditional medicine. My mother, for example, is called a Phlebotomist, not a Lady Who Sticks You With A Needle And Sucks Out Vials Worth Of Your Blood.
C. Designated hitter. In this case, it’s not the term I hate; it’s the thing. Attention American League: make your pitchers go up to bat, the way real men are supposed to.
4. Snarky news reporting. I recently read an article about a former college football player in West Virginia who’s settled down to raise a family instead of going onto sports greatness. Apparently, he’s put on a lot of weight in the past year or two. Those are facts. Speculating on how many donuts it took to pack on those pounds…not so much. I suppose y’all think it’s a way of keeping up with the times and appealing to younger readers. It isn’t. It makes you look like assholes. Stick to the facts. Leave the snark for the comments section.
5. Perez Hilton.
6. Broken coffee makers. Seriously, is it too much to ask a free, plastic, 2-cup Gevalia coffee maker to work for more than a year? I don’t care if I do have hard water that screws with your innards. I need some goddamn coffee!
Here’s a secret: I’ve been a little nervous about something for the past several months. Something that I never mentioned to anyone.
Late last fall, I submitted a letter to Front Street Reviews , asking if they would kindly review Waiting For Spring. A couple of days later, I received a reply in the affirmative from Ms. Barb Radmore, the editor of the website. I’ll admit that I let out a little “Squeeee!” as I read the words, “I’ll review this one myself instead of assigning it to one of my reviewers.” But once I’d mailed her the copy of the book, trepidation began to set in. Here’s why:
1. I really love Front Street Reviews. I mean, really and truly, beyond-just-a-crush, love the site. It’s why I’d waited so long to submit my book for review. A bad’un might’ve crushed my ego beyond repair *.
2. Ms. Radmore is from Maine, which is a HUGE deal for me. Ever since I typed out the first word of the book, nearly three years ago, I’ve felt a tremendous responsibility to do right by my fair state, and by its inhabitants. The real Maine ain’t always pretty, but I love it and her people.
3. I sent her the version I’d published through Lulu.com. That in itself isn’t a bad thing, but I’d done it before I knew much about formatting (that realization, courtesy of Zoe – thank you, Z! – occurred about three weeks after I’d sent Ms. Radmore the book) and, as a result, the formatting in the copy she received is damned sloppy.
Every day I would check the site. I was half-hoping I would never see the loverly cover of my book gracing the front page; that it had gotten lost in the mail and that Ms. Radmore had forgotten all about it. I was one-quarter expecting to see it there with a “good lord, this book sucks” caption. But I was also holding onto the barest glimmer of hope that Ms. Radmore actually had gotten the thing, and that she’d liked it.
Tonight after I got home from work, I took a deep breath, scrolled through my bookmarks, and braved a peek. Lo and behold, there it was! My loverly cover gracing the front page of the site! With nary a ‘good lord, this sucks’ to be found.
That’s right. She liked it.
The plot may sound like it has been done before, many times, but R.J. Keller is able to bring a freshness that is both unexpected and welcomed. She is able to maintain the flow of the story, the ebb and tide of a life as it crests and falls. It is difficult to carry a book in the first person, using predominately conversation without it seeming ‘in your face’ or poor writing. But Keller is able to pull it off. […] She has the ability to create strong characters that draw the reader into their lives, to cringe, cry, yell, and occasionally celebrate, as they stumble through their time between the pages of this book.
Check out the review in its entirety here.
* Probably not possible. My ego is fairly gargantuan.
Just posted a new page for my Waiting For Spring book trailer.
Check ’em out. 🙂
I worked on this until 4am.
I walked into work on Friday afternoon to a sight that (almost literally) took my breath away: The store was nearly out of Allen’s Coffee Brandy. The next delivery isn’t until Thursday.
Naturally, I asked my boss, “What the hell?” I mean, he couldn’t honestly expect me to work two busy weekend shifts without any Allen’s in the store. It’s like punching the clock at Burger King and being told by your manager that, unfortunately, your customers will have to do without their Whoppers. Or, to use a better analogy, it’s like being a nurse in the pysch ward and being told by the attending physician that, unfortunately, your patients will have to do without their meds. Until Thursday.
“It’s not my fault!” he said. Then he proceeded to tell me the following story, the facts of which I cannot confirm. I’m going to tell you his story anyway.
It seems the founder (or inventor, or something) of Allen’s Coffee Brandy died recently. He was pretty old, and his daughter had long since taken over the business, but she was understandably broken up about the passing of her father. To pay tribute to him, she commanded the troops to cease production of the Champagne of Maine until after his funeral. Since Mainers buy the crap by the bucketful every day, it didn’t take long for distributors to run low. And that means it didn’t take long for stores, including the one I work at, to run out.
I’ll admit it: the story sounded a little hinky to me. Like something a short-sighted distributor might tell the manager of a convenience store to excuse the lack of Allen’s Coffee Brandy in their recent liquor order. I did a google search when I got home from work on Friday night and found nothing remotely resembling the events described by my boss in the news. It still didn’t stop me from repeating it to irrate addicts – I mean customers – on Friday and Saturday night. I even managed a tear or two and a lilt in my voice at the retelling. It did nothing to tug at the hardened heartstrings of would-be Allen’s consumers, though. Never in all my years of working shitty customer service jobs have I been exposed to the kind of verbal abuse I withstood this weekend. I even had to call the cops on one occasion.
Next time we run out of Allen’s, I want hazzard pay. Or a can of pepper spray.
R.J. Keller 