work

Stinky butts

/ R.J. Keller / 6 Comments

You may (or possibly may not) remember that the store recently underwent some pretty major construction. New pumps, new walkways, new parking lot. This has been great for business, but not so great for me. Seems that my boss wants to keep our new walkways and parking lot looking nice and clean, so he added a new item to my already long list of Things To Clean Every Night:

Sweep up all the cigarette butts from the parking lot and walkways.

I must state, for the record, that cigarette butts gross the hell out of me. They’re stinky, frequently smoldering, saliva-covered remnants of legalized addiction, and I resent having to deal with them. Why smokers can’t take care of the damned things themselves is beyond me. The last time I knew, ashtrays still came standard in every automobile. There are no less than four ashtrays prominently on display in front of the store. And yet, every Monday-Wednesday morning, promptly at 1:20, I must go out into the parking lot and spend a minimum of fifteen minutes sweeping the little fuckers up.

I say ‘a minimum of fifteen minutes’ because on Mondays I usually spend at least twice that amount of time outside with a broom and dustpan. Seems the guy (we’ll call him “J”) who works third shift opposite me–himself a smoker, and frequent butt chucker–can’t be bothered with this little chore. Not that it surprises me. He can’t be bothered to do much else, either. My boss knows this, but won’t do anything about it. J’s sole purpose for being employed at this rural convenience store is to deter troublemakers from making trouble on the weekends. He’s a pretty big guy, and apparently his mere presence keeps the rowdy crowd in line. That’s all fine and well, but it means I get stuck with all the real work.

If only I was 6’8″ and had a penis.

Stinky butts

/ R.J. Keller / 6 Comments

You may (or possibly may not) remember that the store recently underwent some pretty major construction. New pumps, new walkways, new parking lot. This has been great for business, but not so great for me. Seems that my boss wants to keep our new walkways and parking lot looking nice and clean, so he added a new item to my already long list of Things To Clean Every Night:

Sweep up all the cigarette butts from the parking lot and walkways.

I must state, for the record, that cigarette butts gross the hell out of me. They’re stinky, frequently smoldering, saliva-covered remnants of legalized addiction, and I resent having to deal with them. Why smokers can’t take care of the damned things themselves is beyond me. The last time I knew, ashtrays still came standard in every automobile. There are no less than four ashtrays prominently on display in front of the store. And yet, every Monday-Wednesday morning, promptly at 1:20, I must go out into the parking lot and spend a minimum of fifteen minutes sweeping the little fuckers up.

I say ‘a minimum of fifteen minutes’ because on Mondays I usually spend at least twice that amount of time outside with a broom and dustpan. Seems the guy (we’ll call him “J”) who works third shift opposite me–himself a smoker, and frequent butt chucker–can’t be bothered with this little chore. Not that it surprises me. He can’t be bothered to do much else, either. My boss knows this, but won’t do anything about it. J’s sole purpose for being employed at this rural convenience store is to deter troublemakers from making trouble on the weekends. He’s a pretty big guy, and apparently his mere presence keeps the rowdy crowd in line. That’s all fine and well, but it means I get stuck with all the real work.

If only I was 6’8″ and had a penis.

Math, music, and a history lesson

/ R.J. Keller / 5 Comments

A gallon of milk weighs approximately 8.5 pounds.
A crate of milk contains 4 gallons of milk.
That’s approximately 34 pounds.

Last night, while working in the cooler, a crate of milk slipped out of my hands. I had a mere 1.0342302 seconds (give or take a millisecond) to save one or more of my precious toes and/or foot from being crushed under its weight. You would have been mightily impressed by the quickness and nimbleness I displayed in snatching this Crate Of Doom just in the nick of time. As I sit here typing this missive, my toes and/or foot are miraculously whole and unbruised.

Oh, how I wish they weren’t!

The trade-off was the alignment of my back. Apparently, it objected to being called upon to bear the weight of 34 pounds of milk so suddenly. It’s voicing this objection right now, in loud tones, the melody to which is: “Let it drop / let it drop / you shoulda let it drop.”

Needless to say, I’m not moving very quickly or nimbly today. Instead I’m reading a Civil War book I picked up yesterday, The Commanders of Chancellorsville – The Gentleman Versus The Rogue (Robert E. Lee being the gentleman, Joe Hooker the rogue) by Edward G. Longacre. For those of you unfamiliar with American Civil War history, the Confederates won the battle of Chancellorsville–in large part–by scaring the bejesus out of the Union Army. The tradeoff was the loss of Stonewall Jackson. It’s worth renting the otherwise yawn-inspiring movie, Gods and Generals, (based on Jeff Shaara’s very excellent book of the same name) just to see this battle enacted.

Today’s a good day for you guys to do some reading, too. Chapter 23 of Waiting for Spring (Tess verses her mother in a Phone Call Of Doom) is now up at Readers and Writers Blog. Also posted is Chapter 5 of J. Cafesin’s Disconnected, and (sadly) the final installment of Gerard Jones’ Ginny Good. Check ’em out.

Smile, and the whole world’ll kick you in the ass…

/ R.J. Keller / 8 Comments

Here’s a confession: I couldn’t flirt my way out of a paper bag. Seriously. If someone tossed me into a paper bag, then said, “Flirt your way out of it,” you’d never hear from me again. I lack that certain subtle quality that’s apparently required. In high school, while other girls batted their eyes and murmured whatever it is they were murmuring with seeming effortlessness to their boy–or boys–of choice, I could only manage a forthright, “So…are you gonna ask me out, or what?”*

Concede my surprise, therefore, when I found the following note waiting for me when I got to work Tuesday night, penned by my boss:

KEL, STOP FLIRTING WITH THE CUSTOMERS.

Actually, surprise is not the word I should have chosen to describe my emotions at that moment. Amazed. Astonished. Flabbergasted. Those just about do it. It took me several minutes to pick my jaw off the floor. I still have the bruise. And I spent the next eight-and-a-half hours a nervous, unflirty wreck. I buttoned my uniform all the way up to the top, geek-style, even though I can’t stand to have anything tight around my neck. I eyed each of my male customers with irritation and suspicion. They eyed me right back with what was probably amazement, astonishment, and flabbergastedness. And when my boss finally walked through the door at seven o’clock, I held up the note–clutched tightly in my fist–and growled:

“Just what the fuck is this all about?”

See what I mean about that certain subtle quality I lack?

“You’ve been flirting with the customers, and you need to stop it.”

“Flirt? What do you mean, ‘flirt’? I don’t even know how to flirt!” Then I unleashed my Paper Bag Gag. It had come to me at about three-thirty, and I’d been practicing it ever since. I’m proud to say it went over rather well, getting a hearty chuckle from my boss, the first shift girl, and the bread delivery guy. When he was done chuckling, my boss explained himself.

Apparently I smile too much, and it’s giving one of my customers–a scuzzy truck driver with no teeth whose wife recently left him–the wrong impression. Apparently he’s not used to friendly cashiers. Apparently I’m supposed to scowl at him and act like he’s got a lot of nerve coming to the store in the middle of the night to buy diesel fuel and coffee when I’ve got an important Star magazine to read, like the other overnight girl does. Apparently that would make him feel more comfortable.

Hey, I’m all for it. I’ve been practicing my scowl all week. I’ll keep practicing it this weekend. And I’ll unleash it on the asshole when he comes in early Monday morning for his diesel fuel and coffee. Because giving the customers what they want is my number one priority.

* Oddly enough, that line worked on the man who is now my husband. Go figure.

Human Touch

/ R.J. Keller / 4 Comments

I believe I’ve told you about my co-worker, “E.” To refresh your memory, she’s the chick who is much cuter than I am and once drank Shirley Temples with me on a particularly slow graveyard shift. We switched shifts yesterday (her three-to-eleven for my graveyard) so she could go out with some buddies.

To be honest, I was looking forward to this. It had been awhile since I’d had any contact with Daytime Customers*. People who–more often than not–wear their pants in public and aren’t [yet] too stoned to remember what they came in for. (Hint: it’s probably something sweet.) Alas, I was destined for disappointment. The place was busy, alright, and all of my customers were wearing pants. As far as I could tell none of them were stoned. But the majority of them didn’t come into the store. Most of them were only there for pay-at-the-pump fuel.

I’m not anti-technology. Obviously I own a computer with internet access (high speed wireless DSL…that’s right, we’ve got that up here in the boonies). I have an iPod, Tivo (or something like it, anyway…I can’t remember what it’s called at the moment), and a cool thingamajig button on my keychain that pops my trunk open for me so I can put my groceries inside it with the greatest of ease. But I’ll tell ya, I felt a little disconnected from the world as I stood there, caged up at that lonely, rural convenience store, watching lines of people get out of their cars, pump their gas, then get right back in again and drive away. Most of them didn’t even bother to look into the store window to see if anyone was there. And it made me long for the old fashioned pump-your-fuel-then-walk-your-ass-into-the-store-to-pay-for-it pumps.

The few customers who braved a trip inside were greeted with a hearty smile and an enthusiastic “Howdy!” It took all of my self-control not to follow them as they browsed the aisles, just for the chance at a little bit of conversation. They all left the store with a heartfelt “Come again soon!!!!” ringing in their ears. And when “E” finally arrived at ten-thirty I actually hugged her. Poor girl. She probably thought I was stoned.

Speaking of stoned (yes…seriously) Chapter 21 of Waiting for Spring is up at Readers and Writers Blog along with Chapter 33: Scenic Hills of Gerard Jones’ Ginny Good. There’s also some brand-spanking-new poetry posted by two poets; Nancy Allen and my buddy Joel Phipps. Check ’em out! You won’t be sorry.

*Saturday morning customers don’t count. They’re usually cranky or hungover, or both.

A Tale of Two Winners

/ R.J. Keller / 3 Comments

Ah…the lottery. Here in Maine we sure do love it: Megabucks, Powerball, Paycheck, Pick 3/Pick 4…and, of course, scratch tickets. To say that the majority of lottery tickets are purchased by people who can ill afford them–and would be better off stuffing the money they spend on them in a sock (or in an interest accruing savings account)–is like saying the sky is blue. A big fat “duh.” So I’ll spare that lecture. Instead I’ll give you a personal glimpse into what I consider a big fat problem.

Winner #1:
Twenty-eight year old single mother of three. She works as a waitress in a restaurant one town over. Every night she uses $20 of her tip money to buy a scratch ticket. Yes, you read that right: one 20 dollar ticket. A few weeks ago she was fortunate enough to win $100. I was pretty excited for her, even though I know she spends more than that every week on the damned things. At least this week she’d make some of her money back. And what did she do with her winnings? Yep, you guessed it: she spent it all–that’s right…100 bucks!–on scratch tickets. Five 20 dollar tickets. And, of course, she won nothing. She blew $120 in one night for a big fat nothing. Then she bought milk and bread for her kids’ breakfast. With her food stamp card.

Winner #2:
Picture Steve Perry circa “Oh Sherry” with no top teeth, covered with tattoos and wearing biker clothes; that’s Winner #2. Every day he buys a twelve pack of Miller High Life, three packs of Mavericks, and a five dollar scrach ticket. Last Saturday he won $1000, which is pretty cool. There was a problem, though. I can’t cash a ticket that high. He had to go into Augusta to claim the money.

“Oh…the state has to get involved?”

“Well, yeah.”

“That won’t work. I owe child support and they’d take it all for that.”

I didn’t say what I was thinking, which was: Good for them, you cheap, selfish bastard. I just nodded.

“But,” he continued, “you could always go down there and turn it in for me.”

“No I couldn’t.”

“Sure you could. I’ll give you a hundred bucks.”

“Nope.”

“Plus gas money.”

“Nope.”

“Two hundred?”

“No.”

“Fine.” Then he walked out the door. In a huff.

I worked yesterday morning (in addition to my overnight shifts, I now work Saturday mornings as well) and Winner #2 came in. He hauled four twelve packs of Michelob Light over to the counter and asked for five cartons of Marlboro. Then he brought out his wallet, which was filled with a huge wad of twenty dollar bills.

“Someone cashed your ticket in for you?” I asked.

“Yep.”

“How much did you have to give them.”

He scowled before he admitted: “Half.”

And there he was, spending it on cigarettes and beer while his ex-wife struggled to get child support from the asshole. Oh, and he bought a five dollar scratch ticket. It wasn’t a winner.

* And now, as a bonus–and because I don’t want you to think that all Mainers are ignorant hicks–allow me to present:

Winner #3
A family of three. Hubby and wife are in their late twenties, the kid is about four. Both parents have decent paying jobs but still struggle to make ends meet. A few weekends ago, the family was out together and popped into the store to buy a bottle of Bug Juice for the kid. He looked up with eager eyes at the scratch tickets in front of him. He was particularly enthralled with Mustang Money, a five dollar ticket.

“Mommy, can you buy the car ticket?”

“No. I don’t waste money on scratch tickets.”

“Please? Please, please, please??”

This went on for a few moments before she finally capitulated. She even let him do the scratching. We all smiled when he won five dollars.

“Another one!” he said.

“No. You should save this money.”

“Please? Please, please, please??”

“Tell you what,” Dad said. “You save two dollars and spend the rest on that ticket right there.”

He pointed to Tic Tac Toe, a three dollar ticket. The kid could see the logic in this, so he agreed. He scratched his brand new ticket…and won $300. Naturally, he wanted another ticket. Fortunately his parents knew when to say when. They gave the kid fifty bucks to spend on toys at Walmart, and set up a savings account for him with the rest. Hurrah for small miracles.

*********************

If you’re interested in reading about Mainers of the fictional variety, head over to Readers and Writers Blog for Chapter 15 of Waiting for Spring. Also new there today is Chapter 27: Sutro Heights of Gerard Jones’ Ginny Good. This chapter made me cry. Poor Melanie…

Unspoken

/ R.J. Keller / 13 Comments

Last week I caught a guy I know screwing around on his wife. I didn’t actually catch him. I mean, it’s not like I walked in on anything…thank God. I just happened to be working while he walked into the store at 11:20pm, hand-in-hand, with a woman who isn’t his wife.

He looked at the condom display, picked out his package of choice and tossed it onto the counter. Then he saw me. Standing in front of the cash register. With his package of rubbers in my hand.

“Uh…oh. Hi Kel. Uh, this is…I’m…we’re–shit.”

Yep. Shit. Deep shit. That’s exactly what he figured he was in.

The Other Woman–whom I didn’t recognize–looked at him, then at me, then walked out of the store without a word. The guy didn’t speak. Neither did I. I didn’t know what to say. Finally I scanned the rubbers into the register and managed, “That’ll be four-seventy-nine.”

“You won’t tell [Wife], will you?”

“What do you think, I’m gonna track her down and give her a ‘guess what, your husband’s screwing around on you’?”

The truth is, I don’t know the couple super well. We exchange “hellos” at the market and pleasant chit-chat at school functions, but that’s about it. And at least he was practicing safe cheating sex.

“No, I guess not. But…you don’t understand.”

Then he gave me the reasons–pardon me, I mean the lame excuses–as to why he was screwing around on his wife: Been married for 18 years and that’s a long time…under a lot of stress because of bills-kids-etc, blah blah blah. He ended it with: “Besides, she’s working second shift now. She doesn’t get out of work until midnight, and she doesn’t get home most nights until 1am. Then she’s tired and…well, we don’t get to see each other too often. That’s rough.”

“Yeah,” I said. “I know it is.”

And I do know, of course. Because while I was awake and selling this guy Twisted Pleasure Trojans, my husband was home alone in our bed. That’s how it is three nights a week. On the fourth night I’m usually completely exhausted from spending three nights in a row awake, followed by three days of trying to catch brief naps in between parenting my kids. It sucks big time, and we frequently ask ourselves, “Why are we doing this?” only to answer, “Oh yeah…so we can eat and pay for oil next winter.” So yeah, Cheater Man, I know all about it.

I didn’t say that, though. I just took his money and gave him his change.

“So, you won’t tell her?”

“Nope.”

He looked at me a little more closely. “What if she asks you?”

I rolled my eyes. “Do you actually think she’s going to track me down and ask me if her husband is screwing around on her?” Like I said, I don’t really know these people that well.

“What if she does, though.”

“I’m not gonna lie.”

He was silent for a few moments, just looking at me. And I waited for him to ask me another question. I waited for quite awhile. But he didn’t ask it. He just walked out of the store with his rubbers.

So I didn’t tell him that his wife’s shift doesn’t really end at midnight. It ends at eleven. And I didn’t tell him that she had walked into the store a few weeks earlier, hand-in-hand, with a man who isn’t her husband. I didn’t tell him that The Other Man had also bought a package of rubbers. And I didn’t tell him that I’d had the almost identical conversation with his wife.

********************

Chapter 13 is up at Readers and Writers Blog today. Also posted: Chapter 25: Kentfield of Gerard Jones’ Ginny Good and Chapter 4 of J. Cafesin’s Disconnected; both of which are seriously excellent reads. Also, be sure to check out Sid Leavitt’s thoughts about animal cruelty, along with an excerpt from his book “Adrift in America”. I myself made a few thoughtless, callous remarks on the blog in question which I now regret…especially since we’re in the process of clearing a spot for a new chicken coop that’ll be filled–humanely–with a flock of laying hens next spring. I’ll no doubt blog–lovingly–about their many idiotic exploits beginning next summer.

Honesty

/ R.J. Keller / 1 Comment

I clocked in to work on Sunday night and started my cigarette count while the girl who works the 3-11 shift (we’ll call her “E”) waited on a customer. He looked to be in his late twenties and was dressed like a Successful Young Man on his way home from a weekend at the lake. He was also obviously smitten with E, and it’s really hard to blame the guy. She’s 23 years old, blonde and curvy, and she has a little button nose. Fortunately she’s also very nice, so I don’t hate her the way I instinctively do most cute 23 year olds. (Hey, honesty is a virtue.) He made a few feeble attempts at flirting, which she deflected rather well (naturally, she has a boyfriend), then he gave a last ditch effort:

“Hey, do you think you could give me a job application?”

She snickered at that. “You want to work here?”

“Sure! Why wouldn’t I? I’d get to work with a cute girl. And a…”

He paused for a few seconds, and I realized he was trying to throw me a bone. I looked up from the cigarette display and gave him a big, encouraging smile.

“…and a, uh…a happy girl.”

There are times when honesty really isn’t a virtue.

I’m not a doctor, and I don’t play one on TV

/ R.J. Keller / 6 Comments

My left ear has been bothering me for a few weeks now. Nothing major at first…just that kind of irritating, itchy, waxy, full feeling you sometimes get. I spent a week or so doing a little bit of mind-over-matter therapy, but by this past Saturday the itching was pretty much unbearable, and I succombed to the Q-Tip’s siren song. Even though five-outta-five doctors will warn you against doing so, I had myself weekend long eargasm. I couldn’t help myself. And it was awesome.

By Monday, though, there wasn’t any real improvement and the inside of my ear was pretty damned raw. So, following the advice of a friend–who is also not a doctor–I poured a little bit of hydrogen peroxide into my ear. That’s right. I dipped a cotton ball into a capful of peroxide, tipped my head just so, and squeezed. It was actually pretty cool. It sizzled and popped and tickled and fizzed…kinda like liquid Pop Rocks. I bet my inner ear felt like it was tripping on acid. After about three minutes the feeling faded, and the itching was gone. Just for kicks I repeated the process a few more times throughout the day on Monday in between naps (I still work third shift).

Then I went to work Monday night like usual. My ear stung a little, like a mini sunburn, but it didn’t itch and that was all that mattered. Until the newspaper delivery guy showed up at about 3am Tuesday morning. He took one look at me and literally did a double take. You don’t see that too often outside of animation.

“Uh, Kel…what’s wrong with your ear?”

It still stung at this point, moreso than when my shift had begun, but I hadn’t thought about it too much until that moment. “I think it’s…it might be…why?”

“Well, it looks like a sausage.”

I ran for my purse, pulled out my compact mirror (shut up…yes I have one, and so should you), and took a gander. As impossible as it seems, a sausage is exactly what my ear looked like. A red, swollen, ear-shaped sausage™. (Yes, that’s a trademark symbol there…don’t get any ideas, Jimmy Dean.) Needless to say, I panicked.

“Oh my God!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I shrieked, racking up twenty-one exclamation points.

“What did you do to it?”

I explained my predicament. He laughed heartily for quite some time. I wanted to hit him, but I didn’t. When he got control of himself again, he said:

“Peroxide makes bubbles. That makes oxygen. That holds water in your ear. That’s just what you don’t want.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

It sounded logical. “So what should I do?”

“Alcohol.”

“Sounds like a good idea, but I’m not allowed to drink on the job.”

“No, dummy. Rubbing alcohol. It’ll dry it right out.”

I don’t know if you’ve ever worked third shift at a rural convenience store before. If you have, you know that–regardless of how many naps you might take during the day to prepare for and to recuperate from being awake while the moon is out in all its glory–by 3am you’re more than a little punchy. Mostly alone for four straight hours, slightly buzzed from the cleanser I’d used to scrub the Slush Puppy machine, hopped up on three cups of Shock coffee and a package of Swiss Cake Rolls…this humble newspaper delivery guy seemed like nothing less than a medical messiah.

“Alcohol…of course…and there’s a bottle in the first aid kit in the office.”

It didn’t take me long to set it up. I poured a little bit of alcohol into the cap, dipped in a wadded paper towel, tipped my head just so, and squeezed.

On my top ten list of Stupid Things I’ve Done, this is number one.

“SUNUVA-FUCKING-BITCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Yep…it hurt. It hurt a lot. I’d rather revisit the thirty-seven hours of labor it took to produce my son than go through that again. I screamed in bold faced type. I lost count of the exclamation points. I’ll be honest, I saw stars…literally. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Because if you spend the weekend raping your ear with a Q-Tip, and then you pour one acidy liquid into it, you really shouldn’t follow up the process with an even harsher acidy liquid.

Newspaper Delivery Guy gave me a sheepish, “Um…see ya later,” then ran out the door. Smart man. When I going through the above mentioned thirty-seven hours of labor, I smacked my husband with the hospital bed remote during the this is all your fault, you did this to me stage. And there are a wide variety of easily-propelled objects to choose from at a convenience store.

I made it through the rest of my shift, battered but not quite broken. I drove home, slipped my sorry butt into bed, and slept until about noon. And when I awoke, would you believe my ear was back to its normal self? No itching, no stinging, no sausage-like swelling™. Was it the peroxide? The alcohol? The Swiss Cake Roll? A combination of all three? I’ll never know. Because the next time my ear bothers me I’m going to the damned doctor’s office.

—————————————————————
Check out Chapter 6 of Waiting for Spring at Readers and Writers Blog. It’s the chapter I struggled with so much last fall. It took me three days to write Tess down the stairs. Also posted is Chapter 18 of Gerard Jones’ Ginny Good (a truly great book…you should really read it), and an amazing poem–This Is Your Rock Opera–by Laura Elliot.

I’m not a doctor, and I don’t play one on TV

/ R.J. Keller / 6 Comments

My left ear has been bothering me for a few weeks now. Nothing major at first…just that kind of irritating, itchy, waxy, full feeling you sometimes get. I spent a week or so doing a little bit of mind-over-matter therapy, but by this past Saturday the itching was pretty much unbearable, and I succombed to the Q-Tip’s siren song. Even though five-outta-five doctors will warn you against doing so, I had myself weekend long eargasm. I couldn’t help myself. And it was awesome.

By Monday, though, there wasn’t any real improvement and the inside of my ear was pretty damned raw. So, following the advice of a friend–who is also not a doctor–I poured a little bit of hydrogen peroxide into my ear. That’s right. I dipped a cotton ball into a capful of peroxide, tipped my head just so, and squeezed. It was actually pretty cool. It sizzled and popped and tickled and fizzed…kinda like liquid Pop Rocks. I bet my inner ear felt like it was tripping on acid. After about three minutes the feeling faded, and the itching was gone. Just for kicks I repeated the process a few more times throughout the day on Monday in between naps (I still work third shift).

Then I went to work Monday night like usual. My ear stung a little, like a mini sunburn, but it didn’t itch and that was all that mattered. Until the newspaper delivery guy showed up at about 3am Tuesday morning. He took one look at me and literally did a double take. You don’t see that too often outside of animation.

“Uh, Kel…what’s wrong with your ear?”

It still stung at this point, moreso than when my shift had begun, but I hadn’t thought about it too much until that moment. “I think it’s…it might be…why?”

“Well, it looks like a sausage.”

I ran for my purse, pulled out my compact mirror (shut up…yes I have one, and so should you), and took a gander. As impossible as it seems, a sausage is exactly what my ear looked like. A red, swollen, ear-shaped sausage™. (Yes, that’s a trademark symbol there…don’t get any ideas, Jimmy Dean.) Needless to say, I panicked.

“Oh my God!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!” I shrieked, racking up twenty-one exclamation points.

“What did you do to it?”

I explained my predicament. He laughed heartily for quite some time. I wanted to hit him, but I didn’t. When he got control of himself again, he said:

“Peroxide makes bubbles. That makes oxygen. That holds water in your ear. That’s just what you don’t want.”

“Really?”

“Yep.”

It sounded logical. “So what should I do?”

“Alcohol.”

“Sounds like a good idea, but I’m not allowed to drink on the job.”

“No, dummy. Rubbing alcohol. It’ll dry it right out.”

I don’t know if you’ve ever worked third shift at a rural convenience store before. If you have, you know that–regardless of how many naps you might take during the day to prepare for and to recuperate from being awake while the moon is out in all its glory–by 3am you’re more than a little punchy. Mostly alone for four straight hours, slightly buzzed from the cleanser I’d used to scrub the Slush Puppy machine, hopped up on three cups of Shock coffee and a package of Swiss Cake Rolls…this humble newspaper delivery guy seemed like nothing less than a medical messiah.

“Alcohol…of course…and there’s a bottle in the first aid kit in the office.”

It didn’t take me long to set it up. I poured a little bit of alcohol into the cap, dipped in a wadded paper towel, tipped my head just so, and squeezed.

On my top ten list of Stupid Things I’ve Done, this is number one.

“SUNUVA-FUCKING-BITCH!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!”

Yep…it hurt. It hurt a lot. I’d rather revisit the thirty-seven hours of labor it took to produce my son than go through that again. I screamed in bold faced type. I lost count of the exclamation points. I’ll be honest, I saw stars…literally. I shouldn’t have been surprised. Because if you spend the weekend raping your ear with a Q-Tip, and then you pour one acidy liquid into it, you really shouldn’t follow up the process with an even harsher acidy liquid.

Newspaper Delivery Guy gave me a sheepish, “Um…see ya later,” then ran out the door. Smart man. When I going through the above mentioned thirty-seven hours of labor, I smacked my husband with the hospital bed remote during the this is all your fault, you did this to me stage. And there are a wide variety of easily-propelled objects to choose from at a convenience store.

I made it through the rest of my shift, battered but not quite broken. I drove home, slipped my sorry butt into bed, and slept until about noon. And when I awoke, would you believe my ear was back to its normal self? No itching, no stinging, no sausage-like swelling™. Was it the peroxide? The alcohol? The Swiss Cake Roll? A combination of all three? I’ll never know. Because the next time my ear bothers me I’m going to the damned doctor’s office.

—————————————————————
Check out Chapter 6 of Waiting for Spring at Readers and Writers Blog. It’s the chapter I struggled with so much last fall. It took me three days to write Tess down the stairs. Also posted is Chapter 18 of Gerard Jones’ Ginny Good (a truly great book…you should really read it), and an amazing poem–This Is Your Rock Opera–by Laura Elliot.