Being Creative Part IV
Sunday had, for me, historically been a do nothing day. Yeah, maybe one or two little house chores. Laundry, dishes…but overall, nah. I liked my nap in the afternoon, my bowl of tapioca pudding for dessert while watching “The Simpsons” and getting to bed early to start the week.
Yeah, this wasn’t going to be one of those days. For all the shopping I had done the day before, there was still one crucial thing I needed. Food.
When I went food shopping, I generally didn’t care what I looked like. Again, in general, I did the grocery shopping before most people got out of bed. Seeing as how Saturday night went, though, I was still downstairs on the floor while the sun streamed in through the windows. A beam sat squarely on my face for what seemed like an eternity. That was my alarm clock.
Heh. The sun was my alarm. By all rights, the soundtrack to “Once More, With Feeling” should have woken me up. Either Spike telling Buffy to stay away or Anya’s bunny-phobia. One of those ditties from the musical episode of “Buffy” should have been enough to get me up.
Apparently I was more tired than I even knew.
I pulled my shorts and shirt back on before going back upstairs, hopping from one foot to the other, trying to wake up entire body up. My neck was stiff, right leg numb and I found myself in a bad mood.
I tried not to think about last night. I couldn’t think about it. At least not right now.
I swiped the deodorant under my arms, hoping it would be enough until I could get in the shower. A few odds and ends dropped into my bag and I ran out the door.
It was another warm day. That much was painfully obvious even at 8:30 am. These kinds of days sucked. The ones where clothes stuck to your body from the minute you woke up to the time you went to bed. Showers didn’t help and, honestly, there wasn’t much that could be done about it.
In the car, I needed something slightly…faster as I rolled down the windows. My options were limited, as Carter reminded me yesterday. Roughly 75% of the stuff on Bitch! was slow, almost sad. After running through everything I had, an old standby came to mind.
“Let’s Hear It For the Boy.” A good five and a half minutes would get me a good ways to the store. At least to the warehouse store. It was my first destination of the morning, anyway. You can never have enough toilet paper or napkins. Something my mother always taught me. Be prepared.
I got lost in my thoughts about Dan, mostly, as the car drove itself. The next thing I knew, it pulled into the parking lot. Being a college town, no one was up much before noon. This particular store was empty. Okay, fine. A car or two probably belonging to workers. Otherwise? Nope. This should be easy.
Bitch! got thrown into its pocket inside my bag and I strode to the front doors. Man, the sun was already scorching. My imagination told me I could feel my blood boiling inside my skin. Of course, it wasn’t boiling the way I thought it was.
You know, like water does on the stove after five minutes on high. Bubbles and rippling. A rolling boil, to be technical. There was no way my body was doing that. Heck, I was just starting to sweat, the body’s natural way of cooling down. It was a short walk to the double plate glass doors. They opened, throwing a tornado of cold air at me.
I shivered as I fumbled for my membership card. It was inside my wallet, which shared a compartment in my bag with my checkbook. No good reason it was there, mind you. (The checkbook, not the wallet.) I hadn’t written a check in at least six months. Electronic bill pay. The only way to go.
As I slowed down, I could feel a presence behind me. Who the fuck was up my ass on a Sunday morning? I mean, come on people! Give my a fucking…
Whoever it was stopped along with me. This was kinda freaky, to tell you the truth. Trying not to be obvious, I tilted my head a bit so I could see who was there out of the corner of my eye.
It was a lady, maybe 30 years old, her attention fixed on her massive purse, if you can call it that. This bag was easily the size of a diaper bag-for three kids-and reminded my of Mary Poppins’ bag from the movie. (The one where she pulls out a standing lamp, coat hanger and other objects to the amazement of Jane and Michael. Banks.)
I held my card up for the gruff looking 30-something woman working the door. Normally, these kinds of people say “good morning” or “good afternoon” and offer a cart. Not this broad. She looked at me over her glasses and bellowed.
“Sir, bags aren’t allowed in the store.”
I was thrown off kilter. There had never been a problem with me bringing my messenger bag anywhere. Not a museum, not a movie theater, not a supermarket, not a shopping mall, and certainly not to other stores within this particular chain.
I guess my predicament, stopping me in my tracks, took the lady behind me by surprise. She stopped, too, as if we were together.
“I’m sorry. Come again?” Maybe I had heard her wrong. It was possible, considering the time.
“We don’t allow bags of any kind in the store anymore.” A million things flashed through my head. Since when? Why? Where was the notice? Really?
The lady behind me regained her attention and flashed her own card at Darlene. The broad’s name, as I learned the closer I walked up to her.
“Fair enough, Darlene.”
Without missing a beat, I spoke in my “outdoor voice.”
“Excuse me, ma’am!” I called after the lady with the gargantuan purse. She turned to me after a moment.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but Darlene here says bags aren’t allowed in the store anymore. Maybe she just didn’t see yours?”
Inside, I was simultaneously laughing and fuming. Outwardly, I was doing everything I could to keep a straight face. I was causing a problem. I normally wouldn’t have done this kind of thing. However, if I was going to be an advocate for other people as of tomorrow, I might as well start speaking up for myself right now.
Darlene pointed to the lady.
“Miss, you can keep going. Don’t mind this…gentlemen.”
And then to me.
“Sir, please don’t harass the other customers. And please bring your bag back to your car.”
I looked at Darlene square in the eyes. Which was hard, considering I had a good foot in height on her.
“Darlene, you told me bags weren’t allowed. Hers was three times the size of mine, but it was okay. Why isn’t mine?”
It was an honest question. I wasn’t being belligerent or mean or obscene.
“Because it’s not.”
Gee, that was GREAT logic. Always worked when I was a kid.
“Let me see your manager.”
“First the bag goes back. And then I’ll get him for you.”
What the fuck did she think this way? “Let’s Make a Deal”?
“I’m afraid you don’t understand, Darlene. I am the customer. I want to speak with your club manager. Now.”
Darlene, oversized bosoms and all, got as close as she could to me without actually touching me. A good thing, because that would have been a no no.
“And I’m afraid YOU don’t understand, mister. I’m NOT negotiating with you. I’m TELLING you…” She was getting awful lippy and just a little bit condescending…
I never got to finish the thought as another voice entered the equation.
“Darlene, everything alright?”
I knew the voice. Why the fuck couldn’t I place these things the last two days? I spun around only to see the one person I didn’t want to see right now.
No, not Matt. Good guess, though.
Carter.
“Aaron?” He gulped just a bit as my name escaped his lips. I doubted he was looking to see me again so soon after yesterday. Granted, I didn’t want to see him either, but whatever. He was dressed in a long sleeve dress shirt and tie, looking very handsome. Maybe even fuckable. If he wasn’t such a pansy.
“Hi Carter.” I extended my hand to him. Courtesy, ya know? He took it, surprising me.
“You know this…guy, Carter?” Darlene asked with all the disdain she could muster. Carter only nodded in the affirmative.
“Good. Tell him the damn rules.” And she walked away from me, back to the door, undoubtedly to tell the next guy with a bag it wasn’t allowed.
I let out a little laugh as Carter looked at me. Was this some kind of cosmic joke designed to get us on the same page about yesterday? Only in the movies did this kind of shit happen.
“So, what’s the problem?” he asked, trying to block the memory of yesterday from his mind in order to deal with a customer.
Standing there so close to the doors, I explained the situation. The bag, the lady, Darlene, previous stores. Everything. I hoped, somehow, he would explain yesterday to me.
“I’m sorry for the way you were treated, but Darlene is right: it is club policy not to allow male customers with bags into the club.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. And by this point, I was getting a bit upset.
“Listen, Carter, think about what you just said. Isn’t that slightly…discriminatory? Don’t the girls with diaper bags or huge ass purses steal just as much as guys? And what am I going to fit in this bag? Everything here comes in eight thousand packs that barely fits into my car!”
Okay, maybe the last part was an exaggeration. But the idea was still valid. I could tell I had gotten him flustered. Carter was fidgeting, his hands in his pockets and then to his hips and back again.
“Besides, this is a college town. Every single guy on campus carries some kind of bag. You mean to tell me Darlene and whoever else works the door turns all of them away? I don’t believe that for a minute.”
There was a chance-a small chance, mind you-there was a part of this I wasn’t thinking about. Something to justify their policy, clearly anti-male. If there was a reason, I wasn’t coming up with it.
“Aaron, rules are rules. I’m sorry you don’t like them. But I can’t break it for one person…”
I cut him off. Even though I had the moral high ground, there was no way I was going to win this. We both knew it.
“Fine. Then refund the rest of my membership.”
“We don’t do that in the clubs. I can get you the number to call…”
If there was one thing I hated, it was being told-as the customer-something couldn’t be done for me AT THE STORE. Even when I had worked retail, I would at least provide a phone for the customer to use. If I was being unhelpful, at least I was doing something.
“Maybe we didn’t cover this yesterday, Carter, but I’m about to start a job in the Office of Diversity on campus tomorrow. Executive Assistant to the Director, actually. My job is going to be to advocate for people who need help because they’re being discriminated against.
“I’ve got a couple friends around here, too, from when I went to school. Most of them are journalists. If they were to get a hold of this policy, you can bet your corporate headquarters would hear about it. Because it is discrimination. End of story.”
Wow, had I really just said all that? I didn’t mean to throw my job in his face or threaten his job-more or less. When I get worked up, my mouth goes faster than my brain.
Carter was in a state of shock. His mouth was slightly open, the fidgeting had stopped and he was staring at me wide eyed. I think I got his attention.
And suddenly, I felt bad. Not for standing up for myself, but for coming off like an asshole. I looked down for a minute, swiped my hand through my hair and tried to smooth this over.
“Look, I’m sorry. That came out completely wrong. I’m just frustrated, ya know?”
He snapped to attention.
“Come on over with me.” Gruff, short even.
We went to the customer service desk. Carter nodded at the girl already there and started tapping on the keyboard. I don’t know what he was looking at, but I thought better than try to talk to him right now.
“Can I get your membership card?”
I handed it over, no questions asked.
More tapping. A click or two of the mouse.
“You have a credit of $8.12 going back to your Visa card. Have a good day.”
He kept my card, taking a scissors to it. I watched as it was cut in half, then those halves in half and then each quarter in half again. He kept going until there was a bunch of plastic chips on the counter.
“Carter…”
“Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?”
This was over. I knew it. Maybe we’d run into one another at some point and we could talk. Maybe not. But this was over.
As I walked out, I couldn’t help but think my approach had been wrong. Here I was, without a club membership and without food. Sunday was beginning just as Saturday had ended.
Yeah, this wasn’t going to be one of those days. For all the shopping I had done the day before, there was still one crucial thing I needed. Food.
When I went food shopping, I generally didn’t care what I looked like. Again, in general, I did the grocery shopping before most people got out of bed. Seeing as how Saturday night went, though, I was still downstairs on the floor while the sun streamed in through the windows. A beam sat squarely on my face for what seemed like an eternity. That was my alarm clock.
Heh. The sun was my alarm. By all rights, the soundtrack to “Once More, With Feeling” should have woken me up. Either Spike telling Buffy to stay away or Anya’s bunny-phobia. One of those ditties from the musical episode of “Buffy” should have been enough to get me up.
Apparently I was more tired than I even knew.
I pulled my shorts and shirt back on before going back upstairs, hopping from one foot to the other, trying to wake up entire body up. My neck was stiff, right leg numb and I found myself in a bad mood.
I tried not to think about last night. I couldn’t think about it. At least not right now.
I swiped the deodorant under my arms, hoping it would be enough until I could get in the shower. A few odds and ends dropped into my bag and I ran out the door.
It was another warm day. That much was painfully obvious even at 8:30 am. These kinds of days sucked. The ones where clothes stuck to your body from the minute you woke up to the time you went to bed. Showers didn’t help and, honestly, there wasn’t much that could be done about it.
In the car, I needed something slightly…faster as I rolled down the windows. My options were limited, as Carter reminded me yesterday. Roughly 75% of the stuff on Bitch! was slow, almost sad. After running through everything I had, an old standby came to mind.
“Let’s Hear It For the Boy.” A good five and a half minutes would get me a good ways to the store. At least to the warehouse store. It was my first destination of the morning, anyway. You can never have enough toilet paper or napkins. Something my mother always taught me. Be prepared.
I got lost in my thoughts about Dan, mostly, as the car drove itself. The next thing I knew, it pulled into the parking lot. Being a college town, no one was up much before noon. This particular store was empty. Okay, fine. A car or two probably belonging to workers. Otherwise? Nope. This should be easy.
Bitch! got thrown into its pocket inside my bag and I strode to the front doors. Man, the sun was already scorching. My imagination told me I could feel my blood boiling inside my skin. Of course, it wasn’t boiling the way I thought it was.
You know, like water does on the stove after five minutes on high. Bubbles and rippling. A rolling boil, to be technical. There was no way my body was doing that. Heck, I was just starting to sweat, the body’s natural way of cooling down. It was a short walk to the double plate glass doors. They opened, throwing a tornado of cold air at me.
I shivered as I fumbled for my membership card. It was inside my wallet, which shared a compartment in my bag with my checkbook. No good reason it was there, mind you. (The checkbook, not the wallet.) I hadn’t written a check in at least six months. Electronic bill pay. The only way to go.
As I slowed down, I could feel a presence behind me. Who the fuck was up my ass on a Sunday morning? I mean, come on people! Give my a fucking…
Whoever it was stopped along with me. This was kinda freaky, to tell you the truth. Trying not to be obvious, I tilted my head a bit so I could see who was there out of the corner of my eye.
It was a lady, maybe 30 years old, her attention fixed on her massive purse, if you can call it that. This bag was easily the size of a diaper bag-for three kids-and reminded my of Mary Poppins’ bag from the movie. (The one where she pulls out a standing lamp, coat hanger and other objects to the amazement of Jane and Michael. Banks.)
I held my card up for the gruff looking 30-something woman working the door. Normally, these kinds of people say “good morning” or “good afternoon” and offer a cart. Not this broad. She looked at me over her glasses and bellowed.
“Sir, bags aren’t allowed in the store.”
I was thrown off kilter. There had never been a problem with me bringing my messenger bag anywhere. Not a museum, not a movie theater, not a supermarket, not a shopping mall, and certainly not to other stores within this particular chain.
I guess my predicament, stopping me in my tracks, took the lady behind me by surprise. She stopped, too, as if we were together.
“I’m sorry. Come again?” Maybe I had heard her wrong. It was possible, considering the time.
“We don’t allow bags of any kind in the store anymore.” A million things flashed through my head. Since when? Why? Where was the notice? Really?
The lady behind me regained her attention and flashed her own card at Darlene. The broad’s name, as I learned the closer I walked up to her.
“Fair enough, Darlene.”
Without missing a beat, I spoke in my “outdoor voice.”
“Excuse me, ma’am!” I called after the lady with the gargantuan purse. She turned to me after a moment.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but Darlene here says bags aren’t allowed in the store anymore. Maybe she just didn’t see yours?”
Inside, I was simultaneously laughing and fuming. Outwardly, I was doing everything I could to keep a straight face. I was causing a problem. I normally wouldn’t have done this kind of thing. However, if I was going to be an advocate for other people as of tomorrow, I might as well start speaking up for myself right now.
Darlene pointed to the lady.
“Miss, you can keep going. Don’t mind this…gentlemen.”
And then to me.
“Sir, please don’t harass the other customers. And please bring your bag back to your car.”
I looked at Darlene square in the eyes. Which was hard, considering I had a good foot in height on her.
“Darlene, you told me bags weren’t allowed. Hers was three times the size of mine, but it was okay. Why isn’t mine?”
It was an honest question. I wasn’t being belligerent or mean or obscene.
“Because it’s not.”
Gee, that was GREAT logic. Always worked when I was a kid.
“Let me see your manager.”
“First the bag goes back. And then I’ll get him for you.”
What the fuck did she think this way? “Let’s Make a Deal”?
“I’m afraid you don’t understand, Darlene. I am the customer. I want to speak with your club manager. Now.”
Darlene, oversized bosoms and all, got as close as she could to me without actually touching me. A good thing, because that would have been a no no.
“And I’m afraid YOU don’t understand, mister. I’m NOT negotiating with you. I’m TELLING you…” She was getting awful lippy and just a little bit condescending…
I never got to finish the thought as another voice entered the equation.
“Darlene, everything alright?”
I knew the voice. Why the fuck couldn’t I place these things the last two days? I spun around only to see the one person I didn’t want to see right now.
No, not Matt. Good guess, though.
Carter.
“Aaron?” He gulped just a bit as my name escaped his lips. I doubted he was looking to see me again so soon after yesterday. Granted, I didn’t want to see him either, but whatever. He was dressed in a long sleeve dress shirt and tie, looking very handsome. Maybe even fuckable. If he wasn’t such a pansy.
“Hi Carter.” I extended my hand to him. Courtesy, ya know? He took it, surprising me.
“You know this…guy, Carter?” Darlene asked with all the disdain she could muster. Carter only nodded in the affirmative.
“Good. Tell him the damn rules.” And she walked away from me, back to the door, undoubtedly to tell the next guy with a bag it wasn’t allowed.
I let out a little laugh as Carter looked at me. Was this some kind of cosmic joke designed to get us on the same page about yesterday? Only in the movies did this kind of shit happen.
“So, what’s the problem?” he asked, trying to block the memory of yesterday from his mind in order to deal with a customer.
Standing there so close to the doors, I explained the situation. The bag, the lady, Darlene, previous stores. Everything. I hoped, somehow, he would explain yesterday to me.
“I’m sorry for the way you were treated, but Darlene is right: it is club policy not to allow male customers with bags into the club.”
I couldn’t believe my ears. And by this point, I was getting a bit upset.
“Listen, Carter, think about what you just said. Isn’t that slightly…discriminatory? Don’t the girls with diaper bags or huge ass purses steal just as much as guys? And what am I going to fit in this bag? Everything here comes in eight thousand packs that barely fits into my car!”
Okay, maybe the last part was an exaggeration. But the idea was still valid. I could tell I had gotten him flustered. Carter was fidgeting, his hands in his pockets and then to his hips and back again.
“Besides, this is a college town. Every single guy on campus carries some kind of bag. You mean to tell me Darlene and whoever else works the door turns all of them away? I don’t believe that for a minute.”
There was a chance-a small chance, mind you-there was a part of this I wasn’t thinking about. Something to justify their policy, clearly anti-male. If there was a reason, I wasn’t coming up with it.
“Aaron, rules are rules. I’m sorry you don’t like them. But I can’t break it for one person…”
I cut him off. Even though I had the moral high ground, there was no way I was going to win this. We both knew it.
“Fine. Then refund the rest of my membership.”
“We don’t do that in the clubs. I can get you the number to call…”
If there was one thing I hated, it was being told-as the customer-something couldn’t be done for me AT THE STORE. Even when I had worked retail, I would at least provide a phone for the customer to use. If I was being unhelpful, at least I was doing something.
“Maybe we didn’t cover this yesterday, Carter, but I’m about to start a job in the Office of Diversity on campus tomorrow. Executive Assistant to the Director, actually. My job is going to be to advocate for people who need help because they’re being discriminated against.
“I’ve got a couple friends around here, too, from when I went to school. Most of them are journalists. If they were to get a hold of this policy, you can bet your corporate headquarters would hear about it. Because it is discrimination. End of story.”
Wow, had I really just said all that? I didn’t mean to throw my job in his face or threaten his job-more or less. When I get worked up, my mouth goes faster than my brain.
Carter was in a state of shock. His mouth was slightly open, the fidgeting had stopped and he was staring at me wide eyed. I think I got his attention.
And suddenly, I felt bad. Not for standing up for myself, but for coming off like an asshole. I looked down for a minute, swiped my hand through my hair and tried to smooth this over.
“Look, I’m sorry. That came out completely wrong. I’m just frustrated, ya know?”
He snapped to attention.
“Come on over with me.” Gruff, short even.
We went to the customer service desk. Carter nodded at the girl already there and started tapping on the keyboard. I don’t know what he was looking at, but I thought better than try to talk to him right now.
“Can I get your membership card?”
I handed it over, no questions asked.
More tapping. A click or two of the mouse.
“You have a credit of $8.12 going back to your Visa card. Have a good day.”
He kept my card, taking a scissors to it. I watched as it was cut in half, then those halves in half and then each quarter in half again. He kept going until there was a bunch of plastic chips on the counter.
“Carter…”
“Is there anything else I can help you with, sir?”
This was over. I knew it. Maybe we’d run into one another at some point and we could talk. Maybe not. But this was over.
As I walked out, I couldn’t help but think my approach had been wrong. Here I was, without a club membership and without food. Sunday was beginning just as Saturday had ended.