Don’t Be Weird.
That’s my daily mantra.
DON’T. BE. WEIRD.
Don’t Be Weird.
That’s my daily mantra.
DON’T. BE. WEIRD.
Lucky for me, Sergeant Gargantuan had a particular talent for strong-arming crafty adolescent soldiers, stopping them from freely running circles around me.
Although, I’m pretty sure every once and awhile he would let one escape through the fence just for kicks.
The first – and most memorable – time I was duped by the cunning of a young subordinate was during a weekend field exercise while on a routine nightly security check. Sergeant Gargantuan and I happened upon a shirtless buck private who was slothfully relieving himself on the side of a tent. From behind the unsuspecting soldier, Sergeant Gargantuan barked, “Hey!” Without missing a beat, the young GI turned around with his pants still wrapped around his ankles, his pickle dangling in the wind, and started grasping at the air, as if he was trying to catch lightening bugs, all the while murmuring, “Where am I?”
Panicked that he was sleepwalking – a health issue I knew nothing about – I started screaming, “Medic!” Unsure what else to do, I proceeded to run around like a chicken with its head cut off, yelling at the top of my lungs. When I finally returned with the drowsy medic, Sergeant Gargantuan was standing over the soldier who was now doing pushups, his pants still wrapped around his ankles.
Words were unnecessary to convey what Sergeant Gargantuan was thinking about me at that moment. His glower said it all- fucking noob. Making me stew in my shame for several minutes as he hovered over his kill, Sergeant Gargantuan finally pointed down towards the pantless soldier dripping in sweat and stated the now obvious:
“Ma’am, he was faking it.”
While I mopped up the trail of poop that ended in an explosion of sprayed excrement in the bathroom of an Annie Sez, I seriously reconsidered my future career options. It was only minutes prior that I witnessed the event unfold before my very eyes. I was tediously hanging up abandoned sweaters from the fitting room when I saw a little old lady wearing a plaid, calf-length skirt hastily shuffling towards the bathroom and something strange about the woman caught my eye. There seemed to be something dripping out of the woman’s skirt and I was completely puzzled by what it could be. Then it hit me- the small droplets were caca splashing on the floor with every step that the elderly woman took. I immediately ducked down behind a rack of sweaters, because I knew that I was the lowest ranking worker on the discount retailer’s totem pole, and undoubtedly, I would be the one tagged to clean up the mess (despite not having the word “janitor” anywhere in my title.)
Despite my best efforts to hide, I heard my boss yell out for me, in her thick Jamaican accent, from across the store.
Mac! Grab a mop out of the back room, darling. I’ve got a job for you.
My assistant manager, Jasmine, pointed to the line of defecation when she saw my head pop up from behind a rack of ugly beaded sweaters.
Mac, make sure you clean that up when that nice old lady comes out of the bathroom. Don’t give me any trouble now. Just imagine if that was your grandma. I mean, that’s disgusting, her family needs to put some Depends on their stinkin’ grandmother before they take her out, but… just clean it up.
Unable to defy any authority figure, likely due to years of being mentally broken down by strict, asexual Catholic school nuns, I reluctantly armed myself with thick yellow rubber gloves, bleach, and a roll of paper towels that I found in the back room. I followed the trail of small droppings from the cash register to the bathroom door. The little old woman opened the bathroom door with a sheepish smile and a hint of blushed cheeks that peaked through her translucent skin and I tried my best to alleviate the poor woman’s embarrassment by waiting to clean the mess until she left the store. But the woman moved at the pace of a three-legged turtle, so I began scrubbing when she fell out of view behind a shelf of pleated pants.
I pushed the door open slowly with one hand and was stunned by the crime scene that use to be our clean-ish restroom. How on earth did she manage to take a dump on every inch of this bathroom except the toilet? If anyone had been shown this bathroom and asked “who do you think caused it?”, no one would have guessed it was the work of an 80-year-old delicate flower. No, the extent of this mess suggested that it was caused by some frat boy who just won a hot dog eating contest and then got hammered and then tried to overdose on probiotics.
When I finally walked out of the bathroom, I delicately stripped off my rubber gloves as to not accidentally spray fecal matter on my new khaki skirt (the irony of how over-dressed I was to be cleaning toilets was not lost on me). I paused for a moment, thankful to be out of the small bathroom and out in the fresh air. I looked around the store- it was the usual crowd of four to five people meandering around the racks of clothing designed for women 40 and older. Suddenly, panic broke through the scratchy easy rock being played from the speakers above.
Jasmine! She’s stealing the jackets!
The scream echoed across the store. I looked over at the register where Jackie, a small female cashier with mousy blonde hair, stood straight up like a hunting dog pointing to the corner of the store. My eyes quickly traced the invisible line from her finger to the 40-something year old woman in the corner of the store who was stuffing suede jackets into a black duffle bag. The woman jumped up as soon as she realized that she was spotted and flung her bag into the air, scattering jackets across the floor. The woman sprinted to the door and managed to escape before Jasmine, who was sprinting like a linebacker to tackle the woman, could reach her. A man from the other side of the store suddenly threw his own bag of stolen goods from the other side of the store and ran out an emergency exit at the side of the building.
I watched Jasmine chase the woman out into the parking lot until she fell out of my view. Glancing around the room, I saw everyone frozen in place, still processing what just happened and unsure what to do. I broke out of my own trance and ran over to the phone at the cash register to call 911.
Just before I could dial the second “1”, Jasmine walked back into the store, out of breath and hair disheveled.
Hang up that phone, Mac. I want you here!
Jasmine pointed her finger to the floor, still panting.
Mac, I am very disappointed in you.
Confused, I looked at Jackie and the other three girls who worked at the store with me. Does she think I was involved in the robbery? I hung up the phone and walked over to where Jasmine was now squatting with her hands on her knees.
Why didn’t you run outside and chase down those criminals with me? Why did you let that man get away?
I raised one eyebrow and looked around at the four other sales representatives in the store, confused as to why I was singled out.
Don’t look at them. I’m talking to you. I expect more from you. I expect them to just stand there like sheep. But you, I expect you to fight. When I ran out that door I expected you to be behind me. I am so disappointed at you I can’t even look at you right now!
Stunned, I stuttered out a string of excuses.
Jasmine, what if that woman had a knife or a gun? I’m in a skirt! And didn’t that video you made me watch when I was first hired say not to take down thieves on your own?
Jasmine clenched her teeth.
Fuck that video, this is your store damn it. Take some pride in it. If you don’ protect it, who will?
Jasmine put up one hand impatiently and walked to the pile of jackets strewn across the floor.
I stood there, my heart an open, gaping wound. Was Jasmine right? Should I take this as a life lesson to have more pride in myself? In my job? To have the courage to literally fight for what was mine?
Then reality hit me.
Fuck that. I’m paid minimum wage. I just cleaned up someone else’s shit. This woman is insane if she thinks I’m going to risk my life for $7.15 an hour and over-priced, poorly made jackets that were likely made by the small hands of Asian children.
I am more than breath & bones.
I live only in one word - writing
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