This is One Herb of a Story

Everyone has their ten minutes of fame. I’ve already have had mine, as you might have read in my recent posting, Protests End Quickie Mart Tyranny. People like you call me a hero, but I’m just a regular person who thwarted a dangerous, armed man from robbing the store and possibly murdering an innocent. I guess I’m just “that guy” who does heroic stuff.

All good deeds should go noticed or there’s no point to doing them, I always say, so I was lucky that my boss, Mr. Patel, noticed. Three weeks ago, he fired everyone at the quickie mart except for me. He wanted to get rid of the lazy employees. You have to understand that these people were my closest friends. They were like family to me lo these many years. “Good riddance,” I thought, as I hugged each of them goodbye. I made a mental note to change my cell phone number. I’m all about a fresh start.

The new crew was full of energetic, vibrant people, much like me, and Mr. Patel entrusted me with training them. They were all terrific, but a charming, young college student was my favorite. I liked him from our first encounter, when he extended his hand to say, “Nice to meet you.”

You don’t expect such manners from a college kid, so I was immediately impressed. My hand had some sticky slushee syrup on it, so I quickly licked it off and gave him a warm handshake.

“I’m Robert, ma'am” he said.

“Nice to meet you, Herbert,” I said. “But you don’t have to call me ma'am. You can call me Mrs. Jackie Phillips or J Flo or Jackie from the Block.” I wanted this kid to know I wasn’t some geezer who can’t connect with younger people.

“Robert,” the boy said. I could see this chap had a sense of humor.

I laughed and said, “No, my name is Mrs. Phillips.”

“No, my name is Robert,” he said.

“Oh sorry, Herbert,” I said.

Herbert caught on quickly. I taught him how to stock shelves, sweep the floor, and work the cash register, which is the tricky part. You have to run the barcode of each product under a red, radioactive scanner light that rings up the price. “You scan the product, hit TOTAL, and you’re done,” I explained.

It took me about six weeks to learn how to do this, but Herb, as I began calling him (young people love when you shorten their name – it shows you like them). . . Herb took about five minutes to learn. “I personally like to run the product under the scanner wand several times to make sure I got it,” I explained to Herb.

“But that means you ringing up the product several times,” Herb said. “It beeps when it scans the product, so you only want it to beep once.”

See, I told you Herb was funny! I laughed and laughed and gave him a friendly slap on the back. “You really had me going, Herb.” I said.

“Robert,” he responded. Again with the Robert? This kid was hilarious. He should seriously be on SNL.

Everyone liked Herb, even the customers, and business began to pick up when he was working. He called customers by name and asked about their personal lives. I worked at the quickie mart for years, and I never knew they had personal lives or names. I had nicknames that I called them in my head, but they weren’t real.

One morning a young boy walked in wearing a Cubs jersey, a baseball cap, and gray pants with grass stains on the knees. Herbert greeted him and said, “Hi Johnny, how’d the game go?” Herb was like a super detective. How did he know that little Johnny played some sort of game? Johnny’s parents chatted with Herb as if he was an old friend. I was warmed by this young man’s presence in our store, and his glow rubbed off on me.

Herb even gave people cute nicknames. He called a very shy girl “Princess” and got her to talk and smile. Now I was in business! I can’t remember real names very well, but nicknames are definitely my thing. I’d always kept them to myself, but Herb taught me it’s ok to use them.

A minute later, a man walked into the store wearing a baseball cap and grayish pants. “Hey, Old Yeller!” I said. “How’d your game go?”

“Shut up you old bat,” the octogenarian responded and moved his walker to Herb’s register. I guess not everyone likes chit chat.

The next guy that walked in was a regular customer in his 40s. His brown, silky hair was his most distinctive feature. “Hey, Bowl Cut,” I greeted him. “I can ring you up here.” But Bowl Cut must have been deaf. He went to Herb’s register, despite having to wait behind other customers. Poor deaf people. They have so many challenges in their day-to-day lives.

Herb’s register had a line about six people deep now, and mine was empty. It was awkward. A gawky looking, pimply teenager who comes in everyday to buy chips walked up to my register. “Nice to see you again, Adam’s Apple,” I said, but the boy didn’t respond. The scanner beeped three times as I rang up his bag of chips, and I chuckled as I thought about the funny joke Herb had made about the beeps.

As the days went on, people would always line up in Herb’s register line, as if mine was closed. I didn’t mind. It gave me time to take naps at the counter. “People love you, kid,” I said to Herb admiringly. I was happy for him.

“Thanks,” Herb said. “Can I suggest that you don’t call people by nicknames anymore?” he asked bashfully. How cute -- and very smart! His advice made sense.

A guy walked up to my counter with a Wall Street Journal and a coffee. “Beautiful weather outside, sir,” I said, imagining what Herb would have said.

“Yes it is. Can I have a pack of Marlboro’s?” he said smiling ear to ear. I was working magic like Herb does!

“Sure thing,” I said cheerfully to the customer. “You have a grrrreat day!” I took a chance with rolling my r’s, and it was successful. The customer smiled and left. It felt good to be Herbert, I thought.

Unbeknownst to me, Mr. Patel was standing nearby watching the entire encounter. “You idiot, that kid was like 10 years old. You can’t sell him cigarettes,” Mr. Patel shouted.

“I had been so focused on providing good customer service that I didn’t even notice,” I yelled back.

Patel was not angry since somehow the cigarettes rang up three times. See, if you live well, the angels always watch over you, even when you have a defective register.

So life has been good of late, and I can’t help but reflect that we’re always learning in life, no matter how old we are. If you’re open to growing, you will always be happy. I’ve become so fond of little Herbert that I can honestly say I love him as much as my own sons, but not as much as that Great Dane I had who ran away. I sure do miss Mr. Winkles, pictured here. (Note, his name has been changed to protect his identity.)

Have a great week!
~ Jackie

Movies Cause Madness and Mayhem

Do you hate it when people talk all through a movie? You’re trying to relax, but someone behind you can’t follow the plot, they get the characters confused, and they ask questions every few minutes?

Apparently, I am that person. My son, Raphael, just told me so. He didn’t want to watch a movie with me because he said it takes all the fun out of it -- I need too much help. What a shocker to hear such a thing and from my own son! Who wouldn’t want to hang out with me? I am so fun to be around. Hurt, I lashed out by throwing his cell phone in my neighbor's bird bath.

My husband and sons came to Raphael's defense, saying I'm annoying because I gasp and laugh too loudly. This hurt even more. I threw their cell phones in my neighbor's pool. Now my family never calls me. Talk about immature.

Their comments were crushing. I thought my laugh was melodious and soothing. That’s why I laugh even when laughing is not dictated, like at the neighbor boy's orchestra concert or when I was getting my teeth cleaned at the dentist. I just want to share the joy.

But time heals all wounds, and a day later, we were all friends again. The kids made amends by saying they’d watch the widely acclaimed movie Inception with me. Their teenage friends said it was awesome. Sometimes teenagers act dumb by liking movies that adults don’t like, so I consulted my friend Bob, an old person with dementia (shoutout to Bob in Maryland). He said Inception was great, so I agreed to see it. If it's good enough for Bob, it's good enough for me.

My sons said Inception is complex and that I would need to be alert the night we see it. Their words made me anxious. I wanted to have a clear head to clear my name. I wanted to make sure I understood without assistance. I tried to cheat by looking up the answers on Google, but I didn't even know the questions. I ended up just Googling pictures of aardvarks. It was of no help.

On movie night, I prepared by napping before dinner and not having that second whiskey with my meal. I hadn’t been this nervous about an event since they replaced Michael J. Fox with Charlie Sheen on Spin City. And look what happened to Charlie Sheen! I think he did something bad! And then he got replaced by Ashton Kutcher. If Ashton Kutcher could replace Charlie Sheen, what's to say he can't replace me?

Well, movie day finally came, and let me capture the essence of Inception in one word -- B-O-R-I-N-G. With a capital B. And the ORING part too! I could not understand how everyone at the theater was riveted, while I felt like I had fallen into a black hole of nothingness. I wondered if this is what Nerd Hell is like. I sat in the dark, staring at people, checking the time on my cell phone, waiting for each successive minute to pass. It was excruciating! It reminded me of that time we spent New Year’s Eve watching the C-SPAN Marathon on TV in that hotel on Time’s Square in New York City.

But I’ll be fair to you who haven’t seen Inception. Maybe you’ll like what the movie offers. The premise is that a person can enter into the dream of another person by falling asleep and sharing that dream. While in the dream, one can alter events and even alter reality. Even more boring, multiple people can fall asleep at the same time and enter one communal dream. Huzzah! There are dream police or something, and they play an important role as well, but I don’t know what it is because I was staring at someone’s mole at the time.

The big finale is that you don’t know whose reality is really real. However, at that point, I didn’t even care. I had no idea who the good guys and bad guys were. I was just glad the movie was almost over. I hoped all the characters would die to produce a happy ending, but that didn’t happen. Oops. Spoiler alert. Let’s just say that once you see Inception, you probably will avoid the movies for a long time.

Now if you want to have a good time, definitely see the movie Unknown with Liam Neeson. I’ve watched other movies with Liam Neeson, and he’s really fun to be around and never hogs the popcorn. He laughs and gasps just like I do, and he doesn't criticize me. I’ve never found the need to put his cell phone in any kind of liquid. He gets me.

Anyway, Unknown was an intelligent movie that made even me think. I have no idea what it all meant, but I remember thinking, "Wow, I like this film!" It was awesome and had a lot of action. It was so fast-paced that I didn’t have time to stare at the other movie-goers. That’s the highest compliment I've ever paid a film.

Well, I hope my movie reviews have given you something to ponder. You probably wondered why I haven't blogged for so long, but now you can clearly see how busy my life has been. Liam Neeson is out of town, so I promise you I can lighten my schedule and write sooner next time.

And, just in case you were concerned about all our ruined cell phones, don’t worry. My neighbor Ann agreed to replace them when she discovered they were damaged on her property. Life always seems to have a happy ending around here. Have a great weekend. Enjoy the last days of August.

Jackie

Protests End Quickie-Mart Tyranny

Today was another slow day working at the quickie mart because it snowed yet again. Snow means all schools are closed, which means no students are skipping classes. No students, no business. That’s how it goes in the fast-paced world of convenience stores.

My boss, Mr. Patel, recently found out I have a blog, so he said I can write it at work as long as I mention his store and catchy slogan. So please stop by Patel World, “Home of the giant, eight-ounce slushie, where your service makes our living.” I know that makes no sense. Mr. Patel has a bad grasp of English, but he was so proud of his dumb slogan that he wrote it on the front pockets of all our uniforms in permanent marker.

Anyway, work has been oppressive for a while. Mr. Patel’s inability to communicate combined with his quick temper make for stressful days. The man knows only a few words of English, and the words he does use don’t form clear thoughts. When we don't understand him, he yells at us in front of customers. He called me lazy once in front of a group of third-graders who have taunted me ever since.

Another time he chastised me in front of teenagers, shouting, “You can’t tie box if someone holds gun in head.” See? I have no idea what that means. He’ll yell one minute, and then he’ll be friendly the next, asking us to teach him new English words.

My coworker, Fred, and I got tired of these mood swings. We decided to sabotage Patel’s efforts to learn the language. For Christmas, we got him a biology word-a-day calendar so we could teach him new words. We made up crazy meanings so he’d look like an idiot. We said “zygote” is a synonym for cereal. There were other words, "mitochondria" (customers who can't pay), "cytoplasm" (people who browse without buying), etc. That was great entertainment for a while, but then things got ugly.

A few weeks ago, I had just come in for the night shift and was trying to make my way around a large stack of boxes in the stock room. Mr. Patel popped up from behind one of the boxes and gave me my assignment for the night. “Jokey, your please to check in the freezer,” he said and pointed to the boxes.

I assumed he wanted me to check the freezers to make sure they’re working. They often break down, and then our food goes bad. That would be an easy task. I immediately checked each freezer and saw the temperatures were just fine at 0 degrees Fahrenheit. Mr. Patel stared at me with his usual look of disgust, so I smiled and gave him the two thumbs-up sign.

He sighed and said, “I become black at 7:00 morning.” I didn't correct him. I just kept smiling and rolled my eyes as he left.

I spent the rest of the night shift sitting at the cash register. I didn’t do any work. I filed my nails. I whistled for a while. Then I took a nap at the register while sitting on my stool. Not a single customer came in. At 7:00 a.m., I awoke to the familiar jingle of the back door bell, which announced that Mr. Patel had just walked in.

“YOU PLEASE TO CHECK IN THE FREEZER!” he started shouting. I tried the two thumbs up and a smile again, but he ran to the boxes in the back in a panic. He ripped one open and held up a package of leaky, overly thawed chicken parts. “Check in the freezer!” he yelled. I suddenly understood. I was supposed to put the chicken in the freezer! Oops. I was about to apologize when Patel shouted at me in Hindi right in front of the morning coffee crowd. Then he mimicked me filing my nails at the counter and whistling.

“I don’t need this,” I said, and walked out.

“Blastocyst!” he yelled after me. He kept screaming it as I walked out the automatic front doors, but I refused to look back. I was trying to storm out, but the doors open too slowly for a dramatic exit.

My anger surged. I called Fred on the cell phone from the parking lot. I told him that was the last straw. We weren’t going to take this tyrannical rule anymore. Fred was angry too. He said we should protest exactly like the Egyptians did, except we should use violence.

Before I knew it, Fred was outside of the store with me, watching Patel walk out the sluggish automatic doors with his broom. He was probably going to sweep the sidewalk. As the double doors creaked open, Fred swooped on Patel and knocked him to the ground face down. I yelled, "You’re the blastocyst!” and took his monacle and poncho. Patel whimpered under Fred’s 300-pound frame. Fred turned him over, and what we saw made our jaws drop.

It wasn’t Patel at all! It was another Indian whose name happened to be Patel too. We just beat up an innocent man and were guilty of racial profiling. What had we done? "Noooooo!" Fred cried out to the heavens. Our eyes widened in fear when we heard police sirens behind us. I'm too pretty to be in jail, I thought.

A second later, the real Mr. Patel ran out to us smiling and patting us on the backs and grabbing the "broom" that the fake Patel had been carrying. It wasn't a broom after all. It was a machine gun.

“Endoplasmic reticulum!” Patel kept repeating while he hugged us. He held up his camera phone and snapped a picture of us sitting on the still-tackled Indian guy.

It turned out that the man we tackled was an armed robber who had been holding up stores all over the Midwest. We were hailed as heroes and appeared on the local TV evening news. The police gave us reward money, and Mr. Patel gave us each a fat bonus for increasing business through this publicity. He hung a framed photo of us attacking the robber in the entrance of the store and wrote a sign above it, “Chlorophyll Beware!”

So the next time you’re thirsty, make sure you come visit us at Patel World, where your service really does make our living.

थे इक्य डे स्टोरी गेट्स The Icy-Day Story Gets Worse

Translation of Canadian writing (above): The Icy Day Story Gets Worse, a Dis-ICE-terous Follow-Up

When you last tuned in, my son Alfredo had slipped on the ice as he went to retrieve the mail, and you readers were left to guess at his fate. Fear not. I'll fill you in.

To recap, after his fall, Alfredo said it hurt to move his left arm. We told him to move his right arm instead. In retrospect, that was not the best advice. The next morning, Alfredo woke up in pain and had no mobility in his left arm and shoulder at all. We decided to take him to the ER after school to get some x-rays. Dr. Wu (who later turned out to be a custodian impersonating a doctor) told us Alfredo didn't have any fractures, but that he did injure his growth plate. The "doc" stuck Alfredo's arm in a crumpled-up looking sling that he pulled out of his pants' pocket. Wu then mopped the floor around our feet and propped up a yellow sign that said, "Caution: Wet Floor" in many languages. It should have aroused our suspicions, but we were too worried to notice such a subtle clue. Before he walked out the door, Dr. Wu told us to see an orthopedic surgeon in a week. He recommended his cousin, Abe, who works out of a pawn shop downtown, next door to "Pizza Village," home of the $7 party-sized pepperoni pizza.

When I went home and told my husband all that had happened, he became worried. Our family has some height challenges, so an injury to a growth plate would mean this son might have an arm that would not grow to potential. As it is, our whole family tends to not grow to potential, so this was yet another blow to the ego. But, like all smaller people, we quickly laughed it off and moved on.

By Wednesday, Alfredo began to move the arm little by little. His mobility increased in leaps and bounds throughout the following day, but we told him to limit his jumping after that.

On Friday, we couldn't get an appointment with Wu's cousin, so we settled for consulting with a Dr. Beakman. "The Beak" as I jokingly called him (though he didn't laugh), examined Alfredo's arm and shoulder. He had him do various exercises to reveal his degree of mobility. He had Alfredo raise his arms above his head, to the side, and do a few pushups. Next, he asked Alfredo to carry all the hazardous medical waste from the examining rooms and throw them in the cardboard-recycling dumpster behind the building. He explained that this would test if Alfredo had regained strength in his arm and shoulder. I waited anxiously for Alfredo to return. When my son came back with a giant smile on his face, I knew he was ok. The doctor smiled for the first time too, proclaiming that Alfredo's growth plate was NOT injured. He said the first x-rays were not well defined and it was probably just a strain all along. He chuckled as he quipped about all the medical mistakes he had made in his own career. He wrote a doctor's note to give Alfredo the clean bill of health and told him he could resume all normal activity immediately. "I can even make ice angels and ski?" asked Alfredo?

"Of course you can, my boy!" the doctor responded. We invited the Beak to go skiing with us the next day, and that's just what we did. My husband and son and the doctor met in the morning, lost the free ski-lift passes that the kids earned for getting As, and then had to pay full price. As Shakespeare said, "All's Well That Ends Well."

P.S. The title of this posting is, "The Icy Day Story Gets Worse." For some reason, as I wrote each word in the title, the computer automatically it to Canadian or some kind of foreign language where they put numbers and musical notes on horizontal lines. Whatever the language, they don't have a translation for the word worse. What a shame. I know I don't have a lot of Canadian readers who will understand what that funny title means, so I will look into changing the titles back to English for the next posting. And might I add that I am very impressed with Google, who has created blog templates that arbitrarily change text to different languages. Visionary!