Counting pennies after 12 beers is hard
The summer after my Freshman year at Michigan, I came home for the summer. My mom was hounding me to get a job, so- out of spite- I got a job at the Clark Gas Station a half-mile from my subdivision, and started singing the song of the workin' man. (In case you're wondering, that song is "Working Man" by the band Rush, and I really fucking hate that song.)
On a Saturday in early July, a friend of mine was having a party. I didn't want to have to stop at the Liquor Store That Sells to Minors at 8 or 9, so I headed out there at 4ish, and bought a 12 pack of my former bread and butter, Labatt Blue Light. The moment I left the store, I got a phone call.
Boss: "Hey, Derek. We need you to come in to work today. Mark's wife left him and he's devastated. You gotta cover for him. And I need you here NOW."
Me: "Man, fuck Mark. She left him because he's 32 and works at a fucking Clark Station, and does enough coke to kill a small horse. It's his own damned fault. Tell him to be a man, do a line, and get his ass to work."
Me: (for real) "Alright... Whatever. You owe me."
So I showed up, and my boss was pretty apologetic. To make him feel guilty I explained that I had a party to go to that night, that some hot highschool junior wanted to get laid (<------- lie), and that tonight was one of the biggest nights of the year (<------- double lie). I even told him that I'd already bought a 12 pack, and now it was gonna get all skunky in my car.
Boss: "Just go ahead and put it in the cooler, man. I don't care. Just don't drink on the job or anything."
Well, I took his advice, but the booze in the cooler, and did my job. By 6 I'd checked on it 3 times, just to make sure it was staying cold.
By 7 there was condensation on the bottles, which makes no sense, because cooler's are dry as fuck. In fact, I'm reasonably sure I was hallucinating.
By 7:15 I thought to myself, "Ah, one beer can't hurt. I did them a favor, and it's not like this is a tough job."
Fast forward 3 hours: I've smashed 12 beers, I'm unable to make change, and more than one customer as commented on the volume of the music from my CD player. At least one person was reasonably scandalized when I greeted her with a spirited, "Ahoy-hoy!"
Fuck it. I'm shutting this bitch down.
So, nearly an HOUR before we close, in order to protect the profits and reputation of Clark Oil and Retail, I locked the door, turned off the lights, spent an inordinate amount of time counting and recounting cash, change, lottery tickets and cigarettes, and drove the half-mile to my home.
Mom: "Derek... are... Are you drunk?"
I was definitely too drunk to think of THAT
On a Saturday in early July, a friend of mine was having a party. I didn't want to have to stop at the Liquor Store That Sells to Minors at 8 or 9, so I headed out there at 4ish, and bought a 12 pack of my former bread and butter, Labatt Blue Light. The moment I left the store, I got a phone call.
Boss: "Hey, Derek. We need you to come in to work today. Mark's wife left him and he's devastated. You gotta cover for him. And I need you here NOW."
Me: "Man, fuck Mark. She left him because he's 32 and works at a fucking Clark Station, and does enough coke to kill a small horse. It's his own damned fault. Tell him to be a man, do a line, and get his ass to work."
Me: (for real) "Alright... Whatever. You owe me."
So I showed up, and my boss was pretty apologetic. To make him feel guilty I explained that I had a party to go to that night, that some hot highschool junior wanted to get laid (<------- lie), and that tonight was one of the biggest nights of the year (<------- double lie). I even told him that I'd already bought a 12 pack, and now it was gonna get all skunky in my car.
Boss: "Just go ahead and put it in the cooler, man. I don't care. Just don't drink on the job or anything."
Well, I took his advice, but the booze in the cooler, and did my job. By 6 I'd checked on it 3 times, just to make sure it was staying cold.
By 7 there was condensation on the bottles, which makes no sense, because cooler's are dry as fuck. In fact, I'm reasonably sure I was hallucinating.
By 7:15 I thought to myself, "Ah, one beer can't hurt. I did them a favor, and it's not like this is a tough job."
Fast forward 3 hours: I've smashed 12 beers, I'm unable to make change, and more than one customer as commented on the volume of the music from my CD player. At least one person was reasonably scandalized when I greeted her with a spirited, "Ahoy-hoy!"
Fuck it. I'm shutting this bitch down.
So, nearly an HOUR before we close, in order to protect the profits and reputation of Clark Oil and Retail, I locked the door, turned off the lights, spent an inordinate amount of time counting and recounting cash, change, lottery tickets and cigarettes, and drove the half-mile to my home.
Mom: "Derek... are... Are you drunk?"
I was definitely too drunk to think of THAT
posted by Derek at 9:23 PM
2 Comments:
"...and started singing the song of the workin' man. (In case you're wondering, that song is "Working Man" by the band Rush, and I really fucking hate that song.)" I love that sentence. Well done.
I just made that most horrible post I've made on this blog, and I'm reasonably sure I'm a WAY worse person than you are.
I appears I have a challenger...
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