Too Strange Not to Be True

My last post mentioned drug and alcohol addictions. This story relates to that theme. If I had stayed up all night I could never have invented this. I checked it on the "urban legends" sites for its veracity and as I did not find it there it seems to be true. Here goes.

A southern Florida resident named Nathan had his house burglarized recently. Thieves ignored his wide screen plasma TV, his VCR, and even left his Rolex watch. What they did take, however, was a generic white cardboard box filled with a grayish-white powder. (That's the way the police report described it.) A spokesman for the Fort Lauderdale police said that it looked similar to high grade cocaine and they probably thought they had hit the big time. Later, Nathan stood in front of numerous TV cameras and pleaded with the burglars: "Please return the cremated remains of my sister, Gertrude. She died three years ago."

The next morning, the bullet-riddled corpse of a local drug dealer known as Hoochie Pevens was found on Nathan's doorstep. The cardboard box was there too, with about half of Gertrude's ashes still remaining inside it. Scotch taped to the box was this note which said: "Hoochie sold us the bogus blow, so we wasted Hoochie. Sorry we snorted your sister. No hard feelings. Have a nice day."

Day-Off Reminiscences

When the present gets difficult, I retreat unashamedly to nostalgia. Given the popularity of old Westerns in this town, I am not the only one. As the economy has gotten worse, more people seem to gather around the TV at Garcia's Restaurant to watch Bonanza, Gunsmoke, and The Virginian. I try to keep it in perspective though. In the 1950s and 1960s things may have seemed more stable, but we also had the Korean War and Vietnam. And children hiding under their school desks during atomic drills. Duck and Cover, everyone!

As an antidote to fantasy nostalgia about the good old days, I recalled today the bad old days at my first job, Arthur Treacher's Fish and Chips. I was a high school senior at the time. The year was 1976. Arthur Treacher's was located in a suburb on the west side of Cleveland, Ohio. I was the worst Counter Girl that Arthur's had ever seen. I could not even keep my orange and green checkered headscarf on straight. But I eventually developed a passable skill level and managed not to get fired. I also learned much about life there.

My manager Laurie Perkowski had a boyfriend called Jimmie Tedesko. Laurie was nineteen, with strawberry blond hair and freckles. Jimmie was a fine upstanding character who was wanted by the IRS for tax evasion. Laurie and the assistant manager, Jeff, told us that if Jimmie was in the back room with Laurie (making out) and someone walked in and asked if Jimmie was there, we were to lie and say no. After all, it might be undercover law enforcement coming to arrest him. I will never forget the night Jimmie and Laurie had a fight. Laurie had to go to work and left Jimmie at her house to cool off. The next thing that happened was Jimmie calling Arthur Treacher's to tell Laurie that he had her car and was going to total it. All I recall is waiting on customers and hearing Laurie's tearful voice in the background, "Jimmie! Jimmie! I'm so afraid of you!" Jimmie was a bigot too. He called women of color "Sugar-Boogers" and that was one of the nicer epithets he used for those of other races. Jimmie really needed someone to feel superior to.

Jeff, the assistant manager, was a real angel as well. He made dope deals over the same phone Jimmie used to torment Laurie. Jeff was the top marijuana salesman in town. I used to wonder how he paid for such a fancy sports car on an assistant manager's salary. Now I know.

Years later, one of my pastoral colleagues recalled how drug-laden the 1970s were. We were having American Indian Awareness worship services at that time and burning a lot of sage during worship in a tribal circle. My colleague Sam cracked, "Kids, this is what a Steppenwolf concert smells like."