Rain or Shine


    Do you ever feel trapped in a situation like a lobster in a wooden cage set by a toothless freak who beats his wife at the drop a multi-syllable?  Me neither. But the other day I came pretty damn close. It happened rather innocently at a large department store.
   From MOMENT ONE the day was crappy. The car, an American feat of superior engineering, wouldn't start until I rubbed the smooth belly of a smiling plastic Buddha glued to the dashboard. Chalk up a half hour on that frigging executive decision. On the street every traffic light cursed my mother's name. Every traffic cop I sped by strangely looked like my father on a weekend binge. A steep cliff to drive off was nowhere in sight. The revolver was under my driver's seat; box of bullets at home. You get the damn picture, buddy.
   Before entering the building, which looked like it was designed by Frank Lloyd Wrong, I heard the time-clock giggling--or was that our cracker-jack security guard, Billie-Joe?  Can't tell I'm late for work for the first time in two years. I feel a collage of guilt-stress-pride pasted to a once perfect attendance record. Of course--that glaring fact of professionalism missed my supervisor who couldn't find his ass if he were born a octopus.
    This guy's fond of quoting company policy in a Shakespearean accent:
"Foolish swine, thoust are tardy." I used to really admire how he found such creative outlets for a Master's Degree in Something No One Gives Two Shits About. Now I just want to jam his jugular with a fountain pen until excuses my human error and admits his own.
   He spared docking me a half day's pay and proceeded to give me a sermon on setting a proper example for other employees. I pretended to listen and thought about how this guy couldn't get in laid with a fistful of pardons in a women's prison. I thanked him for his Zen-wisdom and made the appropriate ethnic hand gesture as he moped out my office door.
   Image having to listen to such crap from a man who thinks St. John's Wort is a venereal disease. No biggie. I'm settling down into my Assistant Whatchamalcallit position in the S & M department store. I know what you're thinking! Why the hell is a bright guy like you managing a department store? Consider the economy or shut up. Unless you still believe in Santa Claus. 
   S & M is not a kinky place regardless how weird the name sounds. I even mentioned the implications to the store owner one afternoon. He laughed and commented, "heh, I'll wait 'till the day they find out my janitor saves stuff he finds cleaning the ladies room. It costs a lot of money to change the paperwork."  This revelation is no revelation at all. The owner knows his customers. The janitor, God Bless him, obviously does too. I just wish he didn't declare dentistry the work of the devil.
   As far as I'm concerned you can't worry yourself sick about protocol in a business that sells marked-down bras to senior citizens. This place isn't IBM. Most of the check-out girls go to night school to study hair weaving or acting or whatever else leads them opposite retail discount. There's no trick to running the joint.
   As long as you're polite to customers; keep the heat on in the winter--you can't go wrong. Besides, if you take your job too seriously,  you might wind up becoming too good at it, then some snot-nose rips out the Peter Principle, and before you can scream "BULLSHIT," you're stuck in the muck. They couldn't give a fuck. And you are suddenly wedded to an order catalog outlining fabric wear made in a country where children are bought and sold like Gummi Bears.
  Now back to the incident in question. It happened rather innocently. (I know I said that before, be quiet.) At night I write screenplays, one was made into a direct-to-video horror movie called "Rhonda's Got a Razor."  It's slightly autobiographical about an ex-girlfriend who turned psycho when I forgot to give her a birthday card. I know it's the little things that count in a relationship, but Jeez, give me a break.
Well, anyway, that's another story.
   This time I wrote a super-duper script. Something that doesn't hit so close to home. Something that has commercial potential. Something that will arrive in a videocassette box printed in more than one colour. (Folks, that's when you know you made it.) It's a sci-fi adventure set in a tough neighbourhood. I'm calling it "Perverse Universe." I expect to rule box office records with this gem. It has something for everyone.
   Back at the store, it's late afternoon, and I'm answering questions from a customer who found a small tear in the large underwear she was about to purchase. Normally this is a quick matter. Give her another one and be done with it. Make a note later so as to not accept anymore rips in clothing, blah, blah, blah. But this case was different. We did not have anymore underwear in that generous size left in the store.
   Naturally she was disappointed and found my usual answer, "next week we get a new shipment," unhelpful. She insisted I check the storage inventory to see if there might be a few left. I knew in the back of my mind there were none left. Who could miss such an item? Put it on a broomstick and it'd resemble the flag of a small country.
   I live to serve (yawn) and proceeded to check again, when suddenly I saw Sara Mingle, the executive producer of "Zero Altitude" the action picture starring Sammy Steele. My first reaction is unprintable, but  seconds later I formulated a plan to slip my manuscript into her hot little hands--by any means necessary. I informed Mrs. Bloomers, or whatever the heck  her name was, that I'd be right back and ran quickly into my office to get the spare copy I keep in case someone famous
stopped by the store.
   I ran out of the office in Olympic speed  towards Sara Mingle who appeared to be shopping around. I announced myself "hi, I'm Assistant Whatchamalcallit, can I be of any assistance?" She replied back, "no, thank you, I know what I want when I see it."  I then complimented her on her executive producing skills regarding the action flick "Zero Altitude" and stuck my screenplay in her chest. Why I aimed there, is news to me, especially since I subscribe to Jung not Freud. Guess I was real nervous.
   She seemed interested (in the script that is) and placed it in the her large shopping bag. I mumbled something akin to "you must get manuscripts all the time" and she said something like  "yes, but rarely filmable ones" and I shot back about my one film writing credit, the low, very low, really damn low budge horror movie "Rhonda's Got a Razor" as proof that I have actual film writing experience.
    About that same time, Mrs. Bloomers snuck up behind me and yelled "did ya find that item yet?"  I told her the inventory was definitely out and I would place a hold on one when more arrive next week. She gave me that angry Grandma look that read "baloney, you're trying to shove me off so you can talk to the pretty girl." I bid both women farewell and headed to my office where I did that Tom Cruise dance from "Risky Business" for about ten minutes. I might actually get out of here myself and do some fun and exciting work on a film set.
   My joy turned to mourning when I discovered I grabbed the wrong binder. I handed her, the producer of films, the training manual for this godforsaken, bra-selling, old-lady-screaming,  discount department store. But you know, I'm not complaining, because the next week she called the store, and asked and offered me a job in the costume department of the film company.
    I immediately quit and took the job. I'm hoping to see Sara around some day. I wanna buy her lunch and show her the script. She might promote me beyond my present position as "Clothes Queen" and shoot a movie based on my imagination...But in the meantime I'll keep handing out my scripts to whomever else stops by for a costume change. I'm no less an actor in this job than they are in theirs. Come rain or shine I'll make my mommy proud.



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