One liners

Sometimes I hear phrases throughout the day that make me chuckle out loud. I can't always think of ways to fit them in my stories so I just try to write them down for my own amusement. Here are a few I remember of late:

A large black woman walks into the market, stops in the doorway. She looks around in wonder at all of our quaint products and piles of vegetables. She immediately whips out her phone. I hear this side of her conversation:  "Oh my lawd oh my lawd. You have got ta get yo self down heah. Dey gots everyting but tha kitchen sink up in heah!"  

to add to the charm of this lady she called me "honey child" when I told her she was wrong. That we did have a kitchen sink :)

A hispanic man came in with a pumpkin. I asked him if that would be all. He said "No. I am just going to watch around for a minute"  I think I will say that from now on when someone asks me if I need help in a store. "No. I'm just watching around" 

I have just realized that every blurb I have just told involves a different race of person. oh well. This one is about some japanese ladies. I'm just covering my bases and if I am being politically incorrect I wasn't meaning to be. Afterall, I'm not a politician ....

These two japanese ladies came in.  They wandered around for a few minutes quietly.  Then all of a sudden I heard much oohing and ahhing and jabbering. They finally came up to the counter with their newfound treasures. Japanese Yams. One of the women asked me "And wheh ah japanese yams gwown?"  I have no idea so I shrug my shoulders, smile and say "Japan?"  They women laugh at me like I am a world class comedian. They know I am kidding. I ask my boss where the yams are grown and he tells me they are local. So I say "They are grown here" And I get the same response. Uproarious laughter. I shrug my shoulders and laugh with them. And they say "No. rearry! wheh ah they gwown!"  I repeat. "They are local" But the women just won't believe me! They don't think its possible for Japanese Yams to grow in Tennessee but don't think it possible for the Yams to be from Japan either. It was hilarious. They bought the Yams anyway, despite their questionable origin.

An old woman walked up to me one day and said "Lester knows. And he's gonna get 'em. Sure as I'm standin' here, Lester knows." And that was it. I'm still trying to figure out what that meant. 

more Monday Pant blurbs to come...

Break Time

A poem I wrote while on break one day.

Concrete stoop of my repose, 

meditation pallet rose,

how you wait for days

for the pause.

the quick-paced

racing

rest I get for my

fruit selling woes.

Great poets have visited here,

quiet thoughts,

and grinning breezes, 

optimizing the dreadful cynic.

The smokes, too have had there place

but those weren't up to me.

Under this ancient all-green tree

I wait.

for work to begin again.

for country lore,

coming out the eyes 

of wrinkled strangers.

For the clock.

regrettably

and the knock, knock

of non-absurd responsibility.

My business with flowers

calls me back

and the stoop waits 

for time to end.

and begin again. 

Excuse me Mam, are you intoxicated?

This story is a bit rushed. forgive it. 

The afternoon sun brilliantly illuminates a host of chrysanthemums just outside the market door. A careful breeze sneaks its way deftly into the door.  I close my eyes, imagining that I am  standing in a deliciously grassy field with only sheep to keep me company.  I answer to no one.  I answer only to the call of nature's voice, telling me to lie down and take a long nap in the sun.   I take a deep breath... A melange of apples...home baked bread... and  ripened tomatoes... flows into my senses.  And Whisky.   I open my eyes. I look from side to side, searching for the source of this smell.  Liquor. Sniff. I cannot find the source.  All that stands before me is a petite unassuming woman with frizzy gray hair. She is sporting a frightening t-shirt featuring kittens playing in an overturned basket of flowers. I think that surely this unassuming woman is no friend of Mr. Daniel's, expecially at two o'clock in the afternoon.  But the evidence is against me.   She has a crooked grin on her face and is swaying from side to side as if she too is in tune with nature's song and is, in fact, dancing to it. I approach her, still not sure if it is she who is exuding the smell of whiskey or if it is in fact one of my co workers boozing up in the back room (a highly likely scenario).  

"Can I help you, mam?"

"Hmmmmmm?" says she, as if she had just been woken up from an afternoon siesta.

I repeat the question with great purpose:

"CAN I help you?" 

"Yessss. I would like tooo buy sum floooowers ples."

"Excuse me?"

"I WOULD like. tooo BUY.  sumflooowwwrsPLEZ!"

"You would like to buy some FLOWERS? Is that what you said?"

"Yesss. Thass whad I sait. Thanks."

"Ok. well. which flowers?"

"Ya know I happen ta ooown a flowersshop s'funny thad I'm buyin flooowers here.  oh well! godda get 'em somewherenow don ya?"

The smell wafting to my nostrils with each words the woman attempted to utter is about to knock me over. This woman, who according to herself already owns a flower shop, is here to buy flowers.  I wonder if I should be selling anything to a drunk woman.  I assume there is some sort of law dealing with the selling of products to intoxicated individuals.  Maybe they get a BUI: Buying Under the Influence. I mean, you can't get a tattoo when you are drunk so why should buying flowers when you already own a flower shop be any different? Its an irrational decision.  But I am a revolutionary. I seek to give people the benefit of the doubt. Believe in human decency and potential.

"I would like two. Christanthemummms. ples."

I sell the women her flowers. As the stumbles out the door, she encounters Derek, our macho-man garden worker. He has no idea this woman has just performed a BUI. He says:

"What can I help you with mam? I'll get your flowers if you tell me what you got."

At this, the woman smiles such a winning smile that I think Derek my fall for her. But before that can occur, she falls first. Backwards.  Derek catches her right before she hits the pavement. He sets her back on her feet like one of the standing wooden scarecrows we have for sale.  She gives him one more of her winning smiles, strokes his forearm as seductively as a drunk woman can.

"Yur so stroooong. I liiiike my men sooo strooong."

At this point Derek is bewildered beyond limits.

"Mam, are you intoxicated?"

The woman burst out laughing.

"Ov corze NOT! I'm buying flooowers!"

Unless a new logic rules the world that deems all actions to be soberly done as long as the buying of flowers was involved, Derek knows the woman is indeed three or four...or five sheets to the wind.  He takes her flowers to her car, realizing then that the woman has driven herself to the market.  and will in fact have to drive herself from it. So Derek calls the police.  the woman may get quite a decorative record...one BUI and one DUI in one day. 

The woman has no idea we are calling the police. We are afraid the woman will drive away before the police arrive but as fate would have it, she is distracted by a phone call.   Unable to answer her phone and drive at the same time, the woman throws her car into park after having already pulled halfway out of her parking space.  So there she sits, drunkenly blabbering on the phone and blocking the drive way for one of our regular customers.  This particular old woman regular  makes one visit to the market a week where she always buys the same thing. One banana and a dozen eggs.  She has hair as black as Elizabeth Taylor, a hunchback, and a set of the most elegant costume jewelry on this side of the mississippi.

 I, watching this whole ordeal occur, decide to help the old woman find her way out of the parking lot in a different direction.  But the woman will not budge.  She will use the exit she has planned and the one she has used for ten years. or bust.   So to pass the time, she whips out a newspaper to read. 

I leave the old woman to her waiting to check up on the intoxicated seller of flowers.  She has fallen asleep on her steering wheel.  The situation is so deliciously absurd that I cannot help belting out a laugh. A drunk woman is asleep on her steering wheel while an old woman reads the paper behind her.  The scene grows more ridiculous when the police arrive, are briefed on the situation, and proceed to tap at the sleeping woman's window.  She is roused from her slumber made to exit her vehicle.  When asked to follow the finger of the cop with her eyes, she sways back and forth, following the finger with her whole body. She eventually closes her eyes and stands grinning, as if she has found the same sheep filled field that I had earlier in the day. But it is no grassy field where she is headed. She is put in the cop car and taken away to a lovely place we like to call jail. poor lady. all she wants are some happy flowers.

the old woman sits in her car reading the paper for a whole hour until a tow truck comes to tow away the car that is blocking her path to freedom.  To be honest I think the old woman is glad for the delay. It is a break in her routine. She will get to experience a new time of  light from the sun on her drive home. A shade she hasn't known in ten years.  Light that belongs in no routine.  

As for me, I go back to my post, pondering and pitying the poor woman just carted away in the paddy wagon but rejoicing that I am an hour and a half closer to being set free myself from the four walls of my market cell.

Anybody Need a Rooster?

Monday Pants:  1. pants that have been washed over the weekend, and are uncomfortably tight on the day of their first new wear,usually on Monday. 2.  phrase to denote unpleasantness or discomfort 3. implies that something is mundane.  

Here in my little room in Tennessee where the leaves are beginning to fall and the weather is beginning to bite with cold, I am in a perpetual existential crisis.  And to be honest, I am just plain lonely.  And in this moment, I have come to the conclusion that there is no point in feeling sorry for myself.  It is up to me to remedy the situation.  Therefore.  I begin this blog in order to entertain myself and in order to feel that I am sharing my ridiculous stories with someone.  Who knows why humans have a natural urge to TELL of what they experience. It is an undeniable part of all of us.  It is an undeniable part of me, that I know. SO I hereby RELEASE. I hope someone enjoys receiving these throws of solitude. I will enjoy writing them. 

And the stories begin...

The Fruit Market where I currently travail 6 days of the week is a constant source of stories for me. It is often an insane asylum. Often a comedy show. Often a place of tears. A place of stinking rotting fruit.  I place of old appalachian farmers I whose speech I love to try and decipher.   It is a place in which I have learned much about myself and about the nature of existence (a rather large reward to be getting for 7 dollars an hour).  If I let it, this "Horn of Plenty" can be a great muse for my writing.

 

Title: The Rooster Man. 

I am standing at my post behind the cash register, performing my most meditative task: breaking green beans.  Snap. Srrrrip. Snip. Snip. Snip. Snap. Srrrip. Snip. Snip. Snip.  My fingers know the drill.  and they perform it fairly deftly after having broken close to bushel of green beans week since the month of August.  Most people are too lazy to break up their own damn green beans.  It never dawns on them that this Snap. Srrrip. Snip. Snip. Snip. mantra of freshness is so green and new.  They pay two dollars more for my already snapped beans in order to save themselves five to ten minutes of non-existent time.  My bean mantra shifts through my head once more when an elderly man with coke-bottle glasses and a plaid shirt ambles in the door.  The majority of my customers are elderly and this man is no different But this man appears to be oddly alert.  Here is not a dim-witted man.  No siree. Here is a man who knows why he came in the store.  And he is headed strait for me and my bean breakdown.

"Hey gal. You know anyone need's a rooster?"

I am a bit befuddled and think I have not heard the man quite correctly.

"Um. Scuse me?"

"I said you know anyone need's a rooster!"

"Well. I can't say that I do, sir." 

"Well. You need a rooster?"

"Um. No sir. I sure don't."

"Well. I got me three damn roosters that I ain't got no use fur. I don't rightly know what ta do with' em. They been cockidoodlin me to death at four damn thirty in the mornin and I like to snapped one's neck this here mornin for my wife could stop me. So I decieded ta come ta town an see if I could find anyone's in the market fur a rooster."

"Is that right? Well, I'll ask around to see if I know anyone who needs one. Ok?"

I must mention here that the other majority of people who enter the store are clinically insane. I chocked this amusing number up to being a double majority: old and insane. He goes on to say without prompt:

"See I had this one lady come ta my house a lookin' fur an ol' dawg she lost. She pulled up in ma driveway and says 'I lost ma dawg. Ya seen him anywhere's?' I tells her 'Naw, I ain't seen no dawg.  But I got four roosters I'm aimin ta get rid of if your in the market fur one!'  And I declare if she didn take one of them roosters home with er!  So now's I got three left and thas three too many fur my taster."

"Well, like I said. I'll ask around for you."

"Well I thankee kindly. Heres my number Ma name's Arc Walters. Jus tell em ta call if they're in the market fur a rooster. You know I got em."

"Yes sir. I will. I know you do"

And the man ambles back out the door.  The absurdity of the conversation halts my bean breaking as I grin from ear to ear thinkin about Mr. Walters and his cockadoodlin roosters.