Green

I had moved to Hogtown with slightly less than a quarter ounce of weed, and it was steadily dwindling fast. This was before it was legal. Long before. Under usual circumstances I would have saved up to buy a considerable amount before moving to a new city, but a month before I moved, my connection Bicycle Andy had decided he was a dealer and didn't like that. Or, rather, his girlfriend Ivana had decided he was a dealer and she didn't like that. She didn't like me either. The two might be related. 

Bicycle Andy and I didn't talk too much in the last month before I moved, and as a result didn't bring a considerable amount with me when I moved. I brought whatever I had left. Which wasn't much. 

I kept my eye open at Taggs for a possible fellow pothead, but nobody seemed particularly hip. Byron in giftware seemed particularly square.

One day I was walking down Queen street, daydreaming, when some back part of my brain, a part built for business, rarely used, noticed someone I had just passed had whispered “Green” to me as she walked past. 

Skidding to a halt, I turned. She was short, sporting a backpack, and looked vaguely homeless. She was also walking away. I could see her mumble to other people as she passed by; others she ignored completely. I must look like a pothead, I thought to myself with a mixture of pride and embarrassment. 

I didn't want to walk up behind her to ask about it, so I watched her closely. As she reached Spadina Avenue she crossed the street and then began back my way. I jaywalked across Queen and stood casually on the sidewalk in front of Tiki. 

She took longer on this side, since two people stopped and seemed to buy off her. That seemed like a good sign. When she finally walked toward me, it was impossible to tell if she recognized me from three minutes earlier. Her face was completely impassive. In fact, she barely looked at me as she mumbled: ‘Green. Hydro.’

‘How much?’ I asked. 

‘Dime bag is twenty.’ she said, blandly. Her eyes scanned the street around us. 

‘Dime means ten.’ I told her. 

‘Thanks for the edification.’ she said. ‘But it's still twenty.’

As some wise asshole had once said: beggars can't be choosers. 

‘Alright. Gimme one.’ I told her. For all I knew she was selling oregano. Or catnip. In fact, the more I thought about it, the more likely it seemed that I wasn't going to get anything off whatever she was selling. But I had no other leads, so ... yeah. 

She nodded her head toward a nearby parking lot. ‘Come over here.’ she said. My paranoia raised its ugly head. I had seen her sell to a couple of people just down the street, they hadn't had to wander off into a parking lot. Or had they even bought? I hadn't seen her pass anything over. 

Blowing air out through my nose, my mind deliberated safety and financial security over getting high and listening to Mingus. Mingus won out. 

I followed her into the parking lot, but I was wary and ready for anything. There was no way she was seeing money before I had anything in my hand. My paranoia, however, was unwarranted: she had four tiny plastic bags filled with green in her hand before I had even stopped walking. ‘Whichever you like, they're all the same price.’ Each bag had tiny green pot leaf symbols stamped all over it. The content inside looked exceedingly green. Like way too green. Almost fluorescent. I was used to a much browner and duller product. But, when weighing other options ...

I handed over a twenty to her, and took the baggie which looked like it was holding the most, though they likely all weighed the same. ‘Thanks.’ I said. ‘How can I get in touch with you if I like this stuff?’ I asked.

‘I'm usually around this area.’ she said, and wandered over toward the Silver Snail. 

I looked down at the little bag. It was so ridiculously green. No way it could be real. 

When I got back to my place I pulled the case containing my record player from beneath the bed, set it on the small table in front of the window, and unsnapped the latches. I placed a Mingus record on the turntable, Tijuana Moods, and set down the needle. 

I pulled the bright green whatever-it-was from the plastic and split into three. If it was good, I wanted more than a single bowl out of it. 

Stuffing some into my pipe, I lit it up. Mingus bopped on the vinyl. I exhaled out the window. It wasn't the best weed I'd ever smoked, but it wasn't catnip.

Little Ritual Drawings

There was an area near the back of Children’s Clothing, near Giftware, that the cameras couldn’t see properly. Byron and I were standing inside that dead zone.

‘That old lady.’ I said.

‘Which one?’

‘The one you said was into hoodoo.’

‘You said she was into hoodoo.’ he corrected. ‘I had never even heard that word before you said it. I said she was into voodoo.’

I held up my hand. ‘Let's start over.’ I said. ‘That old lady you said was into voodoo.’ 

‘Yes.’ he said. 

‘I don’t think she is.’

‘Oh, she definitely is.’

‘I find it hard to believe.’

‘No, she is.’ he insisted. ‘One time, she got into an argument with one of the cashiers. That cashier, Linda was her name, she found this little envelope in her locker. It was filled with little weird voodoo diagrams.’

‘Voodoo diagrams?’

‘I dunno what you call them. Little ritual drawings.’

I stared at him. ‘Uh huh. And?’

‘Well, right after that Linda got cervical cancer.’ he looked at me smugly. 

‘And?’

‘Well, you think she just got cervical cancer from nowhere?’

‘It's been known to happen.’

‘Trust me.’ he said. ‘Plus, Katherine in Hosiery lives near her and says her house is really spooky.’

‘Oh, well it must be true then.’

‘Told you.’

‘Why do you think she hasn't used her black magic to fix her cataracts?’ I asked him.

‘Oh those are probably fake.’ he said. ‘So she seems harmless.’

‘Yeah, probably.’

Chicken Pumpkin Soup

I was sitting in the break room when the alleged Hoodoo Lady shuffled in, holding a plastic tupperware bowl filled with dark soup. She placed the bowl inside the microwave, programmed a time, then waited. She watched the soup circle round and round inside the microwave. I had a tuna salad sandwich on rye I had bought from a vending machine. The rye really made it.

When the microwave dinged, she reached inside to pull out her soup. It smelled good. Better than my tuna on rye. ‘Hoo!’ she called out, waving her hands in the steam of the microwave. ‘Lord that be hot!’ Slowly, she shuffled the soup over to the table and sat down.

‘What kind is it?’ I asked her.

She looked at me with foggy eyes which appeared mostly covered in cataracts.

‘Chicken pumpkin, darlin.’ she said, then blew on the soup while stirring it with a plastic spoon.

‘Sounds good.’

‘T’is.’ she said.

She began to eat in silence, though the soup was still steaming like crazy. She was tougher than me. I hate burning my tongue.

‘You have any idea what pretzel is made from?’ I asked.

She looked at me again. ‘Pretzel.’ she repeated.

‘Yeah pretzels, like you eat with beer.’

‘Pretzels made from bread, darlin.’

‘Are they?’ I asked. ‘I thought it might be corn.’

‘No, darlin.’ she said, with a small laugh. ‘Pretzels made from bread.’

‘OK,’ I said, finishing my sandwich and closing the plastic container it had come in.  I stood up and tossed it into the garbage can by the door. ‘Good to know. Thanks. Have a good afternoon.’

‘So long.’ she said, giving it to that soup.

I headed outside for a smoke. She couldn’t be into hoodoo, I figured. If she were into hoodoo, she would’ve fixed her eyes by now.

Voodoo or Hoodoo

‘You need one of those showerhead attachment things.’ said Byron. We were in the break room and I was standing at my locker, changing my shoes. We had to wear shoes which could be shined: Taggs was a classy discount department store.

‘You attach it to the tap, and it has, like, a little rod which stands up from there, the hose and showerhead are attached to that. You can adjust the height.’

‘That’s what I need.’ I said. ‘Baths are depressing.’

‘You’re telling me.’ he said, spreading peanut butter on saltine crackers, one by one, then sprinkling salt on each. ‘Sitting around in your own shit.’

‘Exactly!’ I said, slamming my locker closed and sitting down at the table, across from him. I looked at the clock on the wall. I still had six minutes until my shift started.  

An old woman shuffled into the break room, never lifting her feet from the ground. Her shoes were some sort of soft looking leather slippers. I thought maybe she was afraid they would slip off if she lifted her feet too much.

Byron had been about to say something when she had entered the room, but closed his mouth and rubbed his chin as he stared across the table at me. I had no idea what was going on, so I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. The steady chatter of the customers just outside the break room was a pleasing white noise. No screaming kids were nearby at the moment.

The doors to the break room swished open and closed as the old woman exited again.

‘That old woman.’ said Byron.

I opened my eyes.

‘She’s into voodoo.’ he continued.

‘Voodoo?’

‘Oh yeah.’ he said. ‘Lotsa voodoo in this town. So watch out, they say she hexes people.’

‘You mean hoodoo.’ I said.

‘Huh now?’

‘Voodoo is just a religion.  It’s hoodoo that has hexes and shit.’

He started popping crackers into his mouth. ‘Hoodoo, voodoo, who gives a shit? Just don’t cross her is what I’m telling you.’

I watched him eat for a bit. ‘If she is into hexing people, she probably knows who’s talking about her behind her back, and who isn’t.’

He stared at me. ‘Shit.’ he said.

Combos for Cats

I was sitting on my bed, smoking a bowl, staring at the bathtub. I hated taking baths. I had never willingly taken a bath in my entire life; I was almost positive of that. The idea of taking a shower, and therefore not have to sit around wallowing in my own filth, was one of the few genuinely useful concepts my parents had ever actually introduced me to. After my introduction to showering, I never took a bath again.

I wasn’t about to start now.

There must be some way to hook up a showerhead, I figured.

Behind me, someone knocked on my window, which spooked me a bit. Me being on the third floor and all.

Standing on the fire escape outside my window was an orange cat, so skinny his ribs were showing. He was bumping his head into my window.

‘Yo,’ I said to it, waving a hand dismissively. ‘Beat it.’ 

‘Mow.’ said the cat. I could hear it faintly.

‘I have nothing for you.’ I said, looking around my room trying to think if I had anything it might like.

‘Mow.’ it said, bumping its head into the window.

I had a package of Combos: pretzel shell with pizza flavored processed cheese squeezed inside. It looked a little like dog kibble, if you wanted to be ungenerous.  

Opening the window proved to be a bit of a challenge, as someone had decided to paint it shut; several times, by the look of it. Most recently in toothpaste blue. When the window finally did open, it did so with a tremendous cracking sound, which initially startled the emaciated cat. It ran off down a couple steps.

‘C’mere asshole.’ I said, shaking the package of Combos. The cat came running inside my room, standing on the table just inside. ‘Mow.’ it said, as if rather pleased with itself.

I shook a single Combo out onto the table, then ate two or three myself. The cat sniffed at the kibble-like piece, then licked at it, sending it sliding across the surface of the table.  I caught it before it fell off. ‘Careful.’ I said, for no reason. It’s not like the cat knew what I was saying.

The cat took another half lick before snatching the Combo up in its mouth and chewed at it, biting off some of the pretzel. It was only at this point I wondered if pretzel was even something a cat should eat. I figured most dry cat food was made of corn meal or something similar, how bad could pretzel be?

Then I wondered what pretzel was made of. I had never thought about it before. Had to be corn, I figured. But it could just be bread. Damn: a mystery. I ate another Combo, chewing slowly and trying to identify a flavor. The only flavor I could put a name on would be ... bland.

‘Mow.’ said the cat. It had finished its Combo.

‘Here.’ I said, and tossed another piece out onto the fire escape.

The cat ran after it.

‘So long, Xylophone.’ I said, closing the window.

I ate the rest of the Combos in less than five minutes.

I did not take a bath.

Why the Bucket?

Harvey tilted his head at the new display. ‘Why the bucket?’ he asked.

‘It’s a beach display. People use buckets at the beach.’

He looked at me. ‘Do they?’

‘I think so. Kids do.’

‘Doesn’t look like a kid’s bucket though.’ he said, clutching his clipboard to his chest.  ‘Looks like a “kick the bucket” kind of bucket.’

‘It was the only bucket they had in giftware.’ I said.

‘Huh.’ he said blandly.

I noticed I had a smudge on the toe of my right shoe.  Rubbing the toe against the back of my other leg, I polished it slowly.

‘Maybe we don’t need a beach display.’ he said. ‘That’s more for early summer.  We can think of something else. Right?’

‘Right.’ I said, knowing ‘we’ meant me.

Harvey lurched off, clipboard clutched tightly in his claws.

BeachTheme

I was straightening the hangers on the racks when Harvey lurched past, clipboard clutched tightly in his claws. He skidded to a halt, looking at something. The hair tufts around his ears bounced around in a nonexistent breeze.

‘Valletta.’ he said. 

‘Yes Harvey.’

‘How long have these end displays been up?’ he asked, staring at the outfits hanging on the ends of the racks.

‘Um.’

‘They need to be changed, at minimum, bi-weekly.’

‘OK.’ I said. ‘So, every two weeks.’

He stared at me. ‘No.’ he said. ‘Twice a week. Bi. Weekly.’

‘Oh,’ I said. ‘I thought bi-weekly meant every other week.’

He let out a long breath as if this was very beneath him. ‘It means twice a week. Twice in one week. Bi, meaning two; weekly, meaning weekly. Bi-weekly.’

‘How foolish of me.’ I said.

‘Simple mistake.’ he allowed.

‘And how often do we get paid here at Taggs?’

‘Paid?’ he asked, appearing confused by the seeming change in topic. ‘Bi-weekly.’

I stared at him. He closed his mouth. ‘I want these changed twice a week.’ he said.

‘Sure, alright.’ I said, looking at the display hanging there. ‘Like this, only different, right?’

‘Whatever seems appropriate at that moment. That's why we made you head of Children’s Clothing.’

‘Oh. Head ... I didn't realize.’ I said, trying to remember if anyone had mentioned anything about me being head of a department. Surely that position had to earn more than standard minimum wage?

He walked away and I began to strip the end displays of their clothing. For the better part of the next hour I put together a lame beach display. It would have looked more filled out with a beach ball or something. 

‘What's this?’ That was Harvey, standing behind me. 

‘New display.’ I said. ‘Day at the beach theme. I think it would seem more filled out with a beach ball or something. They sell them next door for about a dollar.’

‘No.’ he said. ‘No.’

‘No?’

‘No. Nothing goes in the display that we don’t sell here. It’s to advertise our merchandise, you know?’

‘Yeah.’ I said. ‘Makes sense.’ 

He lurched off, and I wandered over to giftware. ‘Hey Byron.’ I said. He looked up from the book section where he was reading a volume on the history of Playboy magazine. ‘Hm?’

‘I need something beachy for a display.’

He looked at me. ‘Beachy?’

‘Beach like.’

‘Oh.’ he said, then thought for a few moments, or at least did a reasonable facsimile of looking like he was thinking. ‘I don’t think we have anything.’

‘Mind if I snoop around?’

‘Have at it. But we don’t have anything that could work. I guarantee it.’

‘Well, maybe I’ll find something.’ I said, then winked at him. ‘I think abstractly.’

I began to wander down the aisles of his department, looking over the assorted knick knacks and bric-a-brac. He followed me closely. ‘You paint?’ he asked.

‘I dabble.’ I lied.

‘Abstracts?’

‘All stracts.’

That shut him up for a bit.

‘What about this?’ I asked. I held up a bucket, made of what looked like old brass.

‘What about it?’

‘It’s a bucket.’ I said.

‘Yeah.’

‘Can I use it?’

‘Why do you want that?’

‘It’s a bucket.’ I repeated.

‘Yeah,’ he said. ‘So?’

‘I need something beachy. Buckets are beachy.’

‘That bucket doesn’t look too beachy.’ he said.

‘Buckets evoke the beach.’ I said. ‘It doesn’t matter if it’s a kid’s plastic bucket. Buckets make people think of the beach.’

‘That looks like the type of bucket someone would sit under a hole in a roof.’ he said.

I looked at him. ‘Is that how you sell it to people?’

‘I don’t sell it to people. If people want a bucket, they’ll look for it and buy it.’

I stared at Byron. He had no business working in giftware. ‘Can I use the bucket?’ I asked. He shrugged aggressively.  

‘Take it!’ he said.

I wandered back to Children’s with the bucket and hung it off the side of one of the hooks. Never before had a display of discount children’s clothing looked more beachy. I could almost smell the salt in the air. Or maybe it was mildew.