R.I.P Tom Wilson Sr.

I came across this article today where beloved, and sometimes hated, cartoonist Tom Wilson Sr. of Ziggy fame passed away.

I say sometimes hated because I know more people that hated Ziggy than loved him. However, from my point of view, any guy who can figure out a way to make it in the cartoon world, and make money at it, deserves some sort credit.

Despite how crappy the cartoons are perceived in some circles, the man gets my respect.

Wilson, who was a creative director at American Greetings for more than 30 years, first got his break at the age of 38 (which is good to read since I'm 39) when Ziggy first appeared in 1969 in a cartoon collection called When You're not Around .

Two years later and Ziggy was syndicated and, well, the rest is history.

When I worked as a copywriter for the Dispatch Marketing Deptartment in 2003, our VP of marketing had this brilliant idea to bring a local, award-winning cartoonist to speak at an account function hosted by the Columbus Dispatch.

Two or three months prior to this fantastic idea, we had the opportunity of seeing Pulitzer Prize-winning political cartoonist and Mother Goose & Grimm creator Mike Peters speak at a separate Dispatch function.

Peters, a very great speaker and entertainer, took us through a number of his personal political cartoons and added a couple fun quips about each cartoon. He had the entire crowd laughing. I noticed a couple of Dispatch execs (who will not be named at this time) spit up coffee while laughing at Peter's on-stage antics.

So, our VP thought he could capture that lightning in a bottle once again by asking Tom Wilson Sr.'s son, Tom Wilson Jr. to come up and speak. Wilson Jr. took over the reigns of the popular comic strip in 1987 after his father Wilson Sr. couldn't complete the daily demands of writing and drawing Ziggy.

So, we made the phone calls, set up the times and sent out the invitations and three months later, Wilson Jr. was driving up from Cincinnati to give a speech in Columbus.

I first met Wilson at the Dispatch Marketing Building. To be honest, I was expecting an old man with gray hair, thick glasses and a humpback from drawing over his cartoon table for years and years. Of course, I was thinking about the original Tom Wilson Sr. and forgot that we invited Tom Wilson Jr. - the current Ziggy cartoonist over.

Tom Jr. was a tall, thin, fit-looking man. He had all of his hair and, surprisingly, it wasn't even white. We shook hands and proceeded to take a small tour of the facilities.

Then, Wilson Jr., the VP of marketing and myself hopped into a car and headed out to the Wolfe's private lodge where they conduct a number of private Dispatch functions. Think, the Eyes Wide Shut mansion without the hard-core sex and you get an idea of the place.

We talked about cartoons, the ever-declining newspaper industry, his new company Character Matters and - of course - his father.  When we arrived at the Lodge, a number of account reps and other people greeted him warmly at the door. We proceeded to eat a decent lunch and then it was Wilson's time to shine.

As nicely as I can possibly say this, Tom Jr. was no Mike Peters. He stormed out of the gates like Barbaro at the Preakness Stakes...awkward and clumsy. He wheeled out this pretty big overhead projector and drew one picture of Ziggy. That's it just one picture of Ziggy smelling a flower. Then he talked - more like mumbled - a little bit about the philosophy of Ziggy and the cartoon industry.

Put it this way, no one was spitting up any coffee by insane laughter.

However, noticing a lapse in the excitement factor of Wilson Jr. and his non-crazy shenanigans, our fearless VP of Marketing (or was it our fearless Marketing Director?) leaped into action and asked the crowd if there were any questions for Mr. Wilson.

I rose my hand and asked a question about the newspaper industry. Pretty much, it was the same thing we talked about on the car ride over. And he responded eloquently. The crowd perked up and started paying more attention. And some other people started to wave their hands to ask questions. And a couple more. And a couple more.

About 15-20 different people asked Wilson Jr. questions, to which Wilson responded in a lively, congenial and actually pretty funny manner. People actually laughed at his remarks - with the beginning of the presentation a distant speck on the horizon in the rear-view mirror.

At the end of the Q&A, Wilson Jr. received a healthy appluase and proceeded to draw customized Ziggy drawings for everyone willing to stand in line. The event ended on a high note and everyone in attendance was pleasantly surprised.

So, although I didn't meet Tom Wilson Sr. I did get a chance taste of cartoon royalty by meeting his son.

Which, I guess you can either respect me or pity me depending on what you feel about the cartoon.

A Tim Horton's Memory.

I like Columbus, Ohio alot.

Like.

It was a place I called home for about 13 years. In fact, I've only lived in three other cities since leaving my hillside home in Martins Ferry, Ohio: Columbus, Cleveland and Akron. Moving to Northeast Ohio was a welcome change to my psyche and my attitude.

Besides Buckeye football Saturdays, plenty of good buddies to drink with and easy access to a number of running trails, my fourth favorite thing about Columbus was Tim Horton's.

I loved the fucking place. Nothing tasted quite better than an old-fashioned glazed donut and a medium coffee in the morning before driving to work.

Which reminded me of this one story...

It was winter, probably Janurary or February. It was sleeting, slushy and very cold outside. As I pulled into the Clintonville Tim Horton's to order my mainstay (see above), I noticed a gigantic long line at the drive in stretching around the entire red building.

Quickly, I pulled into an open parking space next to the entrance, and decided to run in the store to get my donut and coffee.

I hopped out of the car, ran into the shop and was standing in line behind a nice elderly lady who was taking her good, old sweet time.

"Hey, buddy," someone said from behind. I turned my head and saw this 6-8 black man in who slightly reminded me of Biz Markie. He was wearing a postal uniform and he looked slightly perturbed.

"Hi," I said not really sure what to say. I glanced forward. The old lady was still ordering her whatever in front of me.

"Are you the fool that left your car running outside?" he asked.

"Yeah," I said.

"You shouldn't do that," he said.

"Do what?"

He rolled his eyes, then put his hands on his hips. "Leave your fucking car running, while you in the store."

"Seriously?" I asked not believing the conversation I was having.

"Don't you do that again," he ordered.

"What?"

"I said don't do that again," he shouted.

"CAN I HELP YOU," shouted the Tim Horton's lady at the counter. The old lady left and it was my turn to order.

I looked at Biz. I looked back at the Tim Horton's lady. I placed my order.

"Did you hear me?" the large man asked.

I turned toward him. "Look, I heard you, but why do you care what I do with my car."

He gave me an angry glare. "Don't do that again," was all he said.

I paid the lady, she gave me my donut and coffee and I headed towards the door.

"Hey," he yelled.

I looked around. My heart was pounding. I was preparing myself for a fight.

"If I see you here, and I see your car running in the parking lot, I'm a gonna steal it," he screamed. "That will teach you a fuckin' lesson, honkey"

Everyone in the store looked towards me. Somebody just called me a honkey and meant it.

"Whatever, dude," I said and left the store.

That was the last time I saw Biz the postman - almost seven years ago.

Now, everytime I leave my car running when I run into a coffee shop or store, I always picture that guy and his stupid Biz Markie head, sneaking up, stealing my car and burning rubber onto the highway screaming "I told you so!"

Thanks a lot, Biz. You son of a bitch.

CLICK HERE FOR ANOTHER DONUT STORY!

Stories from Kroger #7 - Cowboy

When you sign up to work for Ghetto Kroger, there’s one thing that you have to be ready for…a lot of poor people.

Hey, you may think that's a bit racist. All I can says is, relax.

In case you haven’t heard, poor comes in a lot of different colors, not just black. Poor isn’t a state of mind. And it’s definitely where probably ¾ of the people that are poor want to be.

Hell, I was poor at one time, and it sucked.

But, at least, I had car. Which brings me to Cowboy.

For all of those that haven’t been on welfare, during the first week of the month, a windfall of government money gets sent through the U.S. Post Office to thousands upon thousands of unemployed workers.

And a handful of those checks land right smack dab around the vicinity of Ghetto Kroger.

As anyone that’s been poor knows, it’s sort of hard to buy a car - let alone pay for insurance and gas. So, most of the time, many poor people use buses, cabs, subways and bikes.

Now imagine yourself having five or six kids, getting your unemployment check and heading to the store to buy a month’s worth of groceries. Not an easy task for anyone, especially someone that didn’t have a car.

Enter Cowboy and his beat-up Lincoln Continental.

Cowboy was a tall, lanky black man in his late 50’s early 60’s who, wore a cowboy hat and boots. He reminded me of a mix between a poor-man’s Morgan Freeman and, if you’re looking for a country music angle, Charley Pride.

But, as far as I recall, he didn’t listen to country music. I think, as time went on, his cowboy hat became synonymous with the legend, sort of like Superman and his cape.

Because, you see, Cowboy was somewhat of a Superhero in and around Ghetto Kroger - almost like a Good Samaritan Robin Hood who helped out the poor, while getting paid in the process.

Cowboy had a unique business. He would hang outside the Ghetto Kroger leaning against his Lincoln Continental and wait for some of these poor, unfortunate souls (white, black, latino, asian..didn’t matter) who would wander out of the store with two carts worth of groceries (and two carts worth of kids, I may add) who would suddenly realize that they had no clue how they were going to get home.

As I mentioned previously, in order to deter shopping carts getting stolen, the entire store was lined with these cement posts that stood about waist-high and prohibited shopping carts from gliding out into the parking lot and, more importantly, into bums' or, other peoples hands. For some crazy reason the shopping carts were always getting stolen.
In any event, Cowboy would swoop in (minus the cape), remove his hat to the unsuspecting customers, introduce himself and offer to drive family and groceries to their house for the small price of $5 (or best offer).

The first time I witnessed this phenomena, I was flabbergasted. Then, as it became the norm, I started to realize the importance of Cowboy's somewhat-lucrative endeavor.

Think about it. A cab would have been $15, maybe more. But, for the low, low price of five bucks you could get your entire family and groceries shuttled to your front door. Not a bad deal if I do say so myself.

As I was fetching carts outside, I would always be bombarded with “Where's Cowboy at?” or “You see Cowboy around?” This guy was more famous than Michael Jackson.

It was almost like Cowboy was a drug dealer - but his cocaine was his Lincoln Continental.

Another funny thing was, he always talked in the third person. “Cowboy can’t take you today.” “You pay Cowboy $5 and Cowboy take you where you want to go.”

Another thing I remember was when Cowboy was getting ready to leave for the day he’d yell, “Cowboy done for the day. Last trip for Cowboy.”

Echoes of sighs and ‘Damns’ would spill from the crowd - who were forced to find another way home - save the shoe-leather express.

Like I said, the man was a celebrity. He was living the American dream and doing what our forefathers envisioned – that every resourceful, able-bodied male and female make money and prosper any way they know how.

However, with every successful business (e.g. Crocs) comes a lot of stragglers trying to get in on the money (e.g. fake Crocs). And that was the same case with Cowboy and his successful business.

I think it was around December, or possibly January, when the fat man came started popping up in the Kroger parking lot.

Cowboy was bundled up in his faux leather jacket with fur hoody, smoking a cigarette (Marlboros of course) and yelling his catch-phrase to everyone that came out of the store: “Get a $5 ride from Cowboy."

All of a sudden this beat-up, rusty Chrysler LeBaron with a loud tail-pipe belching smoke from the exhaust pulled up right behind Cowboy’s car.

With cigarette in his mouth, Cowboy cocked his head and gave his best Different Strokes “Whatchoo talking about” look to the other car. He was truly, honestly enraged at this car.

He tossed his cigarette to the ground and walked over, pointing his long index finger at a pudgy black man - who looked like Proposition Joe from The Wire - pulled himself out of the car.

“I tol’ you this is my turf,” Cowboy screamed. “These here Cowboy’s customers. You git the fuck out.”

The fat man held out his arms in peace and let out a big smile. A crowd started to form around the two characters. I imagined that this was the wild, wild west and these two guys were going to duel – minus Robert Conrad or Kool Moe Dee.

“Free country." That's all the fat man said.

Cowboy walked over and stood face-to-face with the man and gritted his teeth.

“Cowboy’s getting’ real pissed off,” he said. “Cowboy goin’ to give you a mutha fuckin’ ass whuppin'. That’s what he a gonna do.”

I’m not sure if it happens for every guy that is about to witness or partake in a fight – but the hair on the back of my hair immediately stood up, alerting myself that something was about to happen.

“Okay now,” a voice from behind me said. “There’s not going to be any fights today.”

I looked back and saw the store manager, Mr. Hannus – the only black manager in the store who we’ll talk about later – with his arms crossed and a big-ass, off-duty police officer standing behind him.

If this was high school, they would be the principal and vice principal. At least that’s what if felt like to me.

Cowboy stared at the fat man. Then stared at the manager. Then, he stared back at the fat man again and walked over to his car in disgust. I believe he kicked an imaginary pebble on his way.

Mr. Hannus walked over to Cowboy, put his arm around him and whispered a couple things into his ear. I’m sure it wasn’t sweet nothings. In any event, they both glared over at the fat man and his car.

Then he walked over to the fat man and whispered something into his ear. Then Mr. Hannus straightened his tie, made a gesture with his hand to the police officer and shuffled back into the store.

Both Cowboy and the Fat man glared at each other. But neither said a word.
Suddenly a lady with two kids and a cart full of groceries came out of the door.

“You ready Cowboy?” she called out.

“Right here, ma’am,” Cowboy yelled, opened the doors of his, popped the trunk and, like clockwork, removed his hat.

The fat man, leaning against his car, lit up a cigar and yelled out to the lady.

“How much he charge you?” he asked.

“Five dollars,” the lady said. “Why?”

“Why?” the fat, black man said. “Because I charge four George Washingtons, that’s why.”

The lady looked over at Cowboy, then she looked over to the fat man, then back over to Cowboy one more time.

“I'm sorry,” she loud-whispered over to Cowboy. “It’s a whole dollar less.”

Then she walked over to the fat man’s car and tossed in her groceries.

Fat Man smiled. Cowboy fumed.

I had just witnessed capitalism in it rawest form.

"Wow," I thought to myself. "Now who says there are no jobs in the ghetto?"
Other Stories from Ghetto Kroger:
Story #1: Intro
Story #2: Magic
Story #3: Big Head
Story #4: Goldilocks
Story #5: Jonas
Story #6: The Restroom

Stories from Kroger #6: The Restroom

I've seen a lot crazy sights at Ghetto Kroger.

Fights in the parking lot.

Tranny's sticking T-Bone steaks in their underwear.

The occasional drunk college kid passing out in the store.

Even the restrooms had some crazy sights.

One particular night when I was wrapping up my daily bagging duties, I ran into the men's room to take a quick piss. As I pushed open the door, my eyeballs focused on a bum, standing next to the sink bathing himself. He was naked all the way down to his dirty, brown skivies.

"Oh, my bad," he said. "Excuse me."

"No big deal," I shouted out. "I just have to take a piss."

In reality, I was a bit freaked out.

After doing my business, I zipped up my pants and headed to the door.

The bum looked over his shoulder, stopped his bathing and politely asked, "You want to use the sink to wash your hands?"

I looked at his peppered beard. It was slathered in brown soap.

I looked at the sink. It was an awful shade of brown.

"Naw, I'm good," I said as I exited the restroom.

I should add that the Kroger restroom was employee-only. But that didn't stop anyone from using it.

Two more stories then I'm finished. I promise.

Another day I left the breakroom to head back to the front of the store to continue my bagging duties. Before I could exit the backroom, this enormous man hobbled through the swinging doors.

I had to actually move out of the way so he could fit through. He had to be about 400 pounds.

And, wouldn't you know it, he made a beeline straight for the unlocked restroom.

"Wow," I thought to myself. "That's a pretty big man." And that was that.

It wasn't until after about an hour or so of bagging groceries that I would begin to hate that mother fucker.

"Eimer," my manager approached me as my mind was completely lost staring at yet another beautiful blonde cashier's ass. "Can you come over here a minute."

I noticed the odd look on his face and presumed I was going to be fired. I should note that whenever a higher authority wants to talk to me, I always assume that I'm being fired.

"Ummm, I don't know how to put this, so I'm just going to say it," he said.

"What?" I asked. I was truly intrigued.

"Well," he paused. "Some fat guy shit in the men's restroom and left a pretty big mess. I need you to go clean it up."

Being head bagger, I figured this type of nonsense should be delegated to the last man on the totem pole. Restroom clean-up was definitely not on the head bagger's list of duties.

"What about Phil?" I said referring the store's new bagger/cart getter. "Or how about Jonas?"

"Oh we asked Phil. But when he found out he had to clean up someone else's shit, he quit," said the manager rubbing his head. "And Jonas just left for the day."

I probably looked like a zombie at this point.

"So can you take one for the team and help me out here?" the manager asked. "I won't forget it."

I tried to say "Fuck that shit. I quit too!" But, on the journey from my brain to my mouth, the wiring got all messsed up and instead I said, "Okay, I'll do it."

Armed with every cleaning product known to man, I entered the restroom and...let's just say it was a battle of epic proportions. Poop stains were everywhere. I'm not sure, but it almost looked like the guy just walked into the stall, backed up until the back of his knees hit the toilet. Then dropped his pants and took a shit without even sitting down. Or looking.

I should also note that this was, by far, one of my most degrading times at Ghetto Kroger; cleaning up a fat man's blowout.

However, another story came out of the entire poop-cleaning process. Last one I promise.

As I was cleaning up the chunky-man's shit, I started to read some of the writings on the bathroom stall. While making their brown sacrifice to the porcelain god, co-workers were scribbling a war of words with other co-workers. Some were dirty. Some were crude. Most of them roused some giggles from my shit-stained face.

Than I wondered, 'Was this the way early man communicated with each other?' Going from cave-to-cave, scrawling crude 'fuck you' and 'your penis is small' jokes for other cavemen to be entertained after a day's sabretooth hunting?

One particular quote caught my attention. Hmm, it wasn't really a quote. More of a poem.

No. Let's not say a poem.

Sort of, almost, like a rap.

It went like this:

Moody Mas is teaching class.
Ya'll suckas are on my level.
Sicker than the Son of Sam I am.
I slam. I'm worse than the Devil.

No, it wasn't William Shakespeare, Cormac McCarthy or F. Scott Fitzgerald. Hell, it didn't even come close to Run DMC. But, somehow this rhyme found a spot in the gray matter of my brain going on 15 years now.

I just can't seem to shake it.

So, after I cleaned up the poop. I thoroughly washed my hands in the restroom sink.

Then I thought about the naked bum who, more than likely, probably washed his testicles in the same sink. I stopped mid-wash and instead opted to wash my hands in the sink located in the meat department. More sterile I figured.

On my journey, I couldn't help but recite that stupid rap over again. And, during my rap, I wanted to add a little flava. I decided to put a little thug into my newly remembered restroom rhyme...

Moody Mas is teaching class.
Ya'll suckas are on my level.
Sicker than the Son of Sam I am.
I slam. I'm worse than the Devil.

Fred, the cashier, was walking by and suddenly stopped in his tracks.

"What did you just say?" he asked me.

I recited the rap again.

"Dude," Fred said with a big smile on his face. "I wrote that!"

Other Stories from Ghetto Kroger:
Story #1: Intro
Story #2: Magic
Story #3: Big Head
Story #4: Goldilocks
Story #5: Jonas

Stories from Kroger #5 - Jonas

During my tour of duty as a bagger at Ghetto Kroger, the store went through its fair share of baggers/cartgetters. Which, I could totally understand.

The hours were crummy. It really wasn’t that pretty to look at (the people and the store). And the pay wasn’t fantastic either.

But, it didn't bothered me. I was a happy, proud employee of Ghetto Kroger.

The hours were fine. I got a paycheck once a week, which was awesome.

Plus I was beginning to make some friends. Cute college-aged female cashier friends. Who, in turn, had parties where they would invite other cute college-aged female non-cashier friends. Which, to me and my friends, was even more important than making money.

And when the baggers would quit, they just wouldn't call in and say "I quit." More often than not, baggers would tell a manager to 'Fuck Off', then rant and rave, throw some sort of food product down the aisle. And then, finally, quit.

This one time, I was bagging groceries and this one bagger next to me, said "Fuck this shit", ripped off his Kroger smock, threw it to the ground and simply walked out of the store, mid-bag.

"Oh well," I thought. "More hours for me."

I was about four months into my bagging duties, when the store manager introduced me to a new bagger. His name was Jonas.

When I first met Jonas, my first impression was shock. (I’ll get to that in a minute.)

It wasn’t his size (He was fairly Hobbit-like.)

It wasn’t his facial hair. (He had a beard.)

It wasn’t even the big mole sticking out of the side of his cheek. (Big and hairy.)

No, none of those things particularly bothered me about Jonas. In fact, upon meeting him, I thought he was a very warm, very personable type of fellow.

But, the biggest thing that shocked me about Jonas was his age. He was 50.

Upon his hiring, Jonas set the median age of baggers forward about 10 years. Maybe more.

Now I can understand retirees and older people looking for jobs at a stores such as Wal-Mart, Target and the like. Absolutely nothing wrong with that. Hey, it passes the time, it gets your joints rolling and it also puts some prescription money in your wallet.

There's not even a lot wrong with an older person working at Kroger. Nothing at all. Especially if you worked in a great part of town.

But, as I stood there shaking Jonas’ hand, I couldn’t help but wonder, "What the fuck happened?"

How does a 50-year old man, in the prime moneymaking years of his life, become a bagger? At Ghetto Kroger? In Columbus, Ohio?

My curiosiy was piqued. As the weeks passed, I began to glean some information from my co-workers about the man we came to know as Jonas.

As it turns out he had a couple jobs. One was a Kroger bagger. Another was a landlord of this crappy one-bedroom tenement house on High Street (near the Wendy’s on South Campus). And third, he was a night janitor of some sort.

In any event, a couple more weeks passed. It was Thanksgiving weekend. There was a hustle and bustle that I had not seen in some time at the store save the first of the month.

The Salvation Army guy was jingling his bells. Silent Night was blaring on the Muzak. Even the bums had a little kick in their step during the holiday season. Which begs the question, "Was there an egg nog-flavored Mad Dog 20/20 for the holidays?"

In fact, on this particular day, it was so busy that the store needed two cartgetters to work outside. Unimaginable at the time.

As luck would have it, Jonas and I were working the same shift outside. The perfect opportunity to strike up a discussion with the man who I was determined to never become.

After business finally died down, Jonas and I were hanging out on the poles…

Did I ever mention that the Ghetto Kroger had these immense concrete poles surrounding the entrance?

Oh yeah, in order to prevent cart thefts from bums and other hooligans, the Kroger management decided to put in these concrete poles, two feet apart, which prohibited carts from ever making it out to the parking lot.

When people would bring their loaded carts out of the store, it was our job to stay with the cart while the person pulled their car around and we loaded it up. Making it another plus of working at Ghetto Kroger. We never, ever had to run around and grab carts out of the parking lot. Plus, we made an occasional tip.
Anyhow, back to Jonas.

He lit up a cigarette. We were chilling out and enjoying our view of the parking light on Saturday night.

"So," I asked. "How was your Thanksgiving."

"Oh, it was nice," he said. "This year's helicopter ride was great."

I gave Jonas a queer stare. I couldn't resist.

"Oh, you were in a helicopter?"

"Oh yeah," he said as he took a drag from his cigarette. "Picked me and my wife up right here in the parking lot."

"Really?" I said. "That’s pretty interesting. I've never been in a helicopter."

"Oh, you'd love it," he said. "You can see everything for miles and miles."

After a moment of silence.

"So, where where'd you go?"

"Oh, we went to my father-in-law’s property," he said non-chalantly. "Yeah, he’s got a 300-acre spread up there in Powell."

Then he told me a fantastical story.

After being picked up by a helicopter in the Ghetto Kroger parking lot on Thanksgiving day, he and his wife were whisked away to Powell, Ohio, where they landed in a grassy field next to a choo-choo train. (Yes, he used the word choo-choo train).

They hopped on the train, they we're taken on a ride through this scenic land filled with elephants, lions and zebras.

Finally, they arrived at his father-in-law’s mansion, which Jonas said was "about 50 rooms, 35 baths, with two indoor pools and a basketball court."

That's when I thought of the popular kid's comic book Richie Rich. I pictured the young poor little rich boy, the robot maid Irona, the perfect butler Cadbury and Professor Keenbean welcoming Jonas, the Hobbit-like bagger, at the doorsteps of Rich mansion.

"After we ate dinner, those guys would go and watch football on the big-screen TV," Jonas continued. "But you know what I like to do when I go out there?"

I shook my head.

"I like to go to the tiger den and roll around with the bengal tigers."

(I don't think I'll ever hear that sentence uttered again in my entire life.)

"Bengal tigers?" I asked.

"White bengal tigers," he added.

"White bengal tigers?" I asked.

"Oh sure, he's got a pen of three white bengal tigers."

"Like Siegfried and Roy?"

"Yeah," he said. "Matter of fact, I think they used to be Siggerd and Rays."

Just a brief footnote. The thing that surprised me about this lie was that Jonas was so intense and so colorful in his story that I began to think that he actually believed all of this happened in his mind.

Because, and just for the record, I knew exactly were Jonas was on Thanksgiving Day. He was working an eight-hour shift at the Ghetto Kroger. How did I know? I checked the schedule before I left and there it was, marked in red:

Jonas 9 a.m. - 5 p.m.
To be certain, I also asked the manager if any helicopters landed in the parking lot on Thanksgiving Day. His answer: "Not that I know of".

But, I didn’t call him out on his lie. What was the point? To me, it was more fun and interesting listening the lying ramblings of a 50-year old crazy bagger then freezing my ass off alone in a half-empty parking lot on Saturday night.

But, I couldn't just let Jonas off the hook.

"So, what are you doing here?"

He took another drag then exhaled. Then he pulled off his ball cap, scratched his head then looked my way and squinted.

"What do you mean?" he asked.

"Well," I said. "I’m curious what you’re doing here? At Kroger. When your father-in-law could probably get you a great job doing something for him."

After a couple seconds passed. He flicked his cigarette to the ground, stepped on the butt and looked me straight in the eye.

"Pride," he said.

He must have noticed my unenthused look.

"Listen, when you quit or get another job somewhere, I’ll be head bagger," he said. "Then, I’ll move up to cashier. And, in a couple years, I’ll be store manager. The skies the limit after that."

Ironically, right at that moment, the store manager came out. "Jonas, we're getting backed up in here," he yelled. "We need you to bag some groceries. Eimer you stay out here."

"Sure thing boss," Jonas yelled as he pulled off his yellow, cartgetting smock and headed back into the store. But, before entering, he turned around to face me.

"See there," he said pointing toward the store manager. "That’s why I’m not asking my father-in-law for a job. Pride."

As Jonas sauntered back into the Kroger store and began bagging groceries, the only thing that crossed my mind was:

"Wow! I’m head bagger!"

JONAS UPDATE:
Jonas' stories were legendary to some people around the store. He would lie to anyone about anything on any given day. I wish I had some more examples. Alas, the beer and drugs have erased some of my memory.

Perhaps someone reading this post can give us another Jonas story to enjoy.

However, a couple years after I left Ghetto Kroger, one of my buddies told me that Jonas was bagging groceries during a busy Saturday morning, when this pretty sorority girl walked into his bagging lane.

As she was organizing her purse and getting ready to leave, Jonas suddenly blurted out, "I can’t help it. I just gotta give you a kiss."

He proceeded to grab her and plant a big, wet sloppy kiss on her lips. I heard he even stuck out his tongue.

(Hey, if you're going out on a limb, why not jump?)

Sadly, it was the kiss of death for old Jonas. He was immediately fired from his two-year job as head bagger.

Which leads me to wonder who's the head bagger of Ghetto Kroger right now?

Other Stories from Ghetto Kroger:
Story #1: Intro
Story #2: Magic
Story #3: Big Head
Story #4: Goldilocks

Stories From Kroger #4: Goldilocks

When I was in college, my mom and aunt would often come up to visit their favorite starving student.

In addition to taking me out for a free meal, they would also buy me some food at the grocery store.

Awww. Ain't they nice.

On one particular visit, we were walking down High Street near campus and a bum approached my aunt for some money. She reached into her little purse and gave the bum some change.

Less than a minute later, another bum asked my aunt for money and again she slowly reached into her little purse and pulled out some more change. Then it happened again. And Again. On more than one ocassion, she would even toss a bum a dollar bill or two.

This happened five of six more times before I decided to toss in my two cents.

"You know," I would tell her. "You don't have to give money to every single bum that you see."

"Oh, but I have to," she retorted. "Because you never know if one of them is an angel in disguise."

"Well," I said obviously annoyed. "Then, I guess there are a lot of angels walking around Columbus then."

She grabbed my arm and glanced up to me with a tender smile.

"You never know," she said. "You never know."


Back to reality...


In addition to being right next to a mental health facility, the intersection of King and High Streets - also known as the location of Ghetto Kroger - could be a considered a bum paradise.

Plenty of liquor stores. Rich, spoiled college kids to hit up for money. Tons of discarded clothes and food to be pulled from a plethora of garbage bins.

Like I said, bum paradise.

It was no surprise that Ghetto Kroger would get its fair share of angels, er bums, coming in and out of the store on a regular basis.

Almost every single day that I worked at Ghetto Kroger, I would have at least one bum approach me and ask me for money to 'buy some food' or 'get some gas'. No lie.

There was this one skinny black guy who carried around a gas can as a prop device to get unsuspected sorority girls and their parents to give him dough.

"Awww, man," he would say, "I've got my wife and two kids in the car a couple blocks away and I left my wallet at home. All we need is just a couple of bucks to put in the tank to get home."

And people would actually fall for this guy's story.

To be brutally honest, the first time I heard his schpeel, I felt sorry for him as well. Hell, I'm sure that I probably gave him a couple bucks too.

But, when I saw him around again and again and again almost every other day, I would glare at him with disdain mixed with a little pity. He would see me and know that I knew that he was lying. So, he stayed away. As did most of the regular bums after they realized they weren't getting shit from me.

Same grift. Different day.

Suffice to say, when you're sitting outside, staring at a parking lot for eight hours...the shit gets old. So to pass the time, I would strike up a conversation with a bum or two sleeping on a bench or just sitting around outside asking people for money.

(I should also note that the store manager really frowned upon this type of activity and quickly hustled the store cops to get the bums out of the front entrance. I guess it was bad for business or something.)

In any event, one this one particular night I met this bum who was sitting on the ground, drinking what appeared to be some purple stuff, which I believed to be Mad Dog 20/20. He was strategically sitting behind this big Double-Coupon Days poster outside the store, which was just out of viewing range of the store cop and manager.

He was a white guy, about 50-years old, scruffy beard and scruffy clothes [much like the picture you see above].

Oh yeah, I should also note that he also smelled like rotten eggs mixed with urine.

Suffice to say, I kept my distance.

He took a swig of his mystery bottle and offered me up a drink. I politely declined.

"So," I asked. "How's everything going?"

The man's eyes lit up like I offered him up a hamburger and french fries.

Then he started to talk.

Then he talked some more.

Then he wouldn't shut up.

Then I started to get a little annoyed.

As it turned out, he was a Vietnam Vet, who sort of lost his mind on a tour of duty. Somehow, (I forget) he wound up in Columbus and had to stay close to the Mental Health facility to get hold of his daily prescriptions or as he called them, 'scrips'.

He told me that the facility would only give him a day's worth of scrips so he (a.) wouldn't abuse them, (b.) try to sell them on the street for money or (c.) try to kill himself with them.

Good policy.

Then he mentioned that he used to be married. And that he had two kids.

"A wife and kids?" I asked. "Really?"

"Oh yeah," he shot up. "I had a wife, house, kids, dog. Everything."

"Here?" I asked. "In Columbus?"

"No, no, no." He said. "Indiana. Yep, they're over there and we'll, I'm right here." He tossed his arms in the air and took a look around at his surroundings.

"I lost it all," he laughed.

I left to grab a view carts and help a couple customers. About 10 minutes had passed and I peered over the corner to check on my new bum friend. He was crouched over, huddled in a fetal position and dead asleep.

"Oh well," I thought to myself. "I'll let the cop deal with him." It was time for my lunch break, so I went inside.

About 30 minutes later I returned to find the bum sitting up, drinking the rest of his mysterious purple Kool-aid wrapped in his cliche'-ridden paper bag.

"Howdy," he said.

"Hey there," I shot back.

Out of nowhere, he sauntered up to me. Almost face-to-face like he wanted to whisper something in my ear. Or kiss me. I wasn't sure. In fact, it was a bit too close for comfort for my taste. The smell of rotten eggs and urine permeated my nostrils.

I took a couple steps back, lowered my brow and gave him my 'You best step back mother fucker' stare.

He looked back and forth. Then stared straight into my eyes.

In a million years, I would have never guessed the next thing to come out of his mouth.

"So," he whispered. "You're probably getting some steady poontang, huh?"
I thought about it for a second. Then I made the brilliant deduction that he didn't really know who I was. The man completely forgot the conversation we had about an hour and a half ago.

Maybe his meds kicked in. Maybe it was the agent orange from 'Nam. Maybe it was the Mad Dog 20/20 in his gut. But you could just tell that this guy wasn't right. You could see it in his eyes.

He was crazier than a shit-house rat.

So I did what any college kid would've done. I decided to lie.

"Fuck Yeah," I said sarcastically. "I got a wife. Two kids and a dog too!"

Just in case anything weird was about to happen, I scanned the inside of the store for the cop. I didn't see him.

Fuck.

"Must be nice," he said. "To get some regular pussy action like that."

"Yeah," I said. "It's fucking great."

In actuality, I was pushing on a six-month dry spell of no poontang action at all, which feels likes five years when you're 20.

After a couple seconds of awkward silence. He looked at me again with those crazy bat-shit eyes.

"You know who I like to fuck?"

Realizing that this conversation was totally going south, I was one-second from heading inside and grabbing the store cop.

But, after sizing up the bum, I knew I could take him out with one quick punch to the face. So I decided to play along with his little game. Plus, I was really curious what he was going to say.

"No," I said acting extremely uninterested. "Who do you like to fuck?"

He quickly held up his hand six inches from my face.

"Goldilocks," he said rolling his thumb around. "And her four little friends." He then moved his fingers back and forth.

I pushed his hand away from my face.

He then smiled a toothlesss grin and started cackling like the Wicked Witch of the East when she released the winged monkey creatures to attack Dorothy in the forest.

Then he glared at me. I thought maybe he was going to stab me with something. But instead, he walked over to his paper-wrapped bottle and started to pick up all of his belongings, which wasn't much.

Still cackling and coughing, he meandered and weaved out into the darkness of the parking lot.

But, right before he was out of sight, he turned around and looked at me with his arms held high.

"Goldilocks," he yelled at the top of his lungs. "And her four little friends!"

Then he started laughing again.

Then he disappeared behind a building to God knows where.

I could hear his cackles echo into the cool, silent Autumn night.

Sigh. Another day in bum paradise.

Other Stories from Ghetto Kroger:
Story #1: Intro
Story #2: Magic
Story #3: Big Head

Stories from Kroger #3: Big Head

I've witnessed many crazy moments at Ghetto Kroger. But one of the craziest had to do with a movie starring Cher.

So there I was a month and a half into my bagging duties at Ghetto Kroger. Getting my groove down. Macking with the ladies. Making some money. I even made some pretty good friends at the store.

When bagging groceries, I would sometimes imagine I was in the Super Bowl of Bagging. I would time myself to see how fast and accurate I could bag groceries. I even pitted my time against other baggers.

Hey, it passed the time.

One Saturday morning, I was bagging like a mad hatter and soaking up the views in the process. Many cute little sorority ladies would walk through my line donned in scantily clad Scarlet and Gray apparel purchasing alcohol, pretzels, hot dogs and whatever else you buy for an Ohio State football game.

My early morning shift was going a-ok. The sights were especially good. And, with my shift ending right before kick-off, it was turning out to be a great day.

I said was.

That's when I noticed something out of the corner of my eye. Walking into Ghetto Kroger was this black dude who had what appeared to be a giant foam head on his shoulders....much like the heads you see in the Mardi Gras parade.

I started to laugh out loud. Giggling, I poked the cashier in front of me on the shoulder and pointed to the guy with the funny Mardi Gras head.

"Check it out," I snirked.

That's when I saw the eyes on the Mardi Gras head blink.

That's when my smile turned into a frown.

That's when the blood drained from my head.

That's when I realized It wasn't a Mardi Gras head, but the dude's actual head!

My jaw had officially dropped.

"Psssst," A cashier stepped up behind me and whispered in my ear. "Stop staring at him."
"But...what?....huh?" I mumbled in total shock. I couldn't stop looking at the enormous head.

Big Head and his posse of five or six guys walked over to the produce section and eventually out of my line of sight.

I pushed my jaw closed and turned around towards the cashier.

"You ever see the movie Mask with Cher?" she asked me.

I nodded.

"Well, that guy has the same disease as the guy from Mask, Rocky Dennis."

"Ohhhhhh," I said. Not really comprehending anything she was saying.

"When he comes through the line, don't look at him too long," she said. "Those guys he hangs out with don't like it when you look at him for too long."
"Okay," I thought to myself. "Don't stare at the guy with the enormous Big Head."

About 20 minutes passed and I was bagging groceries completely unaware of my surroundings. Almost like a fish swirling around in a bowl.

That was until I looked up and saw Big Head waiting in line in my bagging aisle. His mouth opened and a big Jabba the Hutt tongue came out and he licked his lips.

"Don't stare at the guy with the enormous Big Head." "Don't stare at the guy with the enormous Big Head." "Don't stare at the guy with the enormous Big Head." "Don't stare at the guy with the enormous Big Head."

But, I was transfixed. I couldn't stop looking at Big Head.

You know that feeling you got when you watched that documentary about the 16-year old girl with two heads? Well, multiply that by 30. And that's how what I felt right at that exact moment.

My heart was beating. My hands were getting pasty. I felt extremly light-headed. I was going to pass out.

I had to get away from Big Head immediately!

I found myself walking away from my bagging station. I had no control over my body. My legs walked me all the way to the back of the Kroger store right into the restroom. My hands tossed some water on my face. My lungs took a couple of deep breaths.

For a brief second, I wanted to quit, leave the store and drink about a case of beer with my friends. Then go hide in a corner.

Just to be sure he was gone, I walked the entire length of the backroom and took an extremely long drink from the water fountain on the other side of the store.

With my composure maintained, I walked back to my bagging station and, to my relief, Big Head was gone.

"Whew!" I sighed.

"Eimer," the store manager yelled. "We're empty on carts. Go bring some in from outside?"

I nodded and hightailed it outside. But, as the automatic doors flew open, I stopped dead in my tracks. I saw Big Head and his posse in the parking lot slowly walking away from Ghetto Kroger.

A white frat boy on a bike pedaled past Big Head and did what seemed to be a quintuple take. Like a five-year old boy attempting to take his first ride, the frat boy meandered on his bike and struggled to maintain his balance. All the while staring at the giant blinking globe.

Two guys from Big Head's posse started beating their chests and yelling insults at the frat guy. But Big Head didn't turn around.

"What's the matter?" yelled one of the guys. "Ain't you never seen anyone with a big head before?"

I'm going to go out on a limb answer that question for the frat boy.

"No."
EPILOGUE:
People might be wondering if Big Head was a regular mainstay at the Ghetto Kroger.

Sadly, no.

Although my good friend once served him up some fish filets at the Seafood Department on a different day, I only had the surreal opportunity to witness the craziness that was Big Head once. And, to be honest, that was enough.

During my Ghetto Kroger tour of duty, rumors would always swirl around about Big Head. Some said he was living on borrowed time due to his disease. Others say he donated his head to the Ohio State University after he died in exchange for $20,000 a month while he was alive. I also heard that Big Head and his posse would walk around the campus area beating up and robbing shocked observers who would stare at his giant dome. During one particular lunch break, I struck up a conversation with a cashier who lived in the area about Big Head.

"Oh he a playa," she told me. "He's got, like, 20 kids from 10 different women. My cousin is one of them."

Big Head? A playa?

Of all of the rumors I've heard about Big Head, I found that one the hardest to believe.

Other Stories from Ghetto Kroger:
Story #1: Intro
Story #2: Magic

Stories from Kroger #2 - Magic

November 7, 1991.

A day that would live in infamy.

Well, at least to one cashier at Ghetto Kroger.

It was a normal Thursday. I drove into work with high expectations of the upcoming weekend. Ohio State Buckeyes football. Plenty of alcohol. Parties. Oh yeah, and payday. Being paid weekly had its privileges. Unlike a lot of people who get paid twice a month, I always had money for the weekend regardless of what week it was.

So, I clocked in and set up shop behind the hottest cashier I could find and started bagging groceries.

I was getting my jollies drooling over my cashier's beautiful ass when I heard the sobbing a couple lanes over. It was Fred, a full-time cashier who would shortly get promoted to Produce Manager.

Curious, I left my bagging station behind the cute cashier, and started bagging groceries behind Fred.

Fred was an interesting guy. He was a short, mid-western looking white guy in his mid-20's with a short brown hair and a mustache.

Yet, and here's the interesting part, he talked and acted like he was black. I'm not sure where he was from or where he grew up, but if you were talking to him on a phone, you would swear this guy was African-American. No ifs, ands or buts about it.

And boy could this guy play basketball. I played a couple pick-up games with him around Ohio State University and he could shoot a perimeter shot and toss no-look passes like the Nets' Jason Kidd in his heyday. And let's not even get into his rapping skills.

In short (no pun intended), Fred was a very kind, very cool guy that I was happy to consider on of my Kroger friends.

So there he was blubbering like a little baby. Blowing his nose and shaking his head while ringing up customers. I should also note that is was the first of the month, which was the busiest time of the month at Ghetto Kroger due to the monthly release of food stamps. However, I'll talk more about that in another entry.

"Hey Fred," I whispered while I was bagging Filet Mignons, lobster and baby formula. "You okay?"

He looked back with bloodshots eyes. Tears were flowing down his cheek.

"You didn't hear?" he asked.

I shook my head. I had no clue what he was talking about. "What's up?"

"Dude, it's been all over the news," he barked out. "Magic Johnson retired."

He wiped another tear from his eyes and blew his nose.

"He has AIDS."

I stared at him in silence. To be honest, I didn't know what to say. Words escaped me.

"I know. I know," he said to me. "It's a fucking tragedy."

Well technicially Magic Johnson didn't have AIDS, but that didn't stop everyone in the United States from saying that. On this particular day, after missing the first three games with an unspecified "stomach ailment" Johnson made the announcement that he was infected with the HIV virus and would immediately retire from the NBA.

Everyone that came through Fred's line had to hear about Magic Johnson having AIDS. A couple people gave him support. Fred even got a couple customer hugs as well with comforting thoughts.

"Everything's goin' ta be all right," one lady told him "Magic's goin' ta be here a long time." Ironically, this lady was right. Magic is still alive and well 17 years later after being diagnosed.

The crying and comforting continued throughout my shift. Not sure, but I can almost guarantee he cried into his pillow that night as well.

Flash-forward to a couple weeks later in the break room.

I was sitting with a fellow bagboy, who was telling jokes.

"Hey I got a good one," he said looking at me. "What does MAGIC stand for?"

"I dunno," I said with a shit-eating grin on my face. "What does Magic stand for?"

"My Ass Got Infected Coach!" He proudly cackled to himself.

All of a sudden, Fred marched into the room with this pissed off look on his face.

"Who said that?" he said looking as angry as a hornet.

"What," the bagboy asked.

"The Magic joke," Fred barked looking at me and then back to the bagboy. "Who said it?"

"I did," said the bagboy. "You wan't to hear another one.."

Fred walked over to the bagboy, picked him up from the seat and slammed him against the wall.

"If I ever hear you tell that joke again, I'm going to kick your fucking ass!"

Just like that, Fred released the bagboy and made a beeline out of the room.

After a couple minutes of silence. The bagboy sat back down in his seat.

"Sheesh," he said retying his Kroger apron. "That guy must fucking love Magic Johnson."

"Yep," I said. "I guess he really does."

From that time on, I don't think I ever heard another Magic Johnson joke again at Ghetto Kroger.

And I'm 100% certain it was because of Fred.

Stories from Kroger #1 - Intro

It was the summer of 1991. I had just moved into a five-bedroom (six, if you count the basement) house on the outskirts of Ohio State University.

In less than a month, we were all planning on starting our sophomore year at the school.

In need of money, I scoured the campus area in search of a job. I filled out applications everywhere. Gyro shops. Pizza places. Stores. Malls. I even filled out an application at a chinese restaurant.

I must have filled out more than 100 applications in a three-day period. No lie.

The days continued to roll by. And the phone continued to not ring. I was running out of options. And money. I needed to find some sort of employment. Somewhere. Anywhere.

While attending a party, I overheard this pretty brunette talking to a group of girls about her job. As it turned out, she was a cashier at Kroger on East 7th Avenue and High Streets. In fact, three of the four girls at the party were cashiers at that particular Kroger.

And, I should mention that they were all pretty freaking hot.

"Are they hiring?" I asked half-jokingly. To be honest, I had driven by this particular Kroger numerous times. And to be honest, it wasn't on my top 100 places to work in Columbus if you know what I'm saying.

"As a matter of fact they are," she beamed. "You should totally go down there tomorrow and fill out an application. They'll hire you in a second."

Not sure if she was hitting on me or not. But I was flattered to say the least. As the night wore on and the more buzzed up I had become, I thought to myself. "Hey, if these hot ladies aren't afraid to work there, than why should I be afraid?"

In the distance, however, I heard a quiet whisper breeze through the wind. "Be Afraid. Be Very Afraid," it said.

The next morning, I checked the answering machine one last time. No messages. I conceded defeat. Reluctantly, I hopped into my Chevy Spectrum and drove down to the East 7th and High Kroger and begrudgingly filled out an application.

"Thanks," one of the manager's said scanning over my application. "If we need you, we'll give you a call."

Not even before I could get in the door and crack open my 40-ounce of Mickey's Malt Liqour, I recieved a message on my answering machine from Kroger. Less than one hour after I filled out the application.

They wanted me to come in for an interview.

"This is how desperate they are for workers?" I thought. "What am I getting myself into?"

I went in for an interview and before you could say "Paper or Plastic" I was hired as a bagboy/cart getter.

In a recent entry, I compared the difference between Walmart and Target. Well, let me just say that the people who frequented this particular establishment were not even close to those shoppers. They were some crazy wack jobs. In addition to an out-patient mental facility right next door, the Kroger on East 7th and High Street attracted some rather odd nuts.

To add to that, it wasn't exactly located in the most poshest of Columbus locales. In fact, it could be argued that, at the time, this particular location between campus and the Short North was one of the heaviest crime-ridden places in Columbus save Main Street and the West Side. I mean, it's never a good sign when, on more than one occasion, a dead body is found behind the store you're working for.

And to set the record straight, the nutjobs came in all sizes, shapes and colors. White, black, fat, skinny, asian, mexican, european and possibly a couple extra-terrestrials extras from the film Men in Black thrown in.

On my first day of work, I was bagging groceries when a guy with with a white kitchen apron splattered with blood came down my line.

"So, how do you like it here?" he asked with a sarcastic smile on his face. I quickly noticed the guy's Kroger nametag. Bruce. He was one of the company's prized meatcutters.

"It's okay," I shrugged as I looked around. "Seems pretty interesting."

He let out a quick laugh.

"Ohh, it's interesting all right."

All of a sudden, we heard sounds of a struggle in the frozen food aisle.

This white dude with wife-beater shirt and an extra pair of baggy gray sweatpants hurdled out of the aisle and hightailed it towards the exit doors. All the while holding onto his sweatpants to keep them from falling down.

"Hey! Stop, right there!" a police officer came from the aisle and was closing in on the man.

The sweatpants guy was almost out of the store before a store manager lunged in the air and football tackled him.

Freshly wrapped Steaks, filets and lobsters exploded in the air around him.

The cop hopped onto the guy, rammed a hard knee into the guy's back, latched on a pair of handcuffs and dragged him to the back room. Straightening his tie and fixing his mussed-up hair, the store manager followed behind with an angry grimace on his face.

And, just like that, everyone went back to work without missing a beat.

The only look of shock on anyone's face was my own.

The meatcutter noticed the look on my face and started to laugh.

"Welcome to Ghetto Kroger," he said as patted me on the back. "Never a dull moment here."

He was right.

The next year-and-a-half was filled with some craziest experiences I've ever had at any job in my entire life. Ever.

Some of those hard-to-believe stories I'll share with you from time-to-time on Eimer Debris.

Hopefully my good friend and partner in crime at the store can back me up on some of these stories.

Believe It or Not!