Stories from Ghetto Kroger #9: The Book of Crazies

As I've discussed in past Stories from Ghetto Kroger...I came across a wide assortment of crazy people during my tenure as a bagger and a meat department clerk in, quite possibly, the worst Kroger in Columbus, Ohio (at the time).

Some people were, undeniably, insane. Others were simply by-products of tough times in the hood.

Crackheads, bums, poor, rich (not really), old, young, pretty, ugly big-headed, little-headed, white, black, yellow, racist, non-racist and everything in between...on any given day I had the opportunity to view the entire spectrum of humanity during my tour of duty at the Ghetto Kroger.

So, it was no surprise that I decided to highlight some of the most colorful people in my early bagging experiment: The Book of Crazies, which I found lying at the bottom of my collection of crap that I keep downstairs in my basement.

So without further adieu, I'd like to share the list from beginning to end (with no editing):

1. The guy with the shopping cart with the flag strapped on it.
2. The guy who clicks when he walks.
3. The woman with the purple tobaggon (i.e. winter cap) and neon green jacket that wandered around the parking lot for 8 hours non stop.
4. The crazy guy with big bags under his eyes who criticizes all of the cops and says 'I didn't do nothing' over and over again.
5. The guy with the humungous head. MASK disease.
6. The man who was talking about his penis and prostrate for two hours.
7. Blind guy who couldn't find his way out of the store. Blind in one eye. Half blind in the other.
8. Crazy guy with headphones who jigs and dances at the bus stop.
9. Lady that talks to herself, wears a neon miniskirt, buys weird rings from the kid's vending machines and then proceeds to show everyone her 'pretty' rings.
10. The bum who told me he witnessed multiple rapes and then said 'Every once in a while, I'm not ashamed to say that I use goldilocks and her four little friends for a good time. 
11. The old man who showed me the sack on his leg filled with piss that drained from his kidney.
12. The black guy who wears cut-off football pants, every day, even in the middle of winter.
13. Maniac-looking guy who has pieces of his hair missing and stares at guy's asses as they walk into the store.
14. The 12-year old kid with the headphones and glassess who walks around the store in a counter-clockwise direction.
15. The guy with the Michigan jacket who makes the dog noises. 

I wish I could say that I remember all of this crazies. But, alas, I have forgotten most of these colorful characters. However, I have talked about Big-head and the bum in previous Ghetto Kroger Stories (links above and below)

That said, if I had a time machine, I would go back to Ghetto Kroger and tell College Brad to keep up with this interesting book a little longer. Because, I'm 100% sure that I came into contact with a lot more crazies then the 15 highlighted in this book - and that includes some of my co-workers.

However, I probably just lost interest in my little experiment, what with all the studying, banging of chicks and drinking of booze. (I kid!)

Well, that's it for now. Next story will be my first day on the job in the meat department. Stay tuned.

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
Story #7: Cowboy
Story #8: Lucky Strikes

Stories from Kroger #8: Lucky Strikes

It was New Year’s Day, January 1, 1992. I requested New Year’s Eve off from Ghetto Kroger.

And, like any good manager, Mr. Hannus scheduled me for the morning shift on New Year's Day. What a nice guy.

I awoke to the background sound of a fuzzy television. I was lying comatoses in my bed. There was gin (which I hate) on my breath, puke on the bed sheets, empty bottles scattered around my bedroom and, sadly, zero naked women sandwiched on either side of me. (sigh)

I rubbed my head and looked at the clock. It read 9:03 a.m. I was supposed to be at work at 8:30 a.m.

My mouth dropped. I pictured Mr. Hannus sitting there with his arms crossed, looking at his watch, tapping his toes, and shaking his head in disappointment.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit, shit,” I yelled.

I thought about calling off work. But then I recalled a co-worker tell me that, if you call in sick for work, Mr. Hannus will call a taxi cab to come pick you up. Plus, it was New Year’s Day. What college student didn’t go out last night and get shit-faced?

In other words, there was no way of getting out of this. Hungover or not (or even still drunk) I had to go into the Ghetto Kroger and put in my five hours or scheduled work.

I hopped from my bed, scanned the room like The Terminator and grabbed any decent types of clothes I could find:

- Wrinkled Bugle Boy Jeans circa 1990. CHECK!
- Wrinkled, stained white button-up shirt. CHECK!
- White socks. CHECK!
- Black Reebok Shoes. CHECK!

I walked out into the mess that was our living room and shut off the TV. A mysterious couple was cuddled up asleep on one of my couches. On the love seat, was one of my roommates, wrapped up into a little cocoon. I was amazed at how he fit his 6 foot frame into that small little couch. All were sound asleep. Suffice to say, I was jealous.

I ran into our bathroom, tossed a handful of water on my dome, then hopped into my Silver Grey Chevy Spectrum and swerved onto Summit Avenue with the pedal to the metal.

I arrived at a fairly empty Ghetto Kroger parking lot. Being Sunday, I figured there weren’t going to be too many customers. But the parking lot reminded me of a scene from some sort of crazy zombie-Armaggedon-post-apocalyptic-envisioned devastation. Empty. Grey. Desolate. Bleak.

I shuffled into the Ghetto Kroger and could literally hear my footsteps on the dirty, grey tile. Yep, that’s how quiet the place was. There was no cashier, no bag boys, no managers, no nothing. I felt like Burgess Meredith in that weird Twilight Zone story where he was the last man on Earth?

“Eimer,” I heard a familiar voice ring in my ear. “You're late!” I stopped in my tracks, closed my eyes, clenched my teeth and turned towards Mr. Hannus, who was standing in the Customer Service area. He held out his finger and motioned me to come his way.

He was a tall black man, with big Mr. Magoo glasses. But the one thing that was funny about Mr. Hannus was the way he walked. There was a hitch in his step, like he had a fake leg or something. (I never did figure that one out). Today, he was dressed to the nines in a tan dress suit, which should have served as an outfit in some 70’s blaxpoitation pic.

“Get in here,” he yelled pulling a number of huge boxes from under the counter. “We got a big football crowd coming in for the Ohio State game, which means there’s going to be a lot of smokers.”

The boxes were marked Marlboro, Camel and all the other brands you might expect to see. “While there’s no one here, I need you to stock up all of these cigarettes and get ready for the Buckeyes crowd.”

“Okey dokey,” I said. Before I could finish 'dokey' he was out of the Customer Service center and headed towards the door.

“Wait," I yelled. He stopped mid-strut and looked back at me with a rather pensive look. He raised his eyebrows and cocked his ear my way awaiting some sort of question.

“Umm, where are you going?”

He paused for a moment. His mind was whirring and buzzing like an old Commodore 64 computer.

“Where am I going? Where do you think I’m going?” He asked like I was the stupidest guy on the planet Earth. “I’m going to mutha fuckin’ teach Sunday School, that’s where I’m going.”

He started to walk away.

“Uh…” was all I could muster. He stopped again and looked back. “Dammit Eimer what is it? I'm goin' ta be late for my class!!!”

“Is anyone else going to be in here?” I asked. My eternal buzz was slowly turning into an eternal hangover.

“Yes. Yes. Yes.” He said. “Someone’s coming in to run Customer Service at 10 a.m. Now if you’ll excuse me, I gotta go teach some fucking Sunday School. Okay?”

“Okay,” I said as he slowly sauntered away. Shuffle. stra somewhat relieve that I was given this menial task considering my condition. “See you after Church.”

As I started to load up the cigarette boxes. I felt his beady cigarette ashtray eyes looking me up and down.

“How long you going to be here?” he asked.

I pretended to be startled, “Pardon?”

“How...long...are...you...going...to...be...here?” he asked in a slow tone like, again, as if I was some sort of retarded child.

“Um, 3 p.m., I think. Why?”

“No, not today,” he said waving his hands. “I mean how long you going to be here, in this store?”

I wasn’t prepared for all of these questions this early in the morning.

“Um, not sure,” I said. “I graduate in 1995, so probably until then.”

“Umm hmmm,” he said and walked away.

After Mr. Hannus left, I began to stock the cigarette shelves, which were conveniently located behind the Customer Service desk to deter any poverty-stricken nicotine-hungry thieves.

Then I looked around and realized no one was around. Then I looked at the tremendous amount of booty starting back at me. Camel Lights. Marlboro Lights. Menthols. Filtered. Unfiltered. Cigars. Blunts.

The world was at my finger tips.

Then I noticed a box. Then I noticed that familiar bullseye branding. It was Lucky Strikes. I knelt down and prized open the carton of cigarettes. It was simply beautiful.

Now I don’t fancy myself a smoker. But if I did smoke cigarettes, it would unfilitered Lucky Strikes. I mean, if you’re going to smoke, you might as well go all out. Right?

Also, around this time, I had started to write short stories. In all of my stories, everyone smoked Lucky Strike cigarettes. Plus, when Hollywood came a calling and I had to produce one of these masterpieces that I’d written, I would need a cool name for a production company. Hence, Lucky Strike Productions. The logo would emulate the cigarette brand and would have that worn, pulp fiction paperback look. It was rebel!

Then I thought up an idea. A wonderfully rebellious type of idea. The urge was to great. The hangover too strong. I just had to do it.

I popped my head up out of the customer service center and looked back and forth. I glanced up to and glanced at the security camera. It was face the exact opposite way of where I was kneeling.

With my back towards the security camera, I quickly grabbed a couple packs of the Lucky Strike cigarettes and jammed them into my pockets. Without missing a beat, I continued to stacking the cigarette shelves until all were filled.

Then, about five minutes later, I started to get dizzy. Then, I had a faint taste of gin on my mouth. Then, I felt like I was going to puke. I ran to the bathroom and puked up the rest of the alcohol and, oh there it was, last-night’s Rally’s hamburger. I sat in the restroom for a couple minutes waiting to see if the volcano eruption had subsided. It had.

So I washed off my face and walked back to the Customer Service center to continue my cigarette stacking.

As I approached the front of the store, I noticed Mr. Zimmer, our other store manager. He was a short man. About 5 foot 6. He resembled a slightly slimmer version of Brian Dennehey (the guy who played the sheriff in First Blood for all of those unaware). He had these deep set, piercing blue eyes that could possibly shoot lasers if he was a superhero. He wore a nice dark-gray suit. His arms were crossed and his was staring right in my direction.

It was also readily apparent he was awaiting my arrival.

The look on his face was a mystery. I couldn’t tell if he was angry, pissed, happy to see me or none of the above.

Then, I thought about the cigarettes in my pocket. The blood immediately drained from my face.

“Mr. Eimer,” Mr. Zimmer said with his hand outstretched. “Happy New Year.”

“Happy New Year to you,” I said nervously as I shook his hand.

He looked at me straight in the eye with a slight smile like he knew something that I didn’t know.

“We’ve got to have a talk,” he said. “Can you follow me upstairs.”

“But, Mr. Hannus wanted me to..” I quickly interjected.

“I don’t care what he said,” Mr. Zimmer said slightly annoyed. “The cigarettes can wait. We need to talk now.”

I blinked and slowly followed Mr. Zimmer up to the office. My heart was pounding. Sweat was beading down my face. My throat was dry.

I silently shuffled up the stairs and glanced over to Pam, one of our older cashiers, who worked the day shifts. Looking for some sort of charity, I waved to her and offered her a smile. She simply stared at me with this sad look on her face like she felt sorry for me.

I swallowed. I was fucked. The two packs of Lucky Strikes in my pocket felt like 10-pound bowling balls.

We arrived in Mr. Zimmer’s office. There was only one wall, the rest of the walls were lined with one-way mirrors overlooking the entire store. I also noticed the video camera aiming at the Customer Service desk.

I slowly began to realize that he’d been up here the entire time. He pointed to a seat in front of his desk. “Why don’t you have a seat over there,” he ordered. I obliged.

He sat in his seat, which was turned away from my face and towards the one-way mirror overlooking the cashiers. Then he let out a deep sigh, swiveled his chair around and looked me straight in the eyes.

“I talked to Mr. Hannus before he left for church,” he looked up at me for some type of recognition that I was understanding what he was saying.

“Uh, huh,” I nodded wondering if this was a sly way of greasing me up for a confession.

“Well, he mentioned that you were going to be hanging around here for a couple of years.”

“Uh, huh.”

“And, knowing this. And seeing how well you’ve been doing at the bagging area, and outside with the carts, not to mention helping out the security in capturing a couple shoplifters …”

“Uh huh,” I uttered thinking back to one or two times I’ve prevented a couple small, quick (and rather stinky) shoplifters with copious amounts of steaks in their sweat pants from exiting the store so the police officers could catch up to them.

“Well, I’m not sure how to say this, so I’m just going to say it.”

Dead silence. I was on the edge of my seat. I was now going to be humiliatingly fired.

“Would you be interested in working in our meat department?”

My mouth dropped. The two packs of cigarettes in my pocket lightened up. My heart began to beat for a different reason.

“You mean, no more bagging?” I asked. I felt shell-shocked. I felt relief. I felt a lot better. I felt important. I felt scared.

“Not anymore," he said. "Now, if you want this job, you would report to the meat department next week, so they can get you up to speed before James leaves.”

“That’s great,” I said.

“And, there would be an increase in pay, according to the UFCW rules for meat and seafood departments,” he said referring to the union that supports all Ohio Kroger stores, and also takes a pretty substantial amount from your weekly paycheck too.

“Really?” I said seemingly excited that I would be getting a raise. The first raise of my entire life. “Well,” he said with his eyes wide open. “What’s it going to be?”

“You mean, you want to know right now?”

He nodded. “Seems to me like a no-brainer though, wouldn’t you say.”

I paused for a moment. I started thinking about working in the front. No more staring at cute college girl cashier butts. No more Cowboy. No more standing outside. No more fights in the parking lot. No more bagging. No more Jonas, who would now be promoted head bagger. No more Big Head. No more bums asking me for money.

It was beautiful and frightening at the same time. In essence, I was being asked if I wanted to trade this great big dysfunctional, and sometimes foul smelling, front-store family for a life of blood, guts, hamburgers, lobsters, meatcutting and pig’s feet.

Mr. Zimmer was right. It was a no brainer.

“Let’s do it,” I said extending a hand. “Thanks for the opportunity.”

He let out a big smile and shook my hand. “That’s great,” he said. “We’ve got a great bunch of guys back there.”

“Can’t wait,” I said. And truly meant it.

“Finish up your shift here today, then plan on coming into the store on Wednesday at 3 p.m. for your first day,” Mr. Zimmer said. “I'll notify the guys in the meat department and we’ll also have to fill out some new paperwork up here before your shift.”

My hangover was completely gone. I hopped down the steps with a big smile on my face and continued stacking cigarettes. For the rest of the day, I bagged every grocery bag like it was my last. I fetched carts like a Golden Retriever chases after a ball. I greeted bums, hooligans and thugs with hearty ‘Hellos’ and ‘Happy New Years’ as they entered the store.

All this and I was getting a raise to boot. Life was truly grand.

I looked up at the clock. It was almost 3 p.m. I was so happy I had almost forgot that I was supposed to meet my roommates at a friend’s house to watch the Ohio State and Syracuse game.

Then, I remembered something. I put my hand down into my pocket and felt the cigarettes. I groaned.

I quickly went to bathroom, walked into a stall and retrieved one of the two packs of Lucky Strikes from my pocket. I then walked up to the Customer Service station and handed the pack over to Michelle, one of Ghetto Kroger’s cutest managers (which wasn’t saying too much).

“Um, I found this in an empty cart in the back of the store.”

“Thanks sweety,” she said and gave me a look. “By the way, congratulations.”

“Uh, thanks,” was my only response.

Word was beginning to spread. As I turned away and I knew, right then, I would never steal anything again from Ghetto Kroger.

And I didn’t. At least for a couple of month.

Which was enough time to get acquainted to the plunderers, rastabouts and other eccentric characters who worked in the meat and seafood departments.

SIDENOTE: Oh, and that other pack of Lucky Strike cigarettes. It's packed somewhere in my basement. Every once in a while I come across it and reflect on my days at the Ghetto Kroger. I just haven't had the heart to throw it away.



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
Story #7: Cowboy

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!