Sunday, May 20, 2007


I'm smoking a cigarette in the loading zone, and it's quiet for once, except for one woman in a parked Honda minivan who's talking on her cell phone. I can tell she by her face she wants to ask me a question, so I try to get the hell away before she can roll her window down but it doesn't work.

"I need... like.. a lot of those... Mexican stones."

"Ok. The Mexican Beach?"

"Yea, those... I have like, 700 square feet. How many would I need?"

"Ahh... a lot. Like 700 bags."

"Oh.... well, see, it's going around a pool. Do you have to, ah, wash them off? They look dirty."

"Well, yea. There's dirt in the bags, so you should wash'em before you put'em down."

"Oh... and, uh, how would I do that?"

Bitch, I can't believe they let you drive.

"Ahhhh.... with.. a... hose?"

She really can't tell whether I'm fucking with her or not, and I can see her face change back and forth between anger and... well, something else.


She knows this conversation is over, and rolls her window back up.

I really should not be working retail.