In Recognition of International Woman’s Day

Mrs. Beam picked me up on Sunday morning to take me to Cedar Grove Lutheran Church. I was a little on the uppity side when it came to choosing church going.  My grandparents and my father attended Bess Chapel Methodist.  That was too redneck for me, too “Rock of Ages” for my taste.  I had a vision that I need to be among the better heeled Lutherans and that if I attended Cedar Grove, with the judgmental and harsh minister who at the time stood in the pulpit and reined with a steel fist over his flock, I would somehow be closer to where my family had once been.  I could pretend for those mornings while standing, sitting, standing, and sitting that my life was truly no different that it had been.  Before the divorce.  Before the gradual disintegration of my family.  Before I came to live at Flay.

So my precious and loving 4^th grade teacher picked me up as she passed by Flay on Sunday mornings.  In my memory, I was always waiting on her, ready and willing to enter an environment that did not want me at all.  On time for this appointment, this may explain why I have rarely been on time since.

This was a church filled with intact nuclear families and perfect mother-daughter relationships.  Fathers appeared to be part of the plan, and I could gaze upon a world that had been stolen out from under me.  A place that loudly proclaimed that I was the ugly duckling, but which I chose to attend repeatedly, to endure what I felt as personal abuse, until I received my confirmation.    I recall being admonished by a holier-than-thou teacher because I uttered the word, “dang”.  I was strongly reprimanded that this was no different from saying the other word – I suppose she meant damn – and that I should watch my language, young lady.  I don’t think I was trying to be a lady.  And I do not carry fond memories of her.  I can see the agitation and disgust in her face even now.

I still have the 8×10 glossy in which my best friend at the time, along with three other “young ladies” are being photographed in the moment of their confirmations.  Or the moment after.  The dogmatic and unkind minister stands there as well with his expression of boredom and dislike.  Still, there is a pride on that 15-year-old face that I had accomplished this goal, that I had attained this special recognition that I mistakenly thought would make both of my parents proud.  My dad was with my grandparents (or so I remember) attending the small Methodist church.  Perhaps there were family members in attendance.  I don’t recall.  But the importance of the event was that I had done it with no encouragement and little fanfare.  I had reached this goal, which was shortly to bear little importance to me.

I left the Lutheran church after that.  Mrs. Beam was no longer there to take me on Sunday mornings.  Or else I had my driving license by that point, and was in the throes of teenage rebellion.  Who needed church?  I still needed Mrs. Beam, but my vision was blurred by the upheavals in my life, and I lost touch with her.  It was time to be the rebellious, battle your way out of life and cut your nose off to spite your face teenager.  I did a rather good job at that.

My sister reminded me of Mrs. Beam this week.  The warm memories, feelings, and fondness I still feel for her is deeply embedded.  She was a beacon in a time of deep darkness for me.  She loved me for who I was and I felt no recriminations or judgment because I did not come from the perfect family unit.  I came with the baggage of a mentally ill father, divorced parents, and abandonment issues with my mother, and the somewhat jaded goodwill of grandparents who took me into their home to raise.

A veritable redheaded force who was unable to feel appreciation for much in her life at that point.  That has changed deeply.  I do appreciate now.  I am humbled with gratitude for what so many did for me.  That is the lesson of life – if you can appreciate late, do so.  If you can do it early, please do so.  Thank you, Mrs. Beam.  For giving unsparingly and without any reservations to me with a heart that was so full of compassion, so ready to offer love to a lost little girl, so able to allow me to see myself through your eyes.  Thank you for simply being you.  Thank you from the very essence of me.

Baseball Hats and Liquor Bottles

“Here comes old John,” Bobby was watching out of the front window.  Old John headed in their direction, head down, dirty black hat pulled low on his brow.  Shuffling more than walking.  He glanced up, saw Bobby watching him.  Bobby turned away from the door, and headed behind the register.

“Old drunk,” he muttered.  Ace continued emptying the Kentucky Bourbon boxes and stocking the shelves.  The Christmas specials were gone, and a bright yellow flower stared out from the stickers advertising spring drinking.  Old John would be reaching for the Wild Turkey and asking about this week’s specials.  The cheapest and longest drunk was his only goal.  He was a regular every three days, not counting Sundays.

“Lo, Bobby.”

“Yeah, John.”

“How’s the world treatin’ ya?”  Bobby grimaced.  Same fucking conversation every three days with this fucker.  Why didn’t he just come in, buy his liquor, and get out?

“Same ole, same old, John.  You?”  The question was completely rote, monotone.  Bobby didn’t care if Old John fell over in a drunken stupor and died in his store.  As long as he didn’t try to engage him in conversation.

“Well, now, my rheumatism has been acting up.  This cold weather always does it.  Need my medicine to make me feel better.”  He laughed loudly at the bad joke as if he was Robin Williams on stage.

“We got your meds, John.  You come to the right place.”  Again, Bobby didn’t give a rat’s ass if the “medicine” helped Old John or not.  Just buy and get out.

“How you doin’, Ace?”

“Fine, John, fine.  It surely has been a cold week.  You want one of these?” Ace handed a bottle of Wild Turkey to John.

“Why, that’s right kind of you, Ace.  Yeah, I think that’s one of my meds.  What you got on special?”  Ace looked toward Bobby, and he rolled his eyes.

“Ain’t figured out specials yet this week, John.  Hell, it’s Monday morning at 10 AM.  We just opened the store.  Even seems a little early for you, if you ask me.” Old John didn’t look up, just shuffled over to the counter.  Taking out his old brown wallet, he pulled some bills out.  “I’m a little short this week, Bobby.  Ya think you could run me a little line of credit?”

“Now, John, you know I don’t do that.  Giving credit to a drunk is throwing your money in the gutter.  I can’t start doing that.  As I’ve told you before.  There just ain’t no credit available.  Hell, I’m not a fuckin’ bank.”  Bobby could feel his blood pressure rising.  This was a hell of a way to start a Monday morning.

“Okay, Bobby.  I just thought it worth asking.  I think I’ll be just getting a smaller bottle, Ace.  My rheumatism will be alright.”

“Sure, John, sure.” Ace moved toward him, taking the larger bottle from his grasp, reshelving it, and choosing a smaller cheaper bottle.  Bobby grunted loudly, indicating his aggravation with Ace helping the old man.  Bobby wasn’t big on customer service.  Ignoring that, Ace retrieved the bottle and gave it to Old John.

“Thank you, Ace.  You are a kind man.”  Paying for the bourbon, Old John took his purchase and shuffled toward the door.  Turning slightly, he glanced at Bobby.  “I don’t mean no harm in askin’, Bobby.”  Bobby grunted again as the old man pulled on the front door, and shuffled out.

“Fucking drunk,” Bobby muttered.

“I don’t get you, Boss.  He’s a customer .”   Ace said this low and soft.  He knew better than to criticize Bobby.

“He don’t keep me in business.  He shows up and buys the cheapest stuff we have.  He just embarrasses himself.  Drunk idiot.  He’s killing himself and he don’t even care.  Rheumatism, my ass.  He’s just a drunk like the rest of ’em.”  Ace shook his head imperceptibly, and kept his head down.  It wasn’t any of his business.

An hour later, Mrs. Green came in.  Wrinkles covered her face and her wiry grey hair jutted out from under her old lady’s bucket hat.  She had smeared on some red lipstick that drifted into the corners of her mouth like soft clouds, and her fingernails were chipped with a deep burgundy, making them appeared bruised.  She wore peach colored bib overalls, with a blouse covered with tiny red flowers underneath.

“Moanin,” she warbled out as if she were a deep southern belle with a drawl that said she was born somewhere close to Charleston.

“How you boys doin’ on this fine Monday moanin’?”

“Morning, Mrs. Green.  Looks like a nice day, even if it is a bit chilly,” Ace thought she was a kind-hearted woman and he enjoyed talking with her.  She always showed up on the first day of the week with her list of “cordials and liqueours” that she would need for her week’s entertaining.  Ace suspected the only company she entertained were her two old beagles and her spinster sisters, Ruth and Annette.  He could set the clock by her visit on Mondays.

“And you, Bobby?”  Mrs. Green turned her lively sparkling blue eyes toward the owner of Pendleton Liquors.

“Good.”

“My goodness, Bobby is always so short on words.  Had I been your English teacher, I would have taught you to share some of those words you keep locked up.  Ace, you on the other hand are a gracious conversationalist.  I do enjoy your greetings when I visit on Mondays.  But Bobby.  My, my, my.  Your mama coulda taught you a lot more about the art of conversation.  And to me!  Why, I’m one of your regulars.  You need to talk to me!”  Mrs. Green delivered her lecture in a sparkling chirpy voice.  Bobby pasted a smile on his mouth, and nodded.  Old biddy didn’t need to be telling him how to treat his customers.  This was his store, and he was doing quite well, thank you.  Just shut the fuck up, make your purchases, and get out.  Who the hell did she think she was anyway?

“Guess I’m just not the talky type.”  Bobby reached for her choices, and began ringing them up.  She kept smiling broadly as if she could win him over.  He refused to look at her, keeping his eyes on the bottles and the register.

“Seventy-two dollars, twelve cents.  Want a receipt?”   Mrs. Green cackled.

“My, my, I must be havin’ lots of company this week.  That’s a lot of money, but I think the parties I’m havin’ will justify it.  Here you go,” Mrs. Green pulled out a stack of hundreds, and handed him one.

“You know, Bobby, you need to give this fine young man a raise,” she nodded toward Ace.  “He’s a good employee for you.  You don’t want to lose him.  Else, you wouldn’t have any personality in this building attall!”  She laughed nervously.  Throwing a smile over her shoulder to Ace, she sashayed out the door as if she was still the lovely sober twenty five year old of a half of a century earlier.

“Give you a raise.  Humph.  I’m the one needs the raise here.  I have to put up with these people.  You like ’em.  You really do, don’t ya?  How can you possibly.  Shit.  I wake up dreading to come here because of the crap I have to take from these people.  Got a good mind to sell this place and move to Florida.  Shit.”  Bobby stomped off to the back door to take a smoke.  Florida was always the threat on Monday mornings.

Ace finished restocking the bourbon, and moved the boxes to the outside.  It never failed that someone would pick these up and use them for moving or storage.  Whatever the reason, the boxes would be gone by afternoon.

Sitting down behind the register, he reached for the remote.  TV was his escape during the day, until customers with interesting stories came in.  Ace liked to talk to the customers.  Bobby always had something bad to say about the lives shared in the liquor store.  But this was Ace’s work world.  It didn’t have the same meaning as the meetings, though.  A longtime member of AA, he found it puzzling that he worked in a liquor store.  He never mentioned this when he went to his Sunday morning and Tuesday evening meetings.  That was the only time he wasn’t working.  No deliveries on Tuesday, and the law didn’t allow liquor sales in the county on Sunday.  He remembered the day he showed up at the store to ask for a job.  Sober for a month, he thought somehow that if he was around liquor all the time it would keep him from opening a bottle for himself.  His sponsor hadn’t agreed, the only one in AA who did know where he worked, but so far, now 3 ½ years later, it had worked.  When he saw the messes his customers got into, how quickly their bodies aged, how bad their relationships were, he wasn’t inclined to pick up a bottle.  No matter how lonely or scared he got.  He could deal with the night sweats and fear.  But the loneliness.  That was something else.

Flipping on the TV, he began looking for a good movie channel.

“What the fuck you watchin’?  Bobby was back in the store, and reaching for a broom.  Ace only grunted in response, and flipped the channels looking for sports or maybe a cooking channel.  Over half of their customers were women.  Perhaps more.

At noon, three Mexicans came in the store.  Moving quickly through, they spoke quietly to each other.  In Spanish. Bobby watched them with squinted angry eyes.  He didn’t trust the black customers at all, but the Mexicans were an all time low for him.

“Whatcha lookin’ for?” he yelled out.  They were only a few feet from where he stood.  One of the three shook his head, and pointed to the tequila section.  “Damn immigrants,” he muttered under his breath low enough to be unintelligible but loud enough for them to know he was talking about them.  They made their choices, and came to the counter.  The one in front pointed to the shot size bottles.

“How much,” he offered in a strong accent.  Ace held up two fingers.  The man chose six bottles, and put them beside three bottles of Jose Quervo.  Ace rang them up, and pulled out two bags.  The customer shook his  head, and each man took a bottle.  Ace put the shot bottles in one of the bags, and handed it to the man, giving him a brief smile.  The customer nodded, glanced uncomfortably toward Bobby, and the three men hurried out.

“Fuckin’ wetbacks.”  Bobby spit on the floor.  Ace looked down.  Nothing to add to that, except the customers had just spent over $60 bucks in Bobby’s store, but then he knew that.  Ace pulled down on his Tennessee hat, and sat back down.  “Hey, you gonna get to the toilet soon?”

“Sure, Boss.  I’ll go do that right now.”  Cleaning the bathroom twice a week was one of Ace’s jobs.  Not a pleasant one, but it got him out of the store and out of fire of Bobby’s comments.  Bobby never asked him how his Sunday had gone, if he had done anything fun, or if he had a family.  Just as well.  Ace didn’t want to share anything with his employer.  Bobby didn’t know Ace was a member of AA.  He had made it clear early on that he thought any man who couldn’t control his drinking ought to be put in the slammer or the mental hospital or worse.  No need to make his workday worse by getting personal with Bobby.  He grabbed the cleaning supplies from under the counter, and headed out back to the bathroom.  He stayed a little longer, paying special attention to the sink and the surrounding area.  At least this way, he didn’t have to listen to Bobby.

Around 2:00, three college kids came in.  Sniggering through the flavored vodka section, they eventually picked out the cheapest stuff in the store.  Bobby grunted as he checked their ID’s, looking fiercely at one who didn’t appear to be much over 12.  Finally he rang up the purchases, and handed them their bags, not sharing words with any of them.  No thank you’s.  Nothing.  They hurried out  like the Mexicans had done earlier.

Customers came and went during the rest of the afternoon.  At 6:30, a sophisticated attractive woman came in.  Ace watched her as she tried to hide her nervousness.  This was not a woman who was comfortable in a liquor store.  He recognized her from a couple of past visits.  She glanced in Bobby’s direction.  He smiled broadly, and said hello.  Ace was gratified to see her just nod, and move toward the back of the store where the gin and tonic was stocked.  Also choosing a bottle of kahlua, she brought her items to the register.

Ace smiled at her, and began to ring them up.

“Like your hat.”  She smiled toward him.  Her teeth were dazzling white and her smile sincere.  He smiled in return.  “Thanks.”

“You a Tennessee fan?”

“Nope.  Just like to wear hats.  People bring all kinds to me because I like them.”  She laughed.  He laughed in return, and he heard Bobby grunt.

“You like Tennessee?”  Bobby was determined to get in on the conversation.  She glanced in his direction.  No smile this time.

“My husband graduated from Tennessee.”  That was it.  She smiled back at Ace.

“I pull for Clemson myself.  Unless someone comes in with a damned red Gamecock shirt,” Bobby laughed like he was now Robin Williams.  She didn’t glance in his direction.  Ace grinned to himself.

“That credit or debit?”

“Either one.  Whichever works best for you.”
“Debit then.  You need a receipt?”

“No. Don’t think I’ll be bringing anything back.”  Ace smiled, and began bagging her purchases.

“Thanks for the business.”

“Is this your store?”  Ace shook his head.

“There’s your owner.”  Again, she didn’t look in the other direction.  Ace grinned more inside than out.

At 7:00 PM, his sponsor walked in.  He was wearing a black suit with a light blue shirt.  Light blue tie.  Ace was in the back, moving things around and dusting the shelves.  He glanced up, and saw the man walking toward him.  Ace blanched.  Charles had never been to the store before.   Ace glanced nervously toward Bobby, who was reading a magazine at the counter.  His sponsor reached into his pocket, and brought out a business card.  He held it out for Ace to take.

“What’s this?” Ace glanced down at the card.

“A job.”

“I have a job.”

“Okay, Ace.  A better job.”

“I don’t know, Charles,” he looked again toward where Bobby was sitting, fearful that if Bobby overheard, he would get fired on the spot.

“Ace.  You can do better than this.  Trust me.  Let’s take this step together.”  Charles watched his eyes closely.  “Everything you said yesterday is screaming for this.  You took this job initially because you needed one.  Now, seeing the ongoing behavior of this man is not helping you.  Seeing the tragedy in the lives of these people is not helping you.  You’re ready, Ace.  Really.”

Ace looked down at the card.  On the back was the name of a business.  A man who was in AA.  Who was part of his group on Sunday.  He needed a warehouse manager.  When Ace was drinking, he had lost more jobs than most people had in a lifetime.  Hell, he had lost more jobs than two people had.

“He depends on me.”  Ace nodded towards Bobby, who was now looking curiously toward the two men in the back.

“Any problems back there?” he called out.

“No problems, boss,” Ace replied.

“Richard.  Its time.” His sponsor used his first name.  Not Ace.  Richard.  Richard had been gone a long time.   Richard, junior, actually.  He stood still a moment longer, wondering if he was ready for a job that would require that he show up every day.  He and Charles had this conversation.  Yes, he had been doing that for 3 ½ years.  Showing up.  But was he ready for people.  That was the real test.  Could he go from working for a man who was more animal than human to working for a man who cared about him?  Because that would be the situation.  That would be the job, and the opportunity he faced.  It would become a commitment.  Could he make that commitment?

“Charles, this is job is so easy for me.”

“Yeah.  That’s why you have to leave it.  It’s time, Richard.”  Ace stared at his sponsor, wanting to trust him.  Wanting to believe that he could do this, and that the responsibility of a job, of working for a man who would have expectations for him would not drive him back to the bottle.  He was surprised to feel the wanting inside.  He wanted this.  For the first time in years, possibly decades, he wanted something that wasn’t just easy.   Wasn’t just escaping the past.  He heard a tiny voice that wanted to look toward the future.

“Okay.  Okay.” He looked at his hands.  The tremble was only slight now.  Only visible to him.  “Okay.”  He straightened his hat.  Then, without thinking, he removed it.  Walking to the front, he set it on the counter.  Charles was right behind him.  It felt good to have a friend there.  A man in a suit.  Richard knew what Bobby thought about men in suits.

“Wassup, Ace?”  Bobby looked first at him then at the suit behind him.

“Not much, Bobby.  I quit.”  He dropped his hat on the counter.

“You what?  What did you say?”  Bobby looked from the hat to Richard and back.

“I quit.  Thank you for hiring me and keeping me on for 3 ½ years.  Time to go.”  Bobby blinked once, and stared hard at Charles.

“You son-of-a-bitch.  Did you come in here to steal my employee?  Did you?” His voice squeaked out “you” like he was still in puberty.  Charles just shook his head.

“Let’s go, Richard.”

“Huh?  What did he call you?  Ace?  You gonna leave this job I trusted you with?  Huh?”

Richard shook his head, and walked out the door, Charles on his heels.  Although darkness had set in, there was still a winter orange glow on the edge of the horizon.