Yesterday I’m slinging free wine samples at Safeway…

Friday the 8th to be exact. Same as every other Friday…I’m slinging free Booze. The Samplers are the usual pathetic shells of humanity. Mixed with one or two deranged regulars. I don’t I.D. my regulars. I forget the names of these haunted souls. I call them Bud, or Pal, or Dude…or Good Buddy. Take this guy. I call him Old Good Buddy or Dude or sometimes I call him Bud.

“Hey Bud.”

Bud is solidly deranged. I don’t think he’s murdered anybody but you never know. I like him the same as I like a lot of people. The more deranged the better. He’s in a rush so I pour him a double. That’s about a half ounce in the parlance.

“Give me a toast, would ja? I need one for my invoice.”

He obliges, ergo the pic…

He wants to talk about a barbeque he delivered to Marin City. I’m trying to ignore his narrative but Marin City catches my attention. Somebody up on a hill paid him a hundred bucks to haul away this gigantic barbeque. And for some reason he drives it down to Marin City.

“Nobody wanted it.” he says. “I couldn’t get rid of it. I had it in my van. It fit sideways. I moved my bed to make it fit.”

“You don’t want to get barbeque gunk on your bed.”

“Nobody wanted the barbeque. Listen, you know they’re fitting the cars with cameras. All of them will have indigenous data status reports. You know that, right?”

“Of course I know that. How do you sleep with the barbeque?”

“I found some Black Folks in Marin City! They took the barbeque! They were so happy to get the barbeque!”

“You sold it to em?”

“I gave it to them. They were so happy.”

I’m thinking, is he making this shit up? I don’t think he’s a bigot but you never know. I don’t feel the need to question him further. I want him to leave. It’s the same with all my other deranged regulars. They don’t leave even though they insist they need to leave.

“I gotta leave,” he says.

He lingers.

The cameras are fitted with indigenous sensors,” he says.

I back away.

“They’ll be everywhere! he says. “I’m serious!”

“They’re already everywhere.”

I’m backing away from him…

The longevity issue

I’m thinking as we age we settle into slag heaps of agedness. Near the end most of us will be shepherded through the automatic doors. Into the cool of Safeway. There to mingle with the product. Others like us are there. We’ll crowd behind the deadenders waiting in line. Diligent checkers will fit us with devices. Indigenous listening devices. Death will be like reading a comic book or…a magazine.

Shoppers weave carts past my wine tasting table. Nobody pauses. They sense my negative vibe. Once upon a time I made an effort to greet them.

“How ya doing! Would ja like to taste some wine!”

In the beginning I was naïve. That was then. This is now. Now I avoid eye contact. Because conducting a vigorous tasting is pointless. I know, despite BUD’S deranged insistence, that nobody is observing me. The listening devices are muted…or defunct. I have no supervision. Safeway employees take me for granted. My own supervisors are in Sacramento and Arizona. All they care about are my invoices. “Don’t forget to download your invoices….otherwise you won’t be paid.” If my invoices are filled out correctly, they’re happy. Because only the invoices matter. They get paid 24 hundred dollars for each invoice I produce. While they in turn pay me 91 dollars for the same invoice. My motivation is nil. I make no effort to promote the spirits. They urge me to sell. I include in my invoices grand numbers. I lie. My wine sales are fabricated. Because nobody is keeping tabs. My job is illusory, yet the invoices are real. The store is real. The product is real. If I choose to pilfer bottles of booze, nobody will notice, because I’m the booze sample dude. I’ve yet to reach the point where I’m actively robbing the store. I’ll wait until the Economy implodes. A deranged President wielding a tariff cudgel presents a forgone conclusion. Soon the swag will be flowing. I’ll be self-employed, like the old days. For the time being, I’m biding my time.

I reach across from my table and clutch a magazine from the rack.

The longevity issues…

This one is called Happiness Made Easy.

The Safeway magazine racks are where all the wisdom Safeway shoppers are able to absorb rests. Here you can build your bliss. Boost your spirit. Nurture your family. Manage your moods. Until which time you step in line at the check stand.

And kiss your ass goodbye…

I mean your sorrows.

I drift away

My shift ends at six. I’ll leave at five. Sometimes I leave earlier. It doesn’t matter when I leave…as long as the invoice is completed. Nobody really cares I leave early. Every shift I work I leave a bit earlier than the last shift. Soon I’ll be showing up long enough to set up my table, snap some photos, wave at the candy rack and go home.

Today I drift away at five

Back to the pad.

Feed the bird…

Stare across at Scruffy

Wave to Ronnie…