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One of my friends from the store just reminded me of this one. She says the weirdest thing about it is that I never actually felt the need to ask what the hell was going on afterwards. But first you need to know a little something about Boss.
So, the Boss. The Boss was awesome.
But crazy. He would have been crazy-awesome had the crazy not been so often at the forefront. He's one of those high energy types, constantly popping in and out of the gym, over caffeinated would-be bodybuilder with a perpetual snack attack. When my glasses broke on me at one point, and I was waiting for them to be repaired, the Boss was the only person I could tell apart from the others (my vision is BAD) because he was the bouncy, fast-moving blur with the vaguely spikey hairdo. When his wife came by to pick up the "Happy 41st Birthday!" cake she'd had me make for him, she swapped the 4 and the 1 around, because she thought it was more appropriate.
He could be a little intimidating to be around simply because he WAS so high energy -- whenever we worked the same shift, he would give me a ride to work, and I would be gritting my teeth and working the imaginary break pedal all the way while he nattered on about football. Whenever he was working these early shifts, he would also immediately commandeer the store speaker system as soon as he arrived and blast eighties glam rock until it was time to open the store.
He invented "backstock jousting" as a form of motivation, which I walked in on much to my bewilderment one morning. It involves two guys (from backstock) extending their index fingers and "fencing" with them, complete with poses, while the others stand in a circle and cheer them on. They had weekly tournaments where the loser had to work the notorious midnight-to-eight shift changing all the price labels in the store every Saturday.
For my first four weeks as a supervisor, he continually terrorised me with absolutely harrowing "forklift lessons" that he said all the supervisors were required to learn. These involved making me lift palettes of flatscreen TVs worth more than I make in a year, then standing back and yelling "BE CAREFUL WHAT ARE YOU DOING OH MY GOD ITS TIPPING ITS TIPPING OH JESUS YOU WILL BE SO FIRED" until I threatened to beat him to death with his own travel mug.
But by far the weirdest thing he's ever done (at least, that I've been around to witnesses) is the Orange Thing.
The scene:
Late afternoon. Our break room. It's not particularly glamorous -- there are criminals who have better than the tiny, paint peeling cement room we drag ourselves to between activities. There's barely enough room for the single long table and the benches that surround it on two sides. With no windows, it's also rather gloomy -- since I was the first person to arrive mornings, I usually hailed the dark room with "THERE BETTER NOT BE ANY RAPISTS IN HERE" before flicking on the lights. (Phew!)
But as I said, this is late afternoon, so I'm puzzled as I round the stairs and suddenly find myself in the dark. I'm looking for the Boss because I need his John Hancock on my materials order I share with the Deli, and it stands to reason that if I can't find him harassing the stock boys, he's probably up here, ostensibly doing "paperwork" while he "tests" whatever new cake we've gotten in this week.
I flutter my hand uncertainly along the wall, find the light switch, and flip it on.
The Boss, the produce supervisor, and several other store employees are sitting around the table in the dark. They each have one of the tiny clementine oranges, and, eyes closed, heads tilted back, are rolling them slowly over their faces.
I stare.
The Boss opens one eye, holding his orange to the tip of his nose. "Something you need, Cookie?"
". . . Oh. Uh. No. It's cool. I'm cool. Um. I'll find you later?"
"Glad to hear it." he says.
We stare at each other a moment longer. Everyone else is still absorbed in their oranges. "Do you want one?" he offers. There's a box on the table.
FUCK NO I DON'T WANT YOUR FREAKY ALIEN MOTHERSHIP ORANGES.
"No thank you."
"Okay." he says, and smiles.
I flip off the light.
"Thank you." he calls as I walk back downstairs, where the Deli supervisor is waiting for me.
"Did you find him?" she asks.
I stare at her blankly. " . . . he was busy." I say finally. "With stuff."
Fifteen minutes later, he comes trotting down the stairs, refreshed, wanting to know what he can do for me. He signs my order. I stare at him while he does it, looking for signs of an alien invasion.
To this day, although we are still friends, it has honestly never once occurred to me to ask him WHAT THE HELL HE WAS DOING. I think I'll ask him about it the next time I we chat, but I'm not holding out for a straight answer.
So, the Boss. The Boss was awesome.
But crazy. He would have been crazy-awesome had the crazy not been so often at the forefront. He's one of those high energy types, constantly popping in and out of the gym, over caffeinated would-be bodybuilder with a perpetual snack attack. When my glasses broke on me at one point, and I was waiting for them to be repaired, the Boss was the only person I could tell apart from the others (my vision is BAD) because he was the bouncy, fast-moving blur with the vaguely spikey hairdo. When his wife came by to pick up the "Happy 41st Birthday!" cake she'd had me make for him, she swapped the 4 and the 1 around, because she thought it was more appropriate.
He could be a little intimidating to be around simply because he WAS so high energy -- whenever we worked the same shift, he would give me a ride to work, and I would be gritting my teeth and working the imaginary break pedal all the way while he nattered on about football. Whenever he was working these early shifts, he would also immediately commandeer the store speaker system as soon as he arrived and blast eighties glam rock until it was time to open the store.
He invented "backstock jousting" as a form of motivation, which I walked in on much to my bewilderment one morning. It involves two guys (from backstock) extending their index fingers and "fencing" with them, complete with poses, while the others stand in a circle and cheer them on. They had weekly tournaments where the loser had to work the notorious midnight-to-eight shift changing all the price labels in the store every Saturday.
For my first four weeks as a supervisor, he continually terrorised me with absolutely harrowing "forklift lessons" that he said all the supervisors were required to learn. These involved making me lift palettes of flatscreen TVs worth more than I make in a year, then standing back and yelling "BE CAREFUL WHAT ARE YOU DOING OH MY GOD ITS TIPPING ITS TIPPING OH JESUS YOU WILL BE SO FIRED" until I threatened to beat him to death with his own travel mug.
But by far the weirdest thing he's ever done (at least, that I've been around to witnesses) is the Orange Thing.
The scene:
Late afternoon. Our break room. It's not particularly glamorous -- there are criminals who have better than the tiny, paint peeling cement room we drag ourselves to between activities. There's barely enough room for the single long table and the benches that surround it on two sides. With no windows, it's also rather gloomy -- since I was the first person to arrive mornings, I usually hailed the dark room with "THERE BETTER NOT BE ANY RAPISTS IN HERE" before flicking on the lights. (Phew!)
But as I said, this is late afternoon, so I'm puzzled as I round the stairs and suddenly find myself in the dark. I'm looking for the Boss because I need his John Hancock on my materials order I share with the Deli, and it stands to reason that if I can't find him harassing the stock boys, he's probably up here, ostensibly doing "paperwork" while he "tests" whatever new cake we've gotten in this week.
I flutter my hand uncertainly along the wall, find the light switch, and flip it on.
The Boss, the produce supervisor, and several other store employees are sitting around the table in the dark. They each have one of the tiny clementine oranges, and, eyes closed, heads tilted back, are rolling them slowly over their faces.
I stare.
The Boss opens one eye, holding his orange to the tip of his nose. "Something you need, Cookie?"
". . . Oh. Uh. No. It's cool. I'm cool. Um. I'll find you later?"
"Glad to hear it." he says.
We stare at each other a moment longer. Everyone else is still absorbed in their oranges. "Do you want one?" he offers. There's a box on the table.
FUCK NO I DON'T WANT YOUR FREAKY ALIEN MOTHERSHIP ORANGES.
"No thank you."
"Okay." he says, and smiles.
I flip off the light.
"Thank you." he calls as I walk back downstairs, where the Deli supervisor is waiting for me.
"Did you find him?" she asks.
I stare at her blankly. " . . . he was busy." I say finally. "With stuff."
Fifteen minutes later, he comes trotting down the stairs, refreshed, wanting to know what he can do for me. He signs my order. I stare at him while he does it, looking for signs of an alien invasion.
To this day, although we are still friends, it has honestly never once occurred to me to ask him WHAT THE HELL HE WAS DOING. I think I'll ask him about it the next time I we chat, but I'm not holding out for a straight answer.
*pause to let awesome freaky insanity sink in* 
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