Morry has been working at Chicken Mountain farm stores for a year and three months. He likes his job and finds most days to be pleasant, unique and entertaining. That is with exception. There are always exceptions to rules. Exceptions make life most interesting.
The Christmas music is monotonous. The same damn tracks over and over. I hate it. Now I hate Christmas music. Thanks Chicken Mountain. Thanks. I am working with that “wacky chick” the one whose is an oddball and weirds everyone out with her singing or babbling about the tiniest thing we have in common. Hello new girl who doesn’t shut up. I just focus on the rendition of songs over and over. The damn “tape” or “loop” or what the hell ever drags or speeds up (at times amusing, if nothing else) causing customer comments. At least working the deli keeps me busy.
Whack! I instantly raised my hand to my cheek while looking down at the floor. A decent size piece of green pepper just bounced off his face to the floor. Seriously Wacky: you just pelted me with a piece of pepper? What the hell are you thinking..?
Raising my eye level to her height but still looking down, “Don’t you ever do that again.” She froze like a deer with its ass hanging out in the spot light (or whatever the hell that stupid saying is) and I saw her eyes widen. “That’s right, I’m serious.” I expected this to cease the bullshit, but never underestimate the wacky people. Half a cherry tomato hit my right shoulder; it’s other half just below my name tag and into the front pocket of my apron. The tomato goo was stuck to my work shirt with a few tiny seeds left behind for good measure. That’s when my serious side arose from its slumber.
What the hell, I’m bleeding. The wacky bitch threw a knife at me? No, that’s a bullet hole. I’m shot? She fucking shot me? Unbelievable! Is she that starved for attention she will shoot me for ignoring her senseless ramble? Where’s the gun?! Screw it! I grabbed the carving knife in front of me, ready to defend myself until I bleed out. Out of nowhere my manager tackles me like she’s a linebacker for the Steeler’s. The knife flies out of my hand, landing on the crappy tile floor with a clatter. I was defenseless against the pair. Wacky grabs the knife up and tosses it into the sink. My manager kept screeching “Call the police! Call the police!” How can I call the police with her fat ass holding me down?
I hear the sirens; the medics are the first to arrive. Interesting…as fat ass never yelled for an ambulance. She finally gets off me at the demand of the medical team. I could hear them and saw their little pen light pierce my eyes. No one was paying any attention to the bullet holes in my body! Do they want me to die?! One shouts something about my eyes and dilation. I’m not sure what the hell they are so fixated on. Wow, what a morning I’m having. How the hell did my roommates know I was going to have an epic morning? I remember them harassing me about being scrambled in the head. This conversation took place over coffee they prepared while they showed me a fascinating rendition of Van Gogh’s Starry Night printed on a heavy perforated sheet of paper. I never saw such a thing and pulled it out of the thin plastic piece of cellophane.
“This is so cool! “ I told them. “What is this called?” I inquired. “Oh, it’s called a blotter sheet. It’s a big thing in the art world. Never saw one before huh?” they asked. I responded, “Nope.” They giggled and said, “Enjoy your morning. We have to head out.” I called out as they made a beeline for the door, “Thanks man. You guys have a good one too.”
They had no idea what I was in for.