Dumpsters and Dear Johns

The bum by the dumpster scratched his butt and then scratched his nose. His face was wrinkled with life lines, love lines, and all of the lines of a life well lived. He did not regret his place in society here, nearly at the end of his life. People (those who walked by with noses screwed up in judgement) did not understand that his alcoholism was truly for medicinal purposes. It eased the pain, the emotional pain of a man who had seen too much in his life, who had experienced things that those people would only visit in movies or newspapers.

Yet, he did not regret a moment of it.

His life now was a convenient vacation, bit of a dirty one, but a vacation none the less. Better yet, this was his retirement and those who disapproved, well, could just go on disapproving. He lived here just like they did, was a part of the community just like they were, and did not depend on anyone to help him out. He enjoyed sleeping in the woods that surrounded the town, he enjoyed the generosity of Curtis (although he never asked, or God forbid, begged), and he was quite content to drink his social security check while lazing away the warm (or freezing) afternoon next to the dumpster.

He did try to work once when Curtis decided he could improve the bum's life with the satisfaction of a paycheck. What Curtis did not consider was the possibility that work did not fit into his lifestyle…that work made retirement less, well, retire-ful. He worked most of his life and now he wanted a good long break. A break long enough to last until the Long Break. For some reason, people didn’t equate his retirement with those who scrimped and saved their entire life. To him, it was very much the same. He just took fewer baths and began drinking earlier in the day.

Don’t for a minute think that the bum didn’t understand that he made people uncomfortable. That was why he stayed behind the store to enjoy his afternoon. The cars on the streets and in the parking lots made him feel edgy anyhow. Too much noise for a proper retirement.

He reached into his pocket this fine chilly afternoon and pulled out his most precious items, very nearly his only possessions. He held up a picture of a little boy, which he had accidently bent during a bar fight 10 years ago. He had his ass whooped during that fight near the pool tables, but it was nothing compared to the beat down he gave the same man in the parking lot that same evening when he realized that the picture had been bent during the fight. His temper had been a problem then.

There was also a bullet in his hand, a bullet with all of the indications that it has been fired. That bullet had once been a part of his brain; thankfully, a part that could be repaired with little consequence to his daily functioning. He had spent weeks in that army hospital on all sorts of pills. A very nice nurse, Marda (a strange name to him), took care of his bandages and moved his legs in a bicycle fashion to keep his circulation good. Marda was quite beautiful and was in love with a soldier on the front lines. She had pictures to show too. They became fast friends.

Quite often Marda would bring him an extra dessert or an extra roll with his dinner. After he left they exchanged letters. One day Marda’s letters stopped. He later heard from another wounded soldier who had been treated at that same hospital that Marda’s love had been killed in a skirmish near the Mekong Delta. Lovers disappeared quite often during the war both in Vietnam and at home. His disappeared at home.

Crack Rock and Christmas Parties

Many things happen in a Piggly Wiggly and in the deep south, stories play out like soap operas on the crack rock. So this story goes on beginning in the local mall...hope ya'll enjoy!

Twila held the blue sequenced dress up to her chest, holding the hanger under her chin. She looked up expectantly at her boyfriend for approval. Instead of the look of rapture she expected, she found Curtis inspecting his teeth in the crome of the clothing rack.

"CURTIS!" she screeched. "I am TRYIN' to pick out a dress for the Christmas party and you ain't payin' a lick of attention!"

"Yes I am, Honey! I think that one's really nice."

"Nice? NICE?...'Nice' is not what I am going for CURTIS! 'Nice' is what you wear to a birthday party when you're six! And you are NOT payin' any attention. What color was the last dress I showed you?"

"It was blue! See I am payin' you attention!"

"I meant the dress before this one! AND for your information, this is not blue. It's CO-BALT!"

Curtis stammered and shuffled his feet. He put his elbow on the rack next to him and leaned with a defeated sigh.

"I don't understand why this is so hard for you." Twila pouted. "I have to look my best and nice isn't going to cut it. SHE's going to be there and I WILL NOT let that sow show me up!"

"Twila Honey, I'm with you now. May cain't show you up! Even if she does come to the party, I wouldn't even know it 'cause my eyes will be on you the whole time!" Curtis smiled cleverly, proud of the debonaire way he handled the situation.

"THIS AIN'T ABOUT YOU CURTIS!" Twila hollered and slammed the blue dress back on the rack.


Life at the Piggly Wiggly was in upheaval at the moment. As the staff hung silver and gold shiny garlands (complete with card board cut outs of turkeys, hams, and unidentified casseroles), gossip was strung from Customer Service to the loading dock. The staff vibrated with excitement over the possibility that a cat fight might ensue at any moment; but secretly, they all hoped it would explode at the Christmas Party that weekend. Curtis, the store manager, had been married to May the bookkeeper for two years. About six weeks ago, he hired Twila to run Customer Service. Normally, the cashiers rotated shifts in Customer Service but it was discovered that one of the cashiers was stealing packs of cigarettes out of the cartons and then resealing the carton. Unable to decide who exactly it was, he decided to hire someone who could run Customer Service full time. He could pick up the shifts that Twila couldn't cover since that was where his office was anyhow. Twila and Curtis became very friendly. So friendly, that May would often stand and look through the glass partition above her desk to see the if the comradery had reached an unacceptable level. Unfortunately for her, May had very high hair. Thanks to Aqua Net and a good bit of teasing, Twila and Curtis could put 5 feet between them before May's eyes could surface above the brown paneling.

About a week ago, on a particularly bad hair day, May popped up for her periodic infidelity check. Instead of seeing Twila in her normal useless position, obsessively lining up the rolls of lottery tickets behind the counter, she saw no one. No one! The worst scenario imaginable!

Where'd that little bitch go to! May thought suspiciously.

Determined to put her suspicions to rest, May pushed her chair back and kicked the small swinging door to her office wide open. The paper snowman, holding fake frozen vegetables, that decorated the door to her office slid to the floor with the force of the kick. Eyes popped up over cash registers, grocery bags, and stock boxes and followed May and her limp hair. With another swift kick, May made mincemeat of the door to Customer Service (where paper Santa joined his friend Mr. Snowman on the floor). She walked past the rolls of lottery tickets and gave them a violent, mean-spirited spin as she passed on her way to the manager's office. The silence in the front of the store was deafening as the actors played their parts off stage behind green and red crepe paper streamers. Then as loud as if announced over the intercom May yelled,

"Goddamn Trailer Trash Whore! Cain't you find your own dick in that trailer park you live in? Hell! I heard your Daddy was back in town!"

With that said, May stomped back through Customer Service, this time yanking the whole plexiglass lottery ticket cabinet off the counter, and left the store without a word to anyone.

Curtis emerged quickly from his office and stumbled over the cabinet on the floor. He was zipping up his fly as he ran out of the automatic doors yelling May's name. Tires squealed over the pavement outside and seconds later the "lying, cheatin' sonofabitch" (more poetry from the jilted May) reappeared through the glass doors. Everyone in the store, frozen with shock, stared at the disheveled store manager. He then staightened his tie and said with as much decorum as was possible under the circumstances,

"Uh...uh..I'll be closing your drawers out this afternoon, Ladies."