An Evening in Harwood Heights

An Evening in Harwood Heights

This is something that happened to me one evening in a small suburb of Chicago called Harwood Heights. There are two ways to describe Harwood Heights; either a golf course surrounded by a speed trap or a speed trap surrounding a golf course.  Take your pick. Everyone I knew in the 70’s had gotten at least one speeding ticket in the Heights.  I had one and didn’t want another.

I was on my way to visit a friend in Norridge and had to pass through the Heights to get there.  I was broke and a speeding ticket was the last thing I needed, so I was on my best behavior.  I even turned down the car radio hoping to sneak through town.  I was approaching an intersection with a traffic light.  I was planning to make a left hand turn, when the light turned red.  I turned on my left turn signal the required distance from the light, stopped short of the pedestrian walkway and waited for the light to change.  Once the light changed, I made sure there was no cross traffic or oncoming traffic and made a beautiful hand over hand left turn.  I didn’t get fifty yards before I noticed flashing lights in my rear view mirror.

I pulled over to the curb hoping the squad car would pass by on another call.  It didn’t; it pulled up right behind me at the curb.  I sat in my car, fidgeting in my wallet for my license, trying to figure out what law I could possibly have broken.  Maybe it was illegal to turn left after dark or something.  I really didn’t know.  I looked in my rear view mirror and noticed the cop still sitting in his squad car.  We both sat there for several minutes, looking at each other, waiting for something to happen. 

Out of nowhere another squad car appeared from around the curve in front of me, lights flashing and did a 90 degree skid; blocking the front of my car with the side of the squad car.  Before I had time to do anything, both cops were out of their cars.  The first cop came up to my door, his right hand resting on his revolver, his left hand holding a clipboard.  He very politely asked me to; “slowly step out of your vehicle and put your hands on your head”.  I was starting to think that maybe this had nothing to do with a traffic violation.

I did is I was told and said something stupid like; “I have my driver’s license”.  By this time, the second cop had come around his squad car, grabbed me, spun me around, pushed me over the hood of my car, kicked my feet apart and patted me down.  He then pulled me up again, spun me around, took my driver’s license and went back to his squad car.  I was pretty sure now that this had nothing to do with a traffic violation and I was somehow in deep s**t.

I asked the first cop; “officer, can you tell me what I have done”.  He told me; “put your hands down”, pulled a piece of paper off his clipboard, handed it to me and said; “is this you”.  I looked at the paper; it was a photo copy of one of those sketch artist drawings you see on TV cop shows.  I was about to say; “you guys don’t really do this”; but wisely reconsidered.  I looked at the drawing; the man looked very much like me, dark hair, a full beard, mustache and glasses.  I looked up at the cop and back at the drawing.  I was determined to find something about this drawing that wasn’t me.  I finally gave up and   said; “yes, it looks like me”. Then I added; “and about ten million other men”.  The cop was not pleased with my answer, stuck his index finger in my face and told me; “don’t be a smart ass”.

He then started asking me where I was at this time, on that day and if I ever went to this place or that place. I didn’t have a clue.  The last thing I wanted to think about was the date.  All I really knew was; it was summertime and I was out of school.  Then he asked me; “do you enjoy showing your privates to woman in public”.  My jaw dropped and I said; “what, are you f**king kidding”.  In hindsight; I now realize you should never say that to a cop.  It just pisses them off.  He said; “no, I’m not f**king kidding;” and repeated the question.  I said; “no, I would never do anything like that”.

Just as I was beginning to picture myself being raped in prison by real sex offenders, the other cop returned, handed me my license and said; “this isn’t our guy; he’s way too young”.  The first cop stuck his index finger in my face again and said “you better watch yourself”; turned and went back to his squad car.  Before I could do or say anything, both squad cars were gone and I was left standing alone in the dark, holding my driver’s license and feeling violated.  For the first time in my life I knew what a bad date felt like.         

I got back in my car and drove to my friend’s house.  I went around back and saw him and his dad sitting in the kitchen. My friend’s dad was a Norridge cop.  His was on duty and came home for dinner.  I let myself in through the screen door.  My friend asked; “what the F**k took you so long”; and his dad said; “there’s beer in the fridge, just don’t drink it all”. 

I grabbed a beer, sat down at the kitchen table and told my story.  All the while, my friend’s dad was eating his dinner and laughing his ass off.  When I finished, he sat back in his chair, lit a cigarette and said; “for the past few weeks, there’s been nut case robbing beauty salons. This guy goes in, pulls a gun, asks for all the cash in the register and exposes himself to all the customers before he leaves.  I’m surprised they only have a drawing of his face”.  

He then asked; “I don’t suppose you were smart enough to get the names of those Heights cops”?  The stupid look on my face answered his question.  “Don’t worry, I’ll find out who they are and I’ll give them some real s**t on the radio tonight”.  He got up, started for the door and said; “I have to get back to work. Please leave me at least one beer; is that too much to ask”.  Then he looked at me and said; “if I were you; I would consider shaving off that stupid beard and staying out of the Heights for a while”.

 I took his advice and shaved off my beard the next day.  As far as drinking all the beer; I brought him a case of his favorite as a peace offering the next weekend.   

The Seasons in Chicago

The Seasons in Chicago

Chicago has four seasons and like most things in Chicago, they are unique to Chicago.

Winter in Chicago usually lasts from late November to mid April.  The first snow flurries are celebrated by small groups of people gathering outside, looking up in amazement and saying to each other things like; “what are those pretty little flakes; ooh, they are cold on my nose”.  This is known as “snow amnesia” and occurs every year.  For some reason, people forget what snow is and how to drive in it from one winter to the next.  No one has ever figured out why.  

The severity of winter is determined by the amount of salt encrusted on your car.  One pound of salt or less means it was a mild winter.  Anything over five pounds means you were snowed in and you should check at home for signs of cannibalism.  If there is no salt encrusted on your car, you probably spent the winter in Florida or Arizona and have returned early.  Go back while you can.

Snow is also used to determine winters progress.  Early winter snow is fluffy, white and beautiful.  Little children run around catching perfect little snowflakes on their tongues. Mid winter snow is perfect for snowball fights, snow forts and snowmen.  Late winter snow is icy hard, plowed up on the curb and covered with black soot.  Yellow snow is neither early nor late and is not lemon flavored.  Yellow snow should always be avoided.

Christmas once defined winter.  But due to commercialism, Christmas has become the Godzilla of holidays; stomping on the rest of the year, smashing other holidays like Thanks Giving and Halloween.  Christmas is no longer enjoyed but endured.  Some places even advertise Christmas in July. Those places used to sell Christmas crap in the winter and pool crap in the summer; now they sell both all year round.  If you like the idea of Christmas in July; jump into a hot tub with an electrified Santa for the cure.  

Winter is followed by six weeks of a season sometimes called “yuck”.  Spring, if it happens at all, occurs in May and usually lasts one afternoon.  Whoever wrote the words “April showers; brings May flowers” came from somewhere else.  In Chicago the only thing good about April is that it isn’t March and the only thing good about May is that it isn’t April.  The season of yuck tries to kill off anyone who survived winter; income taxes are due, real estate taxes are due and Cub fans hopes are dashed; all before June.  

Summer starts on June 1^st and only June 1^st.  May 31^st is yuck; June 1^st is summer.  That’s the rule; don’t screw with it.  The last person who tried was sent to North Dakota and eaten by wolves.  Anything that looks like snow during summer are seeds from the cottonwood tree.  These seeds are known by children as “summer snow”.  They are not edible like winter snow.  If you try and catch them on your tongue and eat them, you will probably choke.  This may be the cause of snow amnesia.

Summer is the time of the year when you can’t go anywhere because everything between here and where you want to go is under construction.  You can tell something is under construction by the bull dozers, cranes, graders and millions of construction barriers blocking your way.  Under construction does not mean anyone is actually working.  Why should they; it is summer and too nice to work.  The purpose of all this construction equipment is to remind us where our tax dollars are being spent and let us know we have no control of our lives.

Another sure sign of summer is children.  They are home and not at school; were they belong.  Teachers call this time vacation.  Parents know it as torture.  The progress of summer can be measure by the number of times children moan “I’m bored” and “there is nothing to do”.  When the count reaches one million; it is August.  No matter how many camps, sports and other miscellaneous summer activities children attend, they will still reach one million “I’m bored” and “there is nothing to do” by August.

The beginning of fall or autumn occurs when workers actually start using the bull dozers, cranes and graders that have been sitting idle and rusting all summer.  The smell of diesel exhaust, engine noise and breakneck activity is enough to overwhelm any ones senses.  It is amazing how dedicated workers can be when they are being paid overtime to finish a job that should have been completed months earlier.

The kids are still bored and have nothing to do; but at least they are back at school.  Construction barriers magically begin to disappear and families rediscover the weekend.  September is a time for college football, falling leaves and caramel apples. October brings us pumpkins, scarecrows and candy corn. The climax of fall is Halloween, followed by Thanksgiving, hat and glove weather and maybe a few snow flakes.

Canned Spaghetti

Canned Spaghetti

One of the biggest problems working for my father, besides pissing him off on a regular basis, was lunch. Since we only had a half hour for lunch, going out to eat was impractical.  Lunch was strictly a brown bag affair.  Every day my mother made an identical lunch for my father and myself and every day it was the same lunch; two baloney sandwiches, a bag of chips, two pieces of fruit and a thermos filled with milk. Sadly this was a larger version of the lunch I had been eating ever since first grade.  My father had been eating the same boring lunch for even longer.  He never complained.  I guess any lunch was fine with him as long as he didn’t have to make it himself.  Me; I was tired of baloney and ready for a change.  I also knew better then to complain about it to either mom or especially dad.

I knew of two ways to safely deal with my father; either do whatever he told me to do without complaining, or stay as far away from him as possible.  I often chose the latter, not because I was lazy but because my dad was my boss and a proud man.  He was always afraid people would assume I was given special treatment because I was his son.  This was in fact true.  I did get special treatment; every messy, stinky, crappy, awful job my father could think of.  I did everything from scrubbing bathrooms to cleaning greasy bug infested old restaurant fixtures and never complained once; at least not to my dad. 

I was in the shop basement practicing the ancient art of hiding, when I noticed the old boiler used to heat the building was running.  It was at least eighty years old, painted gray and looked like something out of a 1920’s sci-fi serial.  It was pretty warm to the touch, had pipes going out in all directions and a grill that looked like a hungry mouth.  That gave me a wonderful idea.  I could use it to warm canned food or even a TV dinner.  If it worked, I could say goodbye to baloney forever.

The next day I brought a can of spaghetti and meat balls, a can opener and fork to work.  I was not a big fan of canned spaghetti, but it was all I could find in the kitchen pantry.  About two hours before lunch, I snuck off into the basement and placed the can on top of the old boiler.  I was afraid it may get too hot and explode, so I punched a hole in the top of the can with a phillip’s screwdriver.

I went back upstairs and continued sweeping the shop floor.  I have to admit, I was pretty excited.  Just before lunch, my father found me, handed me directions, keys to the company station wagon and told me he needed some tools delivered to a job site. 

I loaded the wagon and hit the road before dad could change his mind.  The job site was way out in Northbrook so it would take a couple hours.  I loved making deliveries;  getting paid to drive around town in a beat up old station wagon, radio blasting, smoking cigarettes; what could be better.  I was so excited, I totally forgot about the can of spaghetti on the old boiler.

When I finally got back to the shop, I was starving.  I grabbed my bag lunch and snuck off to the basement for hot spaghetti and meatballs.  I took the can off the boiler with the sleeve of my shirt just in case it was too hot.  It was pretty hot and surprisingly light.  I opened the can and found about a half inch of burned spaghetti at the bottom and no meat balls.  I looked at the can.  I looked around the basement.  I looked at the can again.  Then a little voice told me to look up at the ceiling.  There it was; a huge sticky blob of red, white and brown goop.  I had created a pasta volcano.

It was the coolest thing I had ever seen.  Picasso could not have done a better job.  I was sorry I wasn’t there to witness its creation.  I sat down and ate my brown bag lunch.  My mind was racing with so many questions.  How did the meat balls get out of the tiny hole on top of the can?  Could I make a spaghetti rocket?  What about chili?   I decided to bring another can of spaghetti the next day.  I could sneak down to the basement periodically and if I was lucky, witness the eruption of Mount Boyardee.  Later I could try other experiments. 

I walked up the basement stairs proud of myself for making such a wonderful discovery. What a great day I was having.  I opened the basement door only to discover my father standing there waiting for me.  He handed me a putty knife, a bucket and pointed to a small step ladder leaning up against the wall.  He never said a word.  He just turned and walked away shaking his head slowly.  I have to admit; this was not the first time I saw the slow head shake.  It meant I would not be punished.  It also meant I had done something so idiotic; my father was giving up on me.  I felt bad for being such a disappointment; but how often do you see a can of spaghetti stuck to the ceiling.   

I stumbled back into the basement with my ladder, putty knife and bucket.  I knew I had no choice but to clean up the mess I had made.  As I stood there admiring my grotesquely beautiful creation, I thought to myself; all in all, it really was a pretty great day.  

Count Down To Summer

Count Down To Summer

Truman Middle School, May 28, 1968, 8:18 AM Central Standard Time; count down has been initiated.  Aauhhhh, this really sucks. Why can’t they just mail us our grades, or tell us next year. That would be okay too. But no, we gotta come in for one whole hour just so they can take attendance and torture us one last time before summer. “Now class; I would now like to announce the names of those students who completed the school year with perfect attendance: Mary Abrams…….”

T-minus 42 minutes and counting, launch status is go. Perfect Attendance, oh just shoot me now. “……Billy Meyers………and finally Tina Wong.”

T-minus 36 minutes and counting, all systems have powered up. Tina Wong. What a rip off. I know for a fact she was out at least three days last winter. ”Congratulations to all our perfect attendees.” 

T-minus 22 minutes and counting, all systems are still go. I’d rather be sick then get called for perfect attendance anyway. “And now class, a public address message from our assistant principle, Mr. Sappmeister.” “Hello. Hello. Miss Jones is this damn thing on. What do you mean I can’t say damn. Oh, sorry, damn it. Oh, I did it again. What button, the blue one. Okay. I got it. Attention students…….”

T-minus 18 minutes and counting, all systems are now on auto. That Sappmeister, what a tool. “……. And have a safe and happy summer. Thank you students. Red button. Damn it, what red button. What, I said it again. Oh damn it, I give up.”

T-minus 15 minutes and counting, pressurizing tanks. Only 15 minutes, I can hold on for 15 minutes.  “Now students, I will now pass out report cards. Mary Abrams………”

T-minus 4 minutes and counting, ignition sequence is set. Not bad, two B’s and three C. “……..Donnie Zell.”

T-minus 30 seconds and counting, all engines are running. “I hope you all”

Final Countdown 4. “have a”

Final Countdown 3. “safe and”

Final Countdown 2. “happy” BBBRRRRIIIIINGGG

Final Countdown 1. “summer.”

We have liftoff at 9:00AM, Central Standard Time. Blastoff to summer.

Shopping Cart Wars

Shopping Cart Wars

When I was sixteen I got my first official job at a discount grocery store.  It was a small store by today’s standard, part of a family owned chain of eight or so stores.  The store was in a small shopping mall on the northwest side of Chicago.  Our store was in the middle of the older section of the mall, along with several small shops and a bank at the corner.  A supermarket was added to the other end of the mall only a few years earlier.     

I didn’t realize it at the time but the grocery business was changing and changing fast. Within a few years our small grocery store would close and even the supermarket found itself struggling against the newer and even larger mega-markets.

From my first day at the store, I noticed there was no love lost between our store and the supermarket.  I was one of maybe fifteen part-time stock boys.  We were expected to do a variety of jobs including; stocking shelves, bagging, mopping and sweeping floors and gathering shopping carts from the parking lot.  Gathering carts was considered the worst job and usually the newer stock boys got stuck with it.

Everyone hated being assigned to shopping carts, especially on Saturday, our busiest day of the week.  We only had eighty carts and could have used thirty or forty more.  Every time the store manager asked the store owners for more carts, he was told to make do with what he had.  This meant we were always running short of shopping carts. 

By contrast, the supermarket had between three and four hundred carts.  They never seemed to have a problem running out of carts.  They even had two rows of about a hundred reserve carts lined up along the outside wall of the supermarket.  To me it seemed like they were just taunting us with these carts.

When we ran short of carts, customers often used supermarket carts which they collected themselves.  This normally resulted in a phone call from the supermarket manager to our manager, complaining about the misuse of his carts.  Sometimes we borrowed supermarket carts ourselves, again resulting in a nasty phone call.  Once, we were so desperate, we tried to borrow a whole row of the supermarket reserve carts, only to find out they were locked up with a long chain. 

One Friday evening some stock boys, myself included, decided it would be interesting to see how well the supermarket handled a cart shortage. We devised a plan and decided to execute it the next day, Saturday.  We also decided this would be a stock boy operation; the manager and cashiers were not to be told about the plan.

The next day the store opened at 8:00 A.M. like normal and all day we had between three and four stock boys assigned to carts.  One stock boy brought back our carts and the others brought back supermarket carts and/or kept an eye out for supermarket cart boys. The rest of the stock boys spent most of the day bagging groceries. We were stretched to the limit and very little else got done.  Whenever supermarket carts were brought into our store, they were rushed right through the store, out the back door and into the alley. From there they were pushed all the way to the far end off the mall and neatly lined up at the behind the bank. 

By afternoon we noticed the supermarket using their supply of reserve carts usually lined up outside.  By evening we noticed the supermarket had doubled the number of cart boys and even we were having trouble finding their carts.  By the time our store closed at 9:00 P.M. we had amassed about two hundred fifty supermarket carts, all neatly parked in the alley behind the bank.  There had been no phone calls and the supermarket would have to manage with their depleted stock of carts until they closed at midnight.

The next morning was Sunday and we opened at 8:00 A.M. like always.  I noticed there were no shopping carts along the supermarket wall when I came in.  Sunday was our slowest day of the week and usually only two cashiers and two or three stock boys were scheduled to work.  Since it was so slow we usually had coffee and donuts setup in front of the managers little office.  There were no customers in the store. The stock boys were eating donuts and talking to the cashiers when one of the cashiers noticed something outside.  I looked out the window and saw ten or twelve supermarket stock boys, each pushing twenty to twenty five supermarket carts across the deserted parking lot.  It looked like the marines landing on a beach.  They did not look happy.

With all our laughing and commotion, our manager came out to see what was going on. He looked out the window and said “I’m going to get a phone call, aren’t I”. “Yup” I said, “but since you don’t know anything about it; at least you won’t have to lie”.   

Amusing Team Names

Amusing Illinois High School Team Names

I was wandering around on the internet the other night and found a list of Illinois High School team names.  I found some to be very unusual.  I am sure there are very good reasons for these names.  I apologize in advance if I hurt or upset anyone associated with these schools.  Here is a list of some of the names I think are most amusing:

SCHOOL	BOYS TEAMNAME	GIRLS TEAMNAME
Atwood (A.-Hammond)	Rajahs	Rajenes
Bunker Hill	Minutemen	Minutemaids
Canton	Little Giants	Lady Giants
Carthage	Blueboys	Bluegirls
Centralia	Orphans	Orphan Annies
Cobden	Appleknockers	Appleknockers
Effingham (H.S.)	Flaming Hearts	Flaming Hearts
Fisher	Bunnies	Bunnies
Freeburg	Midgets	Lady Midgets
Freeport (H.S.)	Pretzels	Lady Pretzels
Hoopeston (H. Area)	Cornjerkers	Cornjerkers
Hampshire	Whip-Purs	Whip-Purs
Monmouth (H.S.)	Zippers	Zippers
Morton	Potters	Potters
Plano	Reapers	Lady Reapers
Polo	Marcos	Marcos
Rockford (East)	E-Rabs	E-Rabs
Teutopolis	Wooden Shoes	Lady Shoes

I tried to pick a favorite, but I just can’t.  I don’t know what an appleknocker is and it may be illegal to be a cornjerker in some states.  I keep picturing an image of a football stadium full of fans clopping around in wooden shoes yelling across the field “Marco” and the opposing fans responding “Polo”.  I see cheerleaders dressed like Orphan Annie, singing “don’t fear the reaper” and coach’s telling their teams to “go out there and fight like bunnies”.  I guess it really doesn’t matter what the team is called, as long as parents get out there and support their children.

Driver’s Education

Driver’s Education

One of the most memorable rights of passage to adulthood for me was getting my driver’s license.  In the 70’s you could get a driver’s license in Illinois at age sixteen, if you successfully completed an approved driver’s education program and passed the driving test.  My High School offered a semester long driver’s education program to sophomores in place of gym class.  So for one semester of high school I actually did not suffer from athlete’s foot. 

The driver’s education program was run by the athletic department. I found it somewhat disturbing that the same people who used terms like; “attack the ball”, “punch it in” and “kill, kill, kill”; were also responsible for teaching sixteen year olds safe and responsible driving skills.

The classroom part of the program mostly involved reading and studying a small booklet provided by the state call “Rules of the Road”.  This was supplemented with several educational films with titles like; “Death on the Highway” or “So You didn’t See the Semi in Your Blind Spot”.  These films were created by adults and filled with gruesome scenes of car wrecks intended to scare the crap out of potential new drivers.  They did not work on sixteen year olds, who still saw car wrecks, blood, guts and gore as cool; not scary.  These films were not even filmed in color.  They were old black and white movies that were modified with an over abundance of red blood painted on the film.  I can honestly say these are the only black, white and red films I have ever seen.  After completing classroom training and passing the written portion of the state driver’s examination, I was given a learner’s permit.  This allowed me to actually drive a car under the supervision of a responsible adult.  I could say something here about the athletic department, but I don’t want to offend anyone.

For the next few weeks, the class was allowed to drive around a closed course constructed behind the school.  There were stop signs and intersections and an instructor screaming at everyone through two way radios installed in all the cars.  I believe the course speed limit was twenty; I doubt anyone went over ten. 

As part of the behind the wheel training phase of the program, everyone was required to complete two, on the street, driving lessons with one of the instructors.  With public safety in mind, these lessons were always scheduled early on Saturday mornings. Usually there were two students per lesson. One student drove for about half an hour while the other student sat terrified in the back seat; then they switched places for another half hour.  I had completed my first lesson without any problems and had no reason to believe the second lesson would be any different.

My second lesson started at 7:00 A.M. on a Saturday morning.  The car was a Buick Skylark coupe.  There were stickers on both doors, both bumpers and there was a giant sign strapped to the roof, all with the words “CAUTION - STUDENT DRIVER”.  The car was also modified with a brake pedal on the passenger side.  This was for the instructor to use in case of an emergency.  I didn’t know the instructor or anything about him except that he was the head baseball coach.  I was chosen to drive first.

I was about twenty minutes into my lesson, traffic was light and everything was going well.  As I approached an intersection with a traffic light; the light changed from green to yellow.  I hit the gas, the instructor panicked and hit the brake, the wheels locked, the car screeched and everything came to a dead stop in about twenty feet; everything except the sign strapped to the roof, which kept going.  In fact the sign slid all the way across the entire intersection without being touched or run over by any cross traffic.  It was truly an impressive feat and if I hadn’t been the driver, I am sure I would have fully enjoyed it.  Unfortunately, I was the driver and saw any hope of passing driver’s education disappear, along with the roof sign, across the intersection.  I felt sick.

When the light turned green, I pulled myself together, drove across the intersection and parked the car along side the sign.  The instructor told me to shut off the engine; I did.  Then he told both me and the other student to pick up the sign and place it in the trunk.  We did as we were told; me trying not to cry and the other student trying not to laugh his ass off.

After the sign was neatly stowed away in the trunk, the instructor told me to give the keys to the other student because I was “done for the day”.  I spent the next half hour hunched over in the back seat trying not to throw up.  I was totally depressed.  Not only was I a failure, but I knew this was the kind of event that could get around school and haunt me for years.

When we got back to school the instructor signed the other student’s completion slip; then asked for mine.  I handed it to him expecting him to rip it up or something.  Instead, he signed it, handed it back to me and said “I don’t know why we even use those roof signs; they come off all the time”.  

I was so happy, I almost peed myself.  I shook the man’s hand and said “thank you” for what seemed like five minutes.  I don’t even remember how I got home.  I think I took the bus, or I could have walked. I really don’t know.  When I got home, my dad was sitting in the kitchen reading the paper.  He asked “So, how did it go”.  Like a typical sixteen year old, I said “It was fine” and went to my room.

The Mary Magdalene Bus - part 2

The Mary Magdalene Bus - part 2

The manager came into the back room also laughing.  I was not going to loose my job over this; apparently I wasn’t the first stock boy to be tortured on the Mary Magdalene bus.  He gave me an apron which covered most of the stains on my shirt and call a stock boy named Mike over.  Mike took one look at me, started laughing and said “Mary Magdalene bus.”  Was I really the only person who never heard of the Mary Magdalene bus?  The manager told Mike to give me a tour of the store and show me what to do.     

I worked at the grocery store for the next year and a half, until the store went out of business because it could not compete with the big supermarkets.  I never rode the Mary Magdalene bus again, I never called any of the phone numbers scribbled on my math homework; even though I thought about it a few times and to this day I hate the smell of most woman’s perfumes. 

The Mary Magdalene Bus - Part 1

The Mary Magdalene Bus - Part One

When I was sixteen years old, I got my first official part time job at a small grocery store on the northwest side of Chicago.  I would be expected to work after school a couple days a week and on weekends. The store manager told me to be ready to work and at the store at 5:00 PM, the following Monday.  I should wear nice pants, no blue jeans, a white shirt and a tie; the store would provide me with an apron. I was happy to have a job and I had all weekend to learn how to tie a tie.

I did not attend the local public High School.  I went to a magnet school about ten miles from home; the store was another five miles or so in the opposite direction. I had a driver’s license but I did not have access to a car.  I would be dependent on public transportation to get from school to work.  There were several different routes I could take; all involved a combination of buses and or a train.  I decided to modify my normal bus-train-bus route home, by staying on the train an extra two stops and taking an unfamiliar bus route the last few miles to the store.

Monday afternoon finally arrived.  I changed from my usual flannel shirt and jeans into my new work clothes at school.  I got some ribbing from my class mates about my fancy new clothes on the bus and spent most of the time on the train tying and retying my tie. My dad had shown me how to tie a tie, but for some reason I kept ending up with one end way too long and the other way too short.  A little old man found my tie trouble very amusing and with every botched attempt shook his head and chuckled.  Finely he came over and helped me with my tie.  It took him one try and it was perfect.  I thanked him and told him, I would work on it.  He told me to get a clip on.  I sat down and waited for my stop.

I got off the train just as the bus was pulling up to the stop.  I got on, noticed only a few people on board, sat down at the very back of the bus and thought; what a lucky day.  The bus made a few uneventful stops and then pulled up in front of an all girls Catholic High School, Mary Magdalene.  I knew a few neighborhood girls who went there and didn’t give it much thought.

Then the front door of the bus opened and a constant flood of Catholic High School girls boarded.  They were pushing and shoving each other into seats and before I knew it I was engulfed by a horde of saddle shoes, rolled up tartan plaid skirts and tight white blouses.  I stood up with every intention of running for my life, only to be thrown back by the mob onto a couple of girls who had already taken my seat.  One of the girls called me a “perv” and the other, sprayed me with perfume or hairspray or whatever she was putting on.  The stuff smelled awful and burned my eyes.  Before I knew it I was on my feet again and just as quickly back in my seat, this time squashed between the same two girls.  When the bus started moving again, there must have been between fifty and sixty girls tightly packed on the bus.

The air was full of perfume and hairspray.  Most of the girls were putting on makeup, which they were not allowed to wear at school.  Everyone seemed to be talking and laughing at the same time.  Some girls were smoking.  Every time the bus jerked or hit a pot hole, I ended up with a new girl in my lap.  It was like they were taking turns.  I thought; I should be enjoying this, but I wasn’t.  Then I heard someone scream over the din “there is a boy on the bus” and I knew it was time to go.  I managed to squeeze out of my seat, pulled the stop request cord and started pushing my way to the exit.  At about the same time, someone shoved a handful of some sticky goop into my hair and my math book and homework were ripped from my hands.  I hoped the stuff in my hair was some kind of hair gel and there was no way I was going to bend over and try to retrieve my math book.  By now, I was in full fight or flight mode and I chose flight.

Getting to the exit was no easy task.  I pushed and squeezed my way through the estrogen fortified mob, all the while being pinched, poked, hugged, kissed, groped and felt up at least a few times.  I finely made it to the exit and when the bus stopped, pushed the doors open and made my escape.

I found myself standing at a street corner a few blocks from the store.  My hair was quickly setting up like concrete.  My shirt was covered with makeup and I was pretty sure my face was too.  I smelled like the perfume counter at a department store.  I looked down and discovered that both my shoe laces were missing.  How and when that happened is anyone’s guess.

It was about 4:30, there was not enough time to go home and change, I had no choice but to go to work looking like I did.  I figured this would be my first and last day at this job. I started walking and about a half block away, I found the cover to my math book, the rest of my math book and most of my homework.  The book I could glue back together.  I noticed my homework was covered with lipstick kisses and about half dozen names and phone numbers.

I made it to the store with about ten minutes to spare.  There were two cashiers, a middle aged woman and a young girl; neither had a customer.  I went to the middle aged woman, excused myself and asked if I could see the manager.  She turned around, looked at me with a gasp, and said “Oh my God.  Are you the new kid?  Did you get caught on the Mary Magdalene bus?”  Before I could answer any of her questions, she turned to the young girl and told her to take me to the back room and get me cleaned up before the manager came back from dinner.

I followed the young cashier to the back room.  On the way she grabbed a bottle of shampoo off the shelf. In the back room there was a large sink with a hose attached to it.  I started washing my face and hair.  She told me there wasn’t much I could do about my shirt or tie.  I found out her nane was Liz, she was a senior at Mary Magdalene and she stopped taking the Mary Magdalene bus when she got a car.  She was surprised I didn’t know about the reputation of the Mary Magdalene bus.  She told me most of the young cashiers at the store went to Mary Magdalene and I would be the subject of a lot of jokes; at least for a few weeks.  She handed me some paper towels and I dried my face and hair.  As I thanked her for all her help, she looked down and noticing my shoes had no laces, she laughed and said “you will fit in just fine here”.