Back when I had dreams of being a fancy lady, I worked in a flowershop. Beautiful flowers, candles, and tapestries filled the shop. Everyday something new came in to fawn over. Sounds heavenly, right? Well, if I have learned anything from my nearly 25 years (shut up) on this earth I have learned this: the easier and cooler you think a job will be the more it will suck. Underpaid, overworked, resposible for training idiots to answer the phone (.....fifth ring people, answer the fucking phone!), fights among the family who owned the place, snotty rich bitch customers, no days off in February, May, or October through December. Yeah, lots of fucking fun. It was miserable. Whoever wrote "My Fair Lady" should be shot repeatedly with a sling shot full of hepatitis filled hypodermic needles until dead.
I have literally stood on my feet from 7:30 am to 1:30 am making corsages and bouquets, all while being the PHONE DESK MANAGER and still responsible for ANSWERING THE PHONE! Not to mention lighting Christmas trees until tree sap has eaten through the skin on my knuckles, wrapped rusty wire in floral tape until my hands bled, and the bows..... I have made more fucking bows in my life than I care to remember. I can make bows in my fucking sleep. Seriously, if I were in a coma you could still put a streamer of ribbon in my hands and get the bow of your dreams. I have been cursed at, yelled at, hung up on, cried to, and had things thrown at me. I have busted my ass while other co-workers were upstairs giving/getting blow jobs and smoking weed. Three and a half years. Three and a half years, people! Why put up with this crap? Because of the co-workers of course! I had some fucking awesome co-workers.
Which leads me to the story of who is probaly my most favorite co-worker of all time. Brent. Brent was the shit. Part sweetheart, part batshit insane, Brent was the single reason I clocked in some days. Brent was the blackest sheep you could get from a really, really rich white family in town. His family owned land everywhere, had a very sucessful contracting business, bank, and countless other sources of great wealth. Brent was a delivery driver. He rode a bike to work. He had no car.
Let me repeat the last part, he was a delivery driver. He had no car.
He had a car the first week he worked with us. In the middle of the summer, with the doors closed and the windows up, he cleaned the dash with ammonia and bleach. He damn near killed himself in the parking lot. He ate raw garlic because he read garlic was good for your heart. He ate salmon and black beans straight out of the can, three meals a day, for five months. He rarely bathed, wore no deodorant (because that stuff causes cancer) and never, ever washed his hair. He lived in motel with the prostitues. He once gave me a fax machine. He made homemade foam inserts for shoes and tried to sell them to the ladies at work because he was concerned about them standing on their feet all day. He posted a pair on the bulletin board at work and I serioulsy think some of his pubic hair was in it. There was hair all tangled in the foam. He then FED EX'D a pair to our bosses house. He FED EX'd something to the house of a man he saw in person every single day of the week. Fed Ex'd.
Man, he thought I hung the moon. Seriously, he had the major hots for me. Thought I was gorgeous. Said I had the face of an angel. I...shit...you...not. The face of an angel.
Did I mention that I was about six months pregnant when I worked with him? Didn't think so.
Anyway, in comes Brent one nice shiny day. Up to the phone desk he trots and proceeds to tell me he needs a favor. He has an order to place. See, Brent is taking his vacation and is headed to North Carolina. For a Creed concert. He is flying, bought a plane ticket specifically for the purpose of, seeing Creed in concert. Batshit insane? Yes. Does it get better? Hell, yes. He has an order to place, remember? God, are you people even reading this shit?
Brent: I want to send a gourmet basket to North Carolina.
Brent: I want to some Blue corn chips, hummus, soy chip, corn nuts, Jones soda, gruyere' cheese, buffalo jerky ....
(He proceeds to tell me the name brands and sizes he wants to send.)
Brent: You know, nice healthy organic stuff. I wanna spend about a hundred bucks. Make it really nice.
Me: $100.00? Who the hell is this for?
(Remember, he is a delivery driver and lives in a motel. With prostitutes and shit. $100.00.)
Brent: Scott Stapp. You know, from Creed? The lead singer.
Me: (guess my response, anyone?)
Silence ensues as I proceed to give what may very well be the stupidest look I have ever given another human being. I experience what is know as the bottle neck effect. Too many things flood to my mind, insults, laughter, more insults. Nothing will come out. My mind in numb and overloaded. System failure, I repeat, system failure.
(After significant pause......)
Me: Um...O....K... What do you want on the card message?
Brent: Oh, I wrote my own. Actually, it's a letter.
Me: Um....O...K....and just how am I supposed to get that put on the basket?
Brent: Oh, I'm gonna bring it with me. I'll go by the flowershop and attach it myself.
(Mind you, I have to call this order in to complete strangers, in North Carolina and tell them it is for Scott Stapp of Creed, tell them the kooky shit that this guy wants, AND tell them that the kooky fucker is coming to their shop to bring in a handwritten letter to attach. And yes, we do in fact employ this guy and pay him money to deliver flowers for us.)
Me: Um...dude? Why did you write a letter to Scott Stapp?
Brent: Well, I think we may be related. See, I'm part native american and he's part native american. I think we may be from the same tribe.
(I am in a complete state of stupification. I may have wet myself.)
Brent: Hey, ask the flowershop if I can come by the next day. I want to get the invoice from them with his SIGNATURE on it. I want his autograph.
I can not make this shit up, people. A week later he came back from vacation.
Brent: Hey, guess what. Me and my brother went back stage and met the band. Hey, he never got my basket with the letter. What do you think happened?
Me: I think maybe a roadie signed for it and ate it. Dude, that sucks.
Brent: Nah, it's cool. I got his autograph anyway.