I keep seeing these spinning rims on kids’ cars. Some species of sharks need to keep moving or they’ll die. Hummingbirds need to hover so they can get some nectar. This car is stopped in front of the store but the rims are still spinning. I can tell you’re not moving, dude. Give it up.

There’s a guy who lives down in the storage building. His name is Terry.

You know the guy from high school who owned three different faux leather jackets, cut his own hair because “no one can do it the way I like it” and told everyone his parents were robots? This is the same kid who in elementary school leaned back in his chair and fell over at least twice a day, stole pencils off your desk and scotch-taped them to his, was suspended twice for biting, and, oh yes, told everyone his parents were robots. Ever wonder what happened to that guy? Well, I found him, his name is Terry; he lives in the storage building.

What’s he up to now, you ask? Well, he grew a long dark beard, and a long black ponytail, and now he sort of looks like a pirate. He sits at a desk with a computer surrounded by boxes and paint cans and broken electronics. He’s got an old boom box propped up on a laundry basket. When I walk by his storage unit, he’s playing role-playing video games on two screens, he’s rolling on the floor guffawing to stand-up comedy on cassette, one time he was painting a Christmas ornament. Does he have a job? Is this his job? Who is paying him to do this? Does anyone know he’s here? When the building closes for the night, does he just roll down the door and curl up in a box? I don’t know. I would ask him, but I can’t get a word in edgewise.

“Oh hey, Terry, how’s it going?” I wheel past with my hand truck, and give him a nod.
“Awful, man, I can’t get this game to work!” He hops to his feet and falls into step with me. “My graphics card isn’t advanced enough, and I know what you’re thinking, I must be some kind of barbarian not to be able to run the Starship Troopers game on my computer–it came out forever ago, I know, but I just haven’t downloaded all the drivers yet because I can’t find them on the web.”
“Yeah.” He takes the hand truck out of my hand, and now he’s pushing it down the hall for me.
“So I’ve got this troubleshooter up, and it’s asking me all these questions like what am I trying to do, because even the troubleshooter can’t figure out what the heck’s going on!”
“Yeah, well, good luck, man.” I reach for the hand truck. Terry makes no move to return it.
“So I’m trying to email my buddy Craig because Craig’s beaten this game like eight times, but I can’t email in that tiny window, so I decide to open up a Word Document and then just cut and paste, right?”
“Right. Listen, I should probably…”
“And as soon as I start typing, guess what happens.”
“I don’t know, Terry.”
“The little paperclip guy pops up.”
“Who?”
“The paperclip guy! He’s all like, Hi, I’m Clippy the paperclip! It looks like you’re writing a letter! Want some help? And I’m all like, No, man, I don’t! You know?”
“Yeah, I guess, man.” Terry scoffs.
“Like I’d accept help from a paperclip.”
“What?”
“It’s a paperclip. You stick them on a stack of papers, you pop them off, you stick them on another stack. They’re basically the temp workers of office supplies. Do you really want this guy showing you the ropes? I don’t trust him. Staples are around for the long haul. I want to be troubleshot by a staple.”
“Troubleshot? Is that the–”
“Past tense of troubleshoot? Yes.” He points a finger at me emphatically, shoves the hand truck in my direction, and saunters off down the hall. Always good to see you, Terry.

I roll the hand truck down to the loading dock and my shipment is there waiting.

How do boxes get so smashed when they get to me? Nine times out of ten, any package I receive is, by the time it gets to me, no longer a classifiable polygon. It’s just a pile of battered corrugation and tape. You know how when cartoon characters fight and all you see are arms and legs sticking out of a cloud of dust? That’s what these packages look like. And the other one in ten? That’s when they don’t even show up. How does this happen? I don’t suffer this kind of injury when I fly. Although I bet I would if I opened my spam mail and took advantage of those “flight deals” from EZFLYER JOHNSON. That’s probably exactly the kind of “10 dollar travel package” I’m being offered: a roll of tape and a refrigerator box drug behind a train.

I load up my boxes. I have to use eight bungee cords to keep them from falling apart completely. It’s like trying to bundle a haystack with a hair scrunchie.

When I pass Terry again, he’s sawing a plank of wood in the middle of the hall.
“Hey, Terry.”
“Hey, man–I got the game to work! Craig is the best!”
“Cool, man. Can I get by here?”
“Craig doesn’t have a job or anything, so whenever I call him with video game questions, he’s there.”
“Cool. Can I–”
“I seriously don’t get how anyone can be that lazy. I bet all he does it watch TV and drink soda all day. Probably doesn’t even get dressed in the morning. Just watching TV and drinking soda, naked as a jaybird.”
“Yeah. OK. I have to go.”
“All right, later, man.” He offers a high five, but I pretend not to see. He has Elmer’s glue on his hand. This is not the first time he’s tried this prank.

What is this expression, “naked as a jaybird?” First of all, obviously, the jaybird is an odd standard of nudity, seeing as it’s covered in feathers. But more importantly, when have you been telling a story, and you’re describing the scene, “So there I am in the shower, naked,” and someone interrupts, saying, “Wait, wait, wait. How naked?” and you replied, “Naked as a JAYBIRD,” and they were impressed, saying, “Wow. That really is rather naked.”

I think we’re all pretty clear on what naked is and isn’t. There’s really no need to bring the birds into it.

I roll the hand truck up the street, back to the store. I like this part of my job. I pretend I’m not at work. Just going for a walk. Just me and my boxes.

I roll past a little boy making faces at his baby sister. He has a plastic sword tucked in his belt. She’s wearing a frilly pink princess dress. Kids are everywhere with their costumes, their toys, their imaginary worlds. Here’s a group of people who has so little to do, they’re actually making things up to keep themselves busy. As I’ve gotten older, I’ve become more accomplished at the reverse: pretending I have less to do, to keep myself sane.

I roll into the store.

“Steven! You have to help me.” It’s Brenda. She looks desperate.
“What is it?” I set the boxes down with a thud.
“Pascual put me in charge of putting the door back on the sink cabinet and I don’t know how to work the screwdriver.”
“What? You just turn it.”
“I’m from Connecticut.”
“What, you don’t have screwdrivers in Connecticut?”
“Please just do it. He went to the post office.”
“All right. You can put this stuff away. Hand me the screwdriver.” I trudge upstairs.

I have to lie on my back, head under the sink, to get the right angle on the screws. There are clean towels to cushion my head. It’s actually kind of peaceful down here. I should bring a pillow from home, and lay down here more often. No customers to bother me. No boxes to lift. Relaxing while looking busy. This is a perfect moment.

No wonder Dagwood’s always down there working on the plumbing. No wonder guys spend hours with their heads under cars. Maybe Terry and the little girl with the princess dress have something in common. She made up a world, he made up a job. I guess when your life is in slower motion that you want to be, it’s only natural to want to make it look like there’s motion where there isn’t. I get it.

Gotta get me some of those rims.

“I did it!” Brenda yelps as she darts around the upstairs counter and tackles me in a tight hug.

“Congratulations,” I croak, “What have you done?”  She looks up at me with a goofy grin.  Her eyes are wild.

“I’m dating a fireman! Can you believe it?”

“What I can’t believe is how these guys manage to attract women while sporting helmets and suspenders,” I say as I untangle her arms from around me, “but well done.”

“He’s meeting me for lunch today!”

“Here?”  She nods giddily.

“I’ll be sure to say hello as soon as he comes through the window.”

“Funny.  Listen, I’ll be in the shipping room, so when he comes, call me, ok?”

“Sure, sure…” Brenda starts downstairs as a customer approaches me, his arms full of ceramic dishes, his face full of bitter disappointment.

“Excuse me, do you speak English?” he asks.

“I know a few words…” I say warily.

“I’ve been looking at these plates for an hour.  Don’t you have any without any imperfections?”  Hand-painted, handmade plates imported from Spain.  No imperfections.  I chuckle.

“We do, Sir, but we only sell them to PEOPLE with no imperfections.”  He appears nonplussed.  “Let him who is without sin buy the first plate,” I quoth.

“Umm…yeah.  I’ll take these then.”  Dang.  I hate it when a reference doesn’t land.  “Oh, and if you can wrap them up extra well.  Paper, bubble wrap, box, the whole deal—I’m taking these on the plane.”

I hear this all the time.  “Wrap it up extra well; I’m taking it on the plane.”  Listen, I know you’re not checking a suitcase full of dishes.  You’re going to carry it on.   I’ve carried on magazines and they don’t even crinkle.  I’ve carried on hard-boiled eggs, and they don’t even peel.  I’ve seen babies on planes, and heaven knows they can’t be shaken.  What airline is this where the turbulence is so fierce, it’s breaking plates and cracking vases?  Are you catching the red-eye on the Hindenburg?  Hitching a ride on the Albatross from Rescuers Down Under? Did Daddy Daedalus make you waxen wings, and now you’re flying to the sun to have a terracotta tea party?  This is not that dangerous, folks, put your saucers in a sack and get on board.

Eighteen plates, twelve soup bowls and a spoon later, I’m bubble-wrapping the last item, a decorative Brazilian chicken.

“Could you hurry that up, please?  I’m parked in the three minute zone.”

“Oh! That was you? Relax, Sir, you were towed an hour ago.”  He gasps.

“Steven!” It’s Brenda.  “Is Davey here yet?”  The man takes his bags and pushes out the door, dialing his cell phone with one hand.

“Who’s Davey?” I ask.

“My fireman!” She blushes.

“His name is Davey? What is he, six?” 

“Davey’s a cute name!  Davey Chase—it’s adorable.”

“Davey Chase? No! Wait—red hair? Big arms, tiny legs? Like four foot eight?”

“You know him?  No way!” She frowns.  “He is NOT four foot eight.  He’s 5’3.”

“Davey Chase was my freshman year roommate in college.  I hate Davey Chase.”

“What? How could you not like Davey?”

“He used to play “Sloop John B” over and over in our room.”

“The Beach Boys song? So?”

“So did you ever go to Camp Coleman in elementary school?” She shakes her head.

“Well, every night at campfire, we’d sing songs, and they’d make us sing “Sloop John B” every night, last song of the night.  So here you’ve got 94 homesick sixth graders around a campfire, singing lines like, “Let me go home, why won’t they let me go home, this is the worst trip I’ve ever been on.” After a few nights, you really start to believe it and it gets to you.  I remember one counselor complimented me on my lovely vibrato.  I didn’t have the heart to tell him that my voice was trembling from choking back a great sorrowful wail.”

“Wow.  So you cried yourself to sleep in your tent every night because of a Beach Boys song.”  She suppresses a giggle.  I nod.

“There are still rumors of banshees in those woods.”

“Good cover.”

“Thanks.  So anyway, Davey found out, and he used to play it every night to make me depressed.  I think he was trying to break my spirit.”

“Hm.  Ok, well, he saves lives now, so…”

“Yeah, but I bet they only hired him because he’s so low to the ground he can just walk right under the smoke.  That’s how he killed at the Limbo.”

“He’s a good guy, Steven.  The sort of guy you’d want to bring home for like, Christmas or something.”

“You think Santa would give him the day off?”

Brenda rolls her eyes and trudges back downstairs.  A woman approaches me.  She’s wearing a wide-brimmed hat that says “Canada,” and a cheesy grin.  Both are too big for her head.

“Hello!” she says in a dramatic local newscaster voice, “I’ve got some questions for you!”  That’s when I notice her husband, a few yards away, filming us both with his camcorder.

“Ummm…ok.”

“Tell me, how come you have to make paella with sassafras, and how come you can’t use some other spice?”  The camera whips over to me.

“Sassafras?  You mean saffron?  Well, I guess you could make it with a different spice if you wanted to.  It wouldn’t really be paella, though.”  She’s grinning and nodding, grinning and nodding.  The camera whips back.

“Tell me, do you miss Spain?”

“Well…I’ve never been to Spain. I’m not Spanish.  So…not really, no.”

“Tell me, how come I have to use a paella pan?  Can’t I just use a cookie sheet?”

“A cookie sheet?”

“Sure! They’re thin, they’re metal, what’s the difference?”  The grin is only getting wider and wider.  I’m getting that vertigo feeling you get when standing on the edge of a great precipice.

“Well…”The camera is making me really uncomfortable.  He’s zooming in.  “Cookie sheets are…for cookies…what?  You can’t make paella with a cookie sheet.”

“Show him the cookie sheet, Todd.”  Todd balances the camera on a stack of Tosta Rica, and pulls a cookie sheet from his bag.

“We just bought this at the kitchen supply store.  Won’t that work?”  Who are these people?  I look at the cookie sheet.  It’s made by Baker’s Secret.

Incidentally, no offense to Baker’s Secret, but…really? Bakers, that’s your secret?  Pans?   Yeah, we knew about those.

“Oh look, Todd, there’s a downstairs, too!” The woman is ecstatic.  Todd does a wide panoramic shot from the balcony.  “Are you the same store as downstairs?’

“No, no,” I say, “We’re two separate Spanish import stores with the same products.  Really makes it competitive. “  She looks at me oddly.

“I’m going to look at those vases.”  She heads downstairs.  Todd follows.

“We can beat their prices!” I call after them.

“Mr. Steven.”  I turn.  Davey.  Chase.  That little smirk.  That little man.  “What is up, man?  It’s been so long!”

“Yeah,” I say vaguely.  “So are you here with the Chupa-Chups?”

“What?”

“The Dum-dums? The Tootsie pops?”

“What? No.”

“You don’t…represent the Lollypop Guild?”  It takes him a minute, and then he laughs.

“You still afraid of Sloop John B?”

“Yeah.”  He laughs again.

“So what are you up to?”

“Working here.  I’m doing music production.  I graduated for massage therapy.”

“Yeah? So what do you want to be?”

“When I grow up, you mean?”  He nods.  I think for a moment.

“Clever,” I say finally, “Very, very clever.”

“Davey!” It’s Brenda.  “Want to walk down to the water?”

“Sure.”  He smiles.  She swoons.

“Oh my gosh, Steven, Davey is in such good shape for firefighter school.  We ran Greenlake last night, and he finished in half my time.  I seriously thought about hitchhiking the rest of the way, but I don’t take piggybacks from strangers.  It is the worst feeling, you know, when you’re running and you see the same people pass you like twelve times before you’ve made it around once.  I was thinking, wow, now I know how the hour hand feels.  When the second hand keeps going by over and over, you know, and the hour hand is like, why can’t I be that fast? And skinny?”  There’s an awkward silence.

“You know,  we should go dancing sometime!  Brenda’s a great dancer,” Davey says.  She brightens.  “Anyway.  See you later, Steven.”

“Thanks.”  They go.

People can irritate me.  In fact, I can be downright moronophobic.  But when you see certain sides of them, it can change your mind a little. 

The other day I saw a commercial with a woman brushing her teeth while in the shower.  Is this what we’re doing now?  I thought,  I had no idea.  Seems like a timesaver.  I tried it.  Worst brushing experience ever.  Where do you set it down when you’re done?  Do you put the toothpaste on before or after you get in the shower?  What if you need more?  I tried to rinse off my toothbrush, it spattered toothpaste all over me.  That’s when it dawned on me, later that night as I was standing in the shower, toothpaste on my chest, toothbrush tucked behind my ear: I’m kind of a loser, too. 

Thank you to everyone for all of your support, and e-mails, and encouragement.  It continues to be a wonder to me that anyone reads these terribly silly stories.  I have been very busy, and perhaps a bit stage-frightened, but new stories are in the works. However, the content here may diversify a bit in the future…it may not, but it seems likely.  The stories may get shorter, and perhaps more frequent.  Of course, perhaps nothing will change at all. Who knows?  But thank you to everyone who comments; it means a lot.  Incidentally, you don’t need a witty remark to make a comment (although I do find those hilarious); I love just getting a "Hello."  Thank you again; so much–it’s an honor to be in a sort of community with so many gifted writers and lovely people; truly.

On my drive home from work, I looked out my car window to see a little girl walking along the sidewalk, stealthily creeping past a hedge. She was crouched down, arms spread wide, taking slow, cautious steps. "She must be playing hide and seek," I thought wistfully, "Oh, to be young again." When I passed her, I saw that it was actually a little old woman with a brown wig. And I thought, "Wow! That’s the first time I’ve mistaken osteoporosis for the sprightly spark of youth." I thought about pulling over and complimenting her on looking so young for her age. But how well would that go? 

The day has just begun at the Spanish store, and I’m outside hanging the flags. You know, I’ve been thinking about it, and the U.S. flag has got nothing on the Latin American flags. I mean, come on. Stars and stripes? The states of the union, and the 13 colonies? Really? I like a country like Argentina. It’s blue and white and has a big yellow sun on it. Venezuela’s got a horse on it. South America isn’t afraid to be like, listen, it’s sunny and we like horses. Put it on the flag. Symbolism Shmimbolism. I want a flag with an ice cream sandwich on it. And a pony. And the sheet music for "Love Will Tear Us Apart." There you go. Flag. 

Today I was in Pike Place Market, and I saw a homeless man blow his nose with a dollar bill, and I thought, "Incredible!" It’s like he’s saying, "Yeah, I don’t have a home, but that’s not going to stop me from living the dream. Dollar bills? Who needs ‘em? I drop a Washington every time I sneeze!" And then I thought, "Perhaps this is why he’s running low on cash." 

I was peeling potatoes at work, when a huge, smashed carboard box was deposited on the ground in front of the counter. The UPS man was dancing. Tapping and clicking and twirling and shuffling his old brown shoes.

On the drive to work the other day, I passed a man standing outisde a housing development by a big sign that said, "WHISPERING GLEN." This man must be Glen, I thought. It must be a pretty exclusive community. No whispering! Or else we label you and cast you out for all to see! Still, I mean…Peeping Tom, I might have a problem with. Whistling Pete, even. But Whispering Glen seemed harmless enough. Pleasant, even.

I got to work. My favorite is when I work with Sergio. This guy is…..great. Chilean. Always has a witty comeback. Or a big grin and a little dance.
"Sergio, hola, hola…"
"Hello, Steven." he winks.
"I’m going to need some vegetables from the market…I’ve got to start cooking…"
"Keep your pants on, Steven. Everything is good. No. All good. Everything is all good."
"My pants? What is this expression? Who gets so angry, they just–drop their pants? Oh! That’s it! That’s the last straw! There go the pants! Now look what you’ve done."
He’s dancing. A blissful smile across his face.
"All this suffering, Steven. In the end, you will die, and all this suffering will be for nothing." He does a little twirl. He’s right. I need to chill out.

I was a competitive child. I remember eating lunch when I was five or so and reading "Betcha can’t eat just one!" on a bag of potato chips. And I thought…I bet I can! and I did. And then I thought, wait…over what kind of time period? Like an hour? A week? Do you mean one chip, ever? I’m in! Let’s do this! Lay down some rules and let’s settle this thing!

Anyhow.

There’s a man who’s been browsing intently for about ten minutes.
"Can I help you find something, Sir?"
"Y’all ain’t got no nachos?"
"Yes. I mean, yes, we ain’t. Don’t. Have nachos." He glares at me.
"Just a burrito then."
"We’re Spanish. So…no burritos."
"Ok, one Heineken."
"We…uh…don’t serve beer."
"What’s this?" He holds up a package of Pebrella.
"Oh Pebrella? It’s kind of a wild thyme."
"Oh yeah?" He brightens. "How so?"
"How so?"
"Yeah, how is it a wild time?"
"Right. Thyme. Like the herb. Grows wild. Wild thyme. So…"
We regard each other silently.
"This store sucks."
"Yeah…well…" I’ve got nothing. He glares at me again, shakes his head, tsking softly, and lumbers out the door.

We sell a lot of Iberian and Latin American music. Sometimes I pass the time by checking out the covers. One in particular sticks out to me. This Spanish girl posing fashionably, heavy makeup, hair tousled seductively, cradling…bagpipes? Hm. She’s a bagpiper. No problem there. Bagpiper/funny, kooky friend? Sure. Bagpiper/mysterious loner hiking into the woods to play a dirge on the mountaintop in the misty morn? Sure. But bagpiper/seductive tauntress? Tough to pull off. Because you know there’s going to be a romantic moment where the lighting is soft and warm, and the candles are flickering, and you’re both a little fluttery in the tummy, and there’ll be that sparkle in her eyes, and she’ll say, "wait right here…" and you’ll break into a wide, nervous grin, jittery knees, running your hands through your hair…and she’ll come back with the pipes. And as she’s serenading you with goose squawks, huffing and puffing like the big bad wolf, you’ll be aching for the girlfriend with the scribbled poetry and tuneless guitar weeping and artsy photos of her feet. Mark my words.

Sergio is back with the vegetables. He flutters in the door, hips shaking, imaginary castanets clapping. I’ve always wanted to slice vegetables like a real pro. Knife flashing, perfect slivers of red and green and yellow, turning tufts of leaves to confetti. And I can, I’m good with a knife. But all it takes is one cute girl to say, "Excuse me, can I get change for a dollar?" and I lose consciousness for a few seconds, and plow the blade right into my fingers.
"Sure, sure, here you go."
"Um…are you bleeding?"
"No."
"Ok. Well. You are."
"Ok. Thanks."
"Thanks for the change. And good luck with the bleeding."
"Not bleeding. But thanks. Good luck with the quarters." Good luck with the quarters? Good grief. At least Whispering Glen knows when to keep quiet.

For those of you just joining us, I work at a Spanish store in Pike Place Market-ish. We have the largest Spanish and Portuguese wine selection in the country. Which means that in the 5 months I’ve worked there, I’ve learned a lot about Spanish wine. This also means that I know basically nothing about Spanish wine. Because there are TOO MANY OF THEM.

So when people ask me questions like, "is the Torres black label 2001 as drenched with black fruit and peppered with crushed stones and forest floor spice box aroma as the 1971 Marques De Roca LaShonda Fernando Ortega D’Paz green label??
I say things like, "uhhh…."
And, "Yes. No. I don’t think I know what that means."
And, "Brenda? This gentleman is wondering about the…uh….Marquees… Arigato…uhhh….DeVito….something…wine….something…"

So you can imagine my delight when I get someone as dumb or dumber than I am. Because they don’t even know enough to ask any questions. They just say things like.."I’m looking for a Spanish wine." And that’s pretty much all we have. So I just say, "Ahh…" and pick up a bottle and say, "This one." If they say,"No," then I say, "Well…there’s always…" and hand them a different one. If it’s still a "No," then I say, "OH!" and walk deliberately across the store, pick up another bottle and say, "HERE you go….THIS one is…" and they usually complete the sentence with "Perfect!"

Yesterday, I had a fellow who was even better. "Yeah," he said, "Where’s the place in Spain where they make wine?" His ignorance was thrilling. "You know, the good place."
"Well," I said, "there are a lot of wine regions. Navarra? Toledo? Rioja?"
"Rioja!"
"Ok, well, these are the Riojas."
"What do they taste like?"
"Well…" I took a breath, and made sure no other employees were listening. This is the only question I kind of know the answer to. "The traditional Rioja is very oaky, and uh….it’s made with this grape called Tempernillo…lots of red fruit to it…"
"Whoa! Fruit?"
"Yeah, well…like…uh…cherries?"
"Whoa! Like…IN the wine?"
"Well…"
"Whoa." And he left, mind blown. And I felt clever as a cuttlefish. Which is a simile I came up with while stocking the canned seafood later. "Cuttlefish!" I said loudly. "clever as a CUTTLEfish!"
"What?" said Brenda.
"Practically nothing."

We don’t have a store in Oregon, which is a point of contention for Oregonians. I say we need to give them their own store so they can keep their no-tax nonsense to themselves. They come in, they nose around for a while, and then they start stacking stuff on the counter.
"All set there?"
"Nope, still looking."
"Right." The pile gets higher.
"All set then?"
"Nope."
"Great!"
And finally, when I’m distracted,
"Um…Excuse me? Can I pay here or are you too busy?"

So I ring up their 50 or so purchases. Trinkets. Glassware. Little flags. Wine.
"Oh–can you wrap that up double? Thanks…we’re driving…"
"Ok…$627.88."
"Oh…we’re from Oregon. So…no tax."
"Great!" So I return every single stupid item individually, before ringing it up again in the no-tax departments.
The only thing that gives me solace is imagining them at ARCO later, cheerfully waiting for someone to come pump their gas for them.