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.

so i don’t have a real bed. it’s a fake bed, a silly little collapsible metal framed bed that’s made to collapse and fold under a real bed. but it’s all i’ve got. so whatever. it’s not like i share it. some people have twin beds. i feel sure that this bed is an only child.

two weeks ago, jared and his brothers were over at my house, and came in my room and mocked my little bed. "so..uh…does that ever collapse on you?" jared with his little smirk. no, jared. its a stupid looking little bed, but it hasn’t collapsed.

well, last night it did. i had just finished a couple hours of 24-watching with my roommate, and it was 4am or so and time for bed. i got in my tiny friend, and he dropped like bambi’s mother. not the whole thing, mind you. just where my head is. it bowed to the wall like one of Joseph’s brothers’ sheaves. but its 4am. and i’m tired. so i fall asleep playing wheelbarrow, at a 45 degree angle, my head pressing against the wall, all the blood rushing to my head. all. night. long.
i had crazy dreams about parades through the halls of my highschool, and giving kids bags of doughnuts.

this was worse than the time i spent the night at a friend’s house and slept on an air mattress, and there couldn’t have been more than an asthmatic lungful in the chamber, and it folded up around me like a gordita. i lay there awake all night feeling the hardwood against my ribs, and the rubber walls to either side like being trapped between two rented bouncy castles at someone’s crappy birthday party.

i spent the night at a friend’s place last fall, and i slept on his hide-a-bed. he unfolded it for me, and i at once realized why this bed had been in hiding. it was ashamed. it was the hunchback of notre couch. most beds are rectangles. this was a pentagon. i laid down and….you know when you’re writing a sentence, and you forget a word, and you go back and make a little upside down v and put the word on top of that? i felt like that word. but this was worse.

what’s the deal with "playing wheelbarrow" anyway? someone needs to tell kids that, listen, that’s cute and everything, but real wheelbarrows carry stuff. they help people. you just stumble around on your hands and giggle. if you want to play wheelbarrow, you need to be as efficient as a real one. carry this bag of fertilizer. and this bucket of rocks. and stop crying. wheelbarrows don’t cry.