Bad Jewish Stereotype

So this bad Jewish stereotype walks into my store, an empty plastic pitcher in one hand and a small child (probably grandchild) being toted in the other. He looks at the soda machine, all its Pepsi branding sprayed lavishly across. “How much are your sodas?”

“2 dollars,” replies the clerk. (They’re now 2.49.)

“2 dah—2 dollars? Sheeminy!” The guy has the excess cartilage on the nose that comes with old age. I heard cartilage doesn’t stop growing, ever, but why does it seem to be worse in men? And honestly, I’m not deliberately trying to be stereotypical about Jews, but this guy really has a huge, honking nose. Almost as big as my Italian nose. “Everybody wants more than what it’s worth,” the bad Jewish stereotype remarks. “Where’s the owner so I can ring his neck?”

He goes on to order a 2-liter Pepsi, and even before he’s paid, even before he’s looked right at me and asked, “Do you work here?” apparently not noticing the company logo monogrammed to my shirt, he pops the soda top and pours it into his pitcher.

For the record, one of the reasons why he’s such a bad stereotype of the Chosen People is because of the way he talks. It’s not something that can be easily transcribed, but just to write in the vernacular for a bit, the word “here” is more like “heah” and “worth” and “work” are more like “woith” and “woik”—not quite in that Lawrence Tierney style, but close.

After he’s asked Stupid Question of the Day (the one about me working here), he pours out a Vegas-style shower of nickels and asks me to count it out. I fudge it and give the store an extra ten cents. The man and his grandkid leave the store with a storm cloud chasing them.

I’m sorry if I’ve offended any Jews out there, but remember, he was the one behaving so stereotypically.

Blonde Bimbo

In the shopping center where I work, by the drive-thru convenience store that used to be a photo development drop-off, right behind the Del Taco, there’s a driveway that’s “secret,” tucked away where California meets Streeter. The smart truckers bring their Albertson’s shipments through that way. The alternative is the other side of the parking lot, which is much busier, and believe me, shoppers have little patience for bigrigs trying to make their shipments. Coming out of this “secret” driveway often makes for an easy route west into the ’burbs (or west-ish—Riverside is mostly sideways). That’s only if traffic is light.

Now, I’m trying to get out this way, next to the Del Taco, and I’m right behind a lifted truck, like an F-150 or a Chevy 1500, or something, but raised up in precisely the manner a SoCal truck owner would not need. (Seriously, how often do they offroad in a landscape mostly divided by freeways?) This damn truck in front of me is going half a mile an hour and I’m beginning to wonder what gives. You know, there’s not a lot of room to maneuver around the thing, it being so big, so what the hell?

Eventually, the truck stops altogether, and now I’m getting mad. I have an order to take. If it’s late, I might not get tipped. I’m about ready to say, “Fuck it,” and pull my compact around when something strange happens: the bro-mobile’s backup lights go on.

“Oh shit!”

I shift into reverse as fast as I can, put my foot to the floor, honk as obnoxiously as possible.

The truck stops dead, thank God, and after a good five seconds, this blonde female head pops out the driver side window yelling, “Sorry!”

My guess? She was only using the rearview mirror instead of, you know, taking the effort to turn her head around and actually check to see of a small Honda might be behind. It’s probably not even her truck. Her boyfriend’s, perhaps. She’s not used to driving in one.

I’m glad she has the sense to apologize, but I really do is look at her. This is what people are talking about when they say Southern Californian’s can’t drive.

Chihuahua Bite

The first (and only) time I’ve ever been bitten by a dog at work was just a few weeks ago. In six years it had never happened before, but there’s a first for everything.

This other time, I ventured into a fenced-in yard occupied by some kind of yellow canine whose breed was indefinable and I waited and waited and waited for the customer to answer the door. There was no incident with the dog at all. What I assume to be the boyfriend pulled up and called me “bold” for coming through the gate because, according to him, the dog bites. Boyfriend walked inside and got the person who ordered the pizza. The dog just sat there panting.

I’ve had dogs jump on me, I’ve had dogs lick me. Of course I’ve had dogs bark at me. Once a bulldog tried to hump me.

But a few weeks ago, a Chihuahua bit my ankle. It didn’t break the skin, but believe me, I still felt like bringing the full weight of my shoe on its brittle little neck. What really made me mad was how the customer laughed.

There was a Chihuahua (why does my computer insist on capitalizing that?) at an apartment downtown that would bark, book it when I approached, then bark some more. “What, you think you’re tough?” I could’ve punted it through the skylight.

People always say how vicious pit-bulls are, but I’ve never seen it. They’re always very friendly when they meet the guy holding the pizza. Only once did one ever growl at me, and the owner quickly put it in its place. But seriously, all you Chihuahua owners out there, learn to control your dogs.

The inaugural post

I'm creating this blog mostly out of boredom, being stuck in a job with no upward momentum that only pays minimum wage (but luckily accepts tips) and also my regular computer died so it's very difficult to update my website--at least until I get a new machine that has access to my old software. That won't be for a few months, at least. I have what Seanbaby once referred to as a "negligible" degree--namely, graphic art--which basically means it can't really get me anywhere in today's economy. I live in California, and it's likely I'll be an old man by the time the financial crisis recovers, if it ever does (I'm in my 20s).

And I deliver pizzas. My passion is writing, and all affiliated hobbies, which is basically just reading but I also play enough videogames as to become counter-productive on my aspirations. Luckily, the economy sucks, which now means it's much more difficult to feed this rather expensive hobby. But pizza is where I make my money.

So I'm stuck writing a blog.

I wanted to make the blog specific to my job because a) it provides plenty of funny/weird/frustrating material for a writer, b) it's easy to write about and c) I live in California's "Inland" region, which basically means I'm like your average Californian but currently undergoing God's beta test for the Apocalypse, and yes, that also makes for interesting things to write about.

So pay attention to me, because I like writing and you like reading and there are many other more inane things to accept your attention as payment. I hope you enjoy my little creative nonfiction experiment.