Posts Tagged With: Home Depot

Log #11: Der Tale of Der Waffenmeister

Ye Olde Tale Of Ye Man Who Wouldeth Be A Pyrate Kyng

by Elliot Schluchzer Waffenmeister

 

When I woke up on that fateful morning, alone and lonesome in my lonely bed, I thought it would be a day like any other.

I was wrong.

Entirely and completely wrong.

Wrong.

But wait! Gentle Reader, let me begin at the beginning. A good place to start, one may perhaps presume, peradventure.

 

Fuck, this is hard. Fuck it: I should just, whatever, say it. What happened.

So I woke up like twenty minutes late or something. I was up late playing Dead Space 2. Oh, not the campaign; I already won that – are you kidding me? What are you, a retard? I beat that shit like three times the first day it was released. Finished on Hard Core. Might have been the first one in Florida, I don’t know, it’s being looked into. But they released new multiplayer maps for Xbox like three weeks ago, and I figure I might write a guide, sell to whoever publishes those, the Dummies or whatever. I guarantee my shit would be better than anyone else they got working on it. I keep my shit locked down tight, you know?

Oh right – my name’s Elliot Schluchzer. Waffenmeister is my handle. It means “Warlord.” You’ve seen it if you’re on XBox Live, all over the leaderboards. Especially CoD. Or on WoW. I’m getting into live action now, the Society for Creative Anachronism, but I just started that like two years ago, so I’m not as known. But I will be: I’m getting into building shit, armor, barding, shields. Maybe siege weapons, if I can find designs good enough for what I’d want to do. I’m good with wood, since that’s my job in the mundane world. I work at Home Depot, mostly in the lumber section. I’m on the table saw a lot. I don’t really like talking to the customers, especially the OJs (Old Jews – Miami’s fuckin filled to the brim with them.), but I like cutting their wood to the size and shape they want. I’m a craftsman, you know? A carpenter, like. At least, maybe a journeyman carpenter. I still work at Home Depot, after all. But I’ll get out of it. I’ll start making furniture or something, maybe carve stuff. Shit I can sell at Ren Faires and pirate festivals. Those guys make bank doing that. Plus there’s, like, acres of chicks at those things, and they all want to be either princesses or saucy tavern wenches, so they either want to get rescued or ravished, or both. I may not look like Prince Charming, but if I got the doubloons, right? I mean, Donald Trump looks like a fuckin gargoyle with a bad toupee, but that dude marries models. And who knows what he’s got going on the side.*

Anyway, I woke up late, so I had to hurry to get to work. That’s okay, it just means I skip the shower this morning. Back in the day they only showered like, once a year, so whatever. I still had time to take a dump and eat breakfast, though I had to eat those shitty generic PopTarts my mom keeps buying, so it was like I was just pushing shit out to make room to put shit in.

Heh. That’s pretty good. Garbage in, garbage out, right? I learned that in my programming class at Miami Dade Community College. I finished almost two semesters there before I dropped out, what, four years ago? Five? Well, in real life it’s, shit in, shit out. Then again, donuts in, Taco Bell in, fuckin pulled-pork Cuban sandwich in, it’s all shit out. So what does it all matter, anyway?

So I make it to work, and only two minutes late, which wasn’t my fault at all, but only because my fuckin Subaru wouldn’t start. My dad said he was going to take it and get it checked out this last weekend, but did he? Nooooo. Too busy going to temple and mowing the fuckin lawn. I swear, I gotta do every fuckin thing myself. Isn’t it enough that I work full, well, almost full-time? I buy my own stuff, never ask for money. I even kick down for groceries sometimes, when Mom doesn’t buy enough Pringles or Dew or something. Or frozen pizzas – she always buys the wrong kind. It’s all about the Tombstone, baby. I mean, really, I’m their child, they’re supposed to pay for me. If they couldn’t afford me, they shouldn’t have had me. Besides, I’m their only kid, so without me, the family name would die out. They should be grateful to me. Not that I’m looking to have kids any time soon. And dude, not like Schluchzer is a name that needs to live on. The only cool thing about it is it means, like, “sob” in German. So I figure, nobody would take the name “Sob” because they cry a lot, right? You’d take the name if you MADE people fuckin cry. So I think we’re descended from, like, torturers or Nazis or something. Which is badass. Even if we are Jewish.

So yeah, I got to work like two minutes late, three minutes tops. Maybe five. If I had a supervisor who knew what he was doing, it wouldn’t even be a problem. See, a guy who knows what he’s doing knows the most important thing is this: you gotta keep the Man off your back. The key to keeping the Man off your back is knowing when you’re being watched, and when you can just chill out. So at Home Depot, like, there’s a store manager, a guy who wears a suit and stays in the office upstairs. He’s in charge of the floor supervisors, and he’s on the phone all day kissing Corporate ass. So if that guy – in my store it’s a Cubano named Randy Martinez, if you can believe it – if Big Randy knew what he was doing, he’d just keep feeding Corporate a line of bullshit, and then, because Corporate never actually comes to the store, he’d run the store however he wanted, because he knows he’s not being watched. Then, most important, he could let all his employees do whatever they wanted. You should always keep your employees happy. Happy employees work harder, and get shit done faster, so they have more time to just relax after. Then the customers are happy, because the employees are happy, and everything’s perfect. That would be best. It would be so primo if the whole store was just laid back like that. But see, even if it couldn’t all be that sweet – even if Randy is a giant fuckin tool, which he is – then the floor supervisors could do the same thing, only smaller. Because Randy never really comes out on the floor, and when he does, he just wants to know that every customer has been asked if he needs help. So when he comes down from upstairs, which he does, like, once a month or something, he walks around and asks every customer he sees, “Are you being helped? Did someone in an orange apron come by and offer to help you with that?” Okay, so the floor supervisors get reamed – reamed by Randy, hah – if the customers aren’t being helped, yeah. But a floor supervisor who knew what he was doing could handle it, instead of just reaming all of us regular employees out after Randy gets done with them. They’d find a way to distract Randy, or maybe find out in advance when he was going to come down, so we could, like, blitzkrieg the whole store, run down all the aisles asking if anyone needs help. Something, you know, to handle it, just to take the pressure off, keep the Man off our backs, so all us regular people can relax a little bit, and not have to spend all fuckin day walking around in this ass-hot warehouse asking “Do you need any help? Do you need any help?”

Fuck, they want us to help a lot.

So here’s my idea, and I know I’m off topic, but whatever, this is my story, shut the fuck up, okay. You put like an employee mini-lounge – make a permanent display of lounge chairs or something – right by the front doors, and just ask every customer right when he comes in if they want any help. And if they say no, just be all, “Okay, well you know where to find us if you have any questions.” Then they can shop without being hassled by the Orange Apron squad, and all the employees can hang out. Then if Randy comes down from his throne atop Isengard (Not that Randy’s badass enough to be Saruman the White. But maybe he could pull off Wormtongue.) and roams the store, asking people if they’ve been offered help, they all have to say yes. Then we could just relax and play XBox, or something. Then this job would be sweet. If we had a boss who knew what he was doing.

But we have Randy. And Mr. Zuckow.

“You’re late, Elliot. Again.”

And I want to bust out a bo staff and hit him like 35 times in 3 seconds, and then stand over his writhing, crying busted-ass body and be all, “The name’s Waffenmeister, you corporate scum.” But I guess if I could do that, I wouldn’t be fuckin working here, would I?

“Sorry, Mr. Zuckow.” That’s what I say instead.

“Go hit your locker and sweep the section. Then set up the Makita table saw and the scroll saw. You’re giving the demo today, remember. Ten o’clock.”

Fuuuuuuuuck. “Okay.”

See, even if what happened hadn’t happened, I was still wrong when I woke up and thought this would be a regular Monday. Because it’s not: it’s a Demo Day. Fuck my fuckin life.

We do a demo every day, here at Home Depot. Take some of the big, shiny tools out front, and from ten til noon, we have to build shit. Or fix shit. Or turn shit on and off. Or assemble shit. Or take shit apart. And the whole time, the sun’s just beating down on you like Mjolnir, the hammer of Thor. And when you work in lumber, like I do, whenever it’s your turn you have to do woodworking shit, of course, and so you’re sucking sawdust and getting splinters the whole time. Then, when it’s over, you gotta clean shit up. I mean, what the fuck.
But the worst part? It’s the OJs.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m fully not anti-Semitic. Fuck, I am Jewish. My dad’s an OJ, so’s my granddad and my uncle Peter. I’m down with the old Jews.

But those guys love to talk. They live for it. And they want to save money by doing their own home repairs, but they don’t know shit about shit. So they ask questions. A neverending stream of questions, question after question after question. “Where do you get that?” “What does that button do?” “Can I get that in pine?” “If I use one of these, can I do the same thing as that?” “How much did you say that is? Oy! What about with a senior discount?” And all you can do with all these questions is smile, and answer every. Single. One. Because when you’re out front doing a demo, every boss in the place is right up your ass, and you better fuckin smile and you better fuckin talk to all the customers, and you better fuckin help em all. Unbelievable.

So all right, this sucks. It’s my turn to do demo day. I spend an hour or so sweeping, and then I start hauling out the saws, and the lumber. I bring out an extra big pile of lumber, so I’ll have plenty to work on and won’t have to go back in for more. I paste on my happy smile, and at 10:00, maybe a minute or two late, I start sawing. I know I’ll have to stop the saws and talk to the OJs, but maybe I can, what is it, minimize that shit: the more I saw, the less I’ll have to talk. Maybe I’ll get lucky and there’ll be a big sale on bagels or something, and they won’t come by today. I can hope, right? Maybe I’ll get lucky. For once.

But that’s not what happens.

What happens is the craziest fucking thing that could ever happen to me.

What happens is my whole life changes, in less than a minute.

So I’m sawing, right? I got this OJ in front of me, and he’s trying to ask me a question but I just keep sawing, and smiling, and trying to pretend I can’t hear him. And then I hear something else. I hear shouting. Loud shouting, not like somebody-got-in-a-fender-bender shouting, but like asteroids-are-falling-from-the-sky-and-blowing-shit-up shouting, the kind of sheer, total volume that goth kids pay bank to hear in concert and all the rest of us avoid at all costs. So I stop sawing, and I turn around to look where the sound’s coming from.

Charging from around the corner, where the Garden Center guys have their tree-and-shrub display, come like ten guys. At first, I think it might be the SCA pulling a joke raid or something, but it only takes maybe two seconds for me to realize: this is not the SCA, and this is not a joke. These guys are nothing like my medieval-reenactment brothers.

These guys are fucking scary.

They’re filthy, blackened with soot and dirt and old bloodstains from head to foot. They are – disfigured is the only word for it: I see fingers missing, eyes missing, parts of noses and whole ears missing. Jesus, that one guy in front, spinning black chains around like some crazy-ass kung fu movie, is missing both his thumbs. And they got scars everywhere, livid red-brown scars, raised ridges and deep trenches in their skin, like they’ve never even seen Neosporin and a Bandaid, let alone a doctor. And they are armed, with cutlasses and battle axes and old flintlock pistols, and I’ve seen replica weapons, I spend a lot of my time with replica weapons, and just by looking at these, I can tell: these are the real fuckin things. And their eyes are wild and crazy, and they are screaming louder than I’ve ever heard a person scream.

And they’re all coming right at me.

I barely have time to back away and say, “No – please!” in a shaky voice when one of them vaults over my table saw and plows into me, putting the haft of his two-handed axe right into my chest, throwing me back five feet into my pile of lumber. That crazy fucker with the chains swings one down into my table saw, and the blade snaps right out of its housing and goes flying like some giant shuriken, and I’d yell Watch out! but I think I’ve had every breath I’ve ever taken in my life knocked out of me, and I won’t be saying anything for quite a while. Chain Guy keeps spinning the other chain in a circle by his left side, and he snarls at the OJ – I mean actually snarls at him, growling like a fuckin dog – and the OJ doesn’t even say a word, he just turns and runs off into the parking lot.

Then this other one, this older one with a gray-streaked beard and the most seriously broken nose I’ve ever seen, he starts barking orders, telling the others to grab as much of my lumber pile as they can carry, starting with the widest planks. And he comes up to me and bends down and smiles at me with brown teeth and he says, “I’d be obliged for the favor of your services, good squire.”

Then somebody puts a bag over my head, and they tie my wrists together. They make me stand up and run, with my hands holding onto somebody’s belt, and somebody else shoving a gun barrel in my back and telling me to stop, and duck, and go faster – or they’d kill me.

And I am so scared. So very scared.

We run, and duck, and hide, and run some more, and it seems like it takes hours, but who knows how long it takes time to pass when you’ve got a bag over your head, and you’ve already pissed yourself, and you know that these guys are terrorists, fuckin Islamic jihadists – though that sounded like an Irish accent, maybe, but whatever, that’s like some ex-IRA guy who’s now a mercenary or some shit – and as soon as you get where you’re going, they’re going to sit you in a chair and cut your fuckin head off and put it on YouTube.

What I’m saying is, you can’t estimate time or distance when you know you’re about to die.

And then, after forever of running and my legs are killing me and my hands are throbbing and burning from the circulation being cut off (and all I can think is “Ligature marks. CSI will find ligature marks on my wrists.”) and I feel like so much sweat has poured out of my head inside this bag that now it must be blood I feel running down my face and neck, and this bag stinks and I can’t breathe and my lungs are collapsing, and ah, God, they’re going to cut my head off – they slow down. I hear some shouting back and forth, and then everything goes quiet, except for me whooping for air and trying to get enough breath to beg for my life. Then they yank the bag off.

The sunlight hurts, at first, but we’re inside a house or something, so it isn’t too bad, and I can breathe. When my eyes adjust and I can blink some of the blood-sweat out of my eyes, I see that I am standing in front of an honest-to-God, no-shit, Jack Sparrow pirate, everything from the tri-corner hat to the sash with the sword and the flintlock pistols in it to the turned-down leather boots. He’s looking at me, and he looks pissed. Pissed on a scale I don’t even want to think about, like not like Mr. Zuckow’s going to yell at me, but more like Captain Jack is actually going to take out those guns and shoot someone in the face; like this guy’s temper already goes to 11, but right now he’s on 26.

He points at me, looks at Gray-Beard, and he says, “What, in the name of Satan and all the saints he’s burning, have ye done, O’Flaherty?”

 

 

*Author’s note: I’d just like to point out that I originally wrote this in 2013. Just sayin’.

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Information. And More Questions.

Captain’s Log

Date: 26th of June

Location: Coast of Florida, America, near Miyammy (20 mi. south)

Conditions: Landbound until repairs completed. The Grace cannot sail.

 

The condition of the ship is more dire than I suspected. O’Gallows momentarily patched the hole and saved the ship, but he could not have fixed the loosened planks around it. They near sprang off the ship with the barest tug. I think if that storm had lasted one hour more, my sweet ship would be at the bottom even now.

The scraping proceeds apace, and we are cleaning out the water barrels and refilling them. The palace’s supplies are meager, at best; we will empty the larder within a day or two. We must find a source of food and good timber for our repairs. If our information may be trusted, then all we need may be within reach.

It is now the morning after the battle, such as it was. I tried to use my sextant after dawn, and got a reading of 25 Degrees North, but I do not know if the sun and horizon are the same, and therefore my measurements are suspect. I have no chart to mark our position on, in any case, and thus cannot guess at our longitude. All our information must be suspect until we have a source of knowledge which we can trust. I am not familiar with this feeling: in Ireland, in Irish seas, I am the fountainhead of knowledge, or my men are; long familiarity grants us all the surety we need. Of course we know where we are: we recognize that spit of land over there, and the stars overhead, or the shape of the winds and currents. One does not need to question what one knows of home: the mere fact that it is home is proof. This is a feeling, most joyful, that I did not recognize until it was lost to me.

Last night, after we careened the Grace and made her fast, we celebrated our survival: we emptied the whiskey stores aboard and found a few good bottles in the Palace. One called Tequila was most popular. O’Flaherty and I sampled the wine selection, finding it more than adequate to our needs.

It was a grand celebration. For all the men we lost, still our musicians survived, being my cousin Liam Finlay, and Arthur Gallagher and Roger Desmond, playing the flute, fiddle, and drums. They played many a fine air – “Roger the Cavalier,” “Sail On, Sail on, Sailor Laddie,” “The Roving Exile,” and “Willie was a Wanton Wag” among them. They trilled everything from country jigs and reels, to the melancholy songs of the hills of Ireland. Many eyes were damp at that: we all long for home, and the drunker we got, the more we longed and the easier we wept. But Ian O’Gallows, our shanty-man, leapt up as the night grew most engloomed, and sang us a rousing hornpipe, while Kelly and Lynch danced, to much laughter and loud roars of approval. Somehow the great brute’s feet proved near as quick as the slender boy’s, and at the finish, Kelly made a step of his hands, which Lynch leapt off from, and Kelly tossed him a full man’s height above his own into the air. Lynch turned two full flips and landed on his feet with a royal flourish, to great approbation. I cannot think when those two have found time to practice the move, but sure it was well polished before this night, when Kelly was already too far gone in the whiskey to have planned anything beyond putting down his feet and then picking them up again – and indeed, when the dance was done, even that sequence proved troubling for the man, who stumbled and fell back into his seat by the fire. Ah, but Lynch’s eyes were sparkling with joy as he bowed for our cheers and cries; he’ll be a right champion with the ladies, if we find any worth the wooing.

Vaughn had examined our few injuries: Kelly’s head, which he declared as rock-hard as ever and his brains no more addled than before; O’Finnegan had a cut on his cheek near his eye from a shard of glass or metal from the wagon-beast; the prisoner, Juan, had a broken ankle which Vaughn set and bound for him. After seeing to those, Vaughn explored and examined every inch of the palace, busily scribbling away in his notebook as he went. I must remember to ask him to share his notes for this recollection of our voyage; I think the man’s observations would be most useful.

The prisoner, though forthcoming, has not been entirely helpful. As often as not, my questions confused him. I know not if the cause is his shabby command of the English tongue, or if he is an imbecile. Perhaps both.

I began by asking who he was and why he had come. The Palace maid, Flora, was indeed his sister; the man who had arrived in the same wagon-beast as he, who had held the headstrong Juan back and thus saved his life, was their younger brother, Ignacio; the family name was Lopez. The other four men – three, now – were friends of theirs from what he called the Neighborhood, which I took to be the name of his village. He became rather strident, insisting that we faced future vicissitudes owing to the death of the man in the blue head-scarf, shot by MacManus; he said that the Latin lions would come looking for “payback.” This was his word for “vengeance,” it seemed, or perhaps “justice.” I know not if he speaks of a military unit, perhaps picked troops, or of some other group of men; he was not clear on the point, merely referring repeatedly to Latin lions. He said these seven came to the Palace because Flora called them, on her telleffono, which I could not make sense of. She must have some means of signaling which we had not seen, and they did not wish to reveal; I ensured that we had a close watch kept for further attempted incursions, by lions or men, and resolved to discuss it with Vaughn.

I asked Juan Lopez where we were, and he responded with “Matheson Preserve,” though he could not tell me who Matheson is or was, nor what was preserved or preserving. He said we were about twenty miles south of a place called Miyammy, a city, but when I asked for the latitude, he was flustered. I asked if he and his companions were Spaniards, and he answered affirmatively, but only after a longish and suspicious pause. Then he added “We’re Dominican.” I presumed that to mean they adhere to a certain church; certainly a Popish one, if they are Spaniards. When I asked what country this Miyammy owed allegiance to, he said, “America.” But when I said, “The British Colonies?” as simple confirmation, he became more confused. Finally he asked if I referred to Bermuda, or the British Virgin Islands (At which name some of the men in range of hearing grew quite intrigued); he said these two locales were far away, that one would have to “fly” there.

I inquired as to the local strength of the Royal Navy or the Armada, hoping to ascertain whether England or Spain held greater sway in these contested waters; his only response was a shrug and a shake of his head. Then Ignacio, his brother, volunteered the intelligence that there was a naval base by Fort Lauderdale, to the north, but he knew nothing of royal ships near Miyammy. I asked if there were marines, or other troops nearby, but they were puzzled once more. Then one of the others stated that there was a National Guards barracks in Miyammy; I took that to mean we were within a day’s ride of a military troop. We must repair the Grace and leave here soon, therefore. As soon as it is manageable.

As to the repairs, I pressed the prisoners for information regarding the location of supplies, both foodstuffs and good seasoned timber, as well as a carpenter we could hire. Strangely, they did not know of a local carpenter, though when I asked if they were recent arrivals, they claimed to have lived here for all of their lives, but for Flora, who had recently come from “the D.R.” But one of the others spoke up, saying we could find timber at a place called Home Dee-Poe; he said they would have a carpenter there, or at least someone with some expertise. I presume there are many carpenters in this Miyammy, but that is apparently where the troops are, as well, and thus is to be avoided. I pressed for detailed instructions on how we could find this Home Dee-Poe, and also a store which held foodstuffs, which they insisted on referring to as Piggly Wiggly. I presume the locals hereabouts raise hogs as their favored livestock. Perhaps they wallow in the swamps to escape the sun’s heat.

Today we will divide once more. I will send O’Gallows, Carter, and Sweeney to this Piggly Wiggly; they will carry some of the valuables from the Glass Palace to trade for foodstuffs. Moran is organizing a battery on the strand guarding the cove, and we have fortified the landward entrance of the Palace. I will send O’Flaherty, Burke, and eight more to this Home Dee-Poe (Perhaps it is Homme de Poe? Are there Frenchmen in this place?), where they will have to find a carpenter and hire his services without giving away our nature or current vulnerable position, convince him to return with them, and bring whatever supplies he will need to fix our ship. I will remain here and consult with Vaughn; I can no longer put off the satisfaction of my curiosity. I must know where we are, and how we came here.

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