The Ninja and The Fleas!

She pulled up both of her fleece sweater sleeves, twisting her arms 180° degree several times. I was astonished with an “O”-shaped mouth once I saw hundreds of red needle marks  scattered all over her finger tips up to the bottom of her chin. I stammered, “Wow!” She sputtered, “Told you! I am going to kill all these bastards! Not a single one will live after tonight. They have to be annihilated or at least be expelled from my house. No more haunting and annoyance!” Her left arm was scratching her right arm and her right arm was holding an ATM card, swiping through the machine ruthlessly. The transaction   completed. She had paid another $15.80 for two cans of insecticide spray.  As soon as the cash register spat out the receipt, she nabbed it, sprinted out and disappeared in the dark momentarily like a Japanese Ninja jumping up the roofs to slaughter all her enemies. I, then, scrutinized the cashier counter to inspect carefully if she shrugged off some of her foes, fleas, without my realization.

This story began at 1 p.m. Friday, December 16, 2011. A ruffled hair lady, wearing a pink fleece blouse, used her elbows to pinch two cans of insecticide spray and laid them on the counter. I said, “How’s going?” She flatted her lips and reluctantly replied, “Alright!” I scanned the items; the total came up to $15.80. She grabbed the plastic bag with one hand, stringed her falling pants upward with another hand and armed out the door in a quick instant that she didn’t even give me a chance to say, “Have a good day!” She disappeared in the mist.

I pondered, “The Raid (insecticide) is not on sale. What is the heck of reason for someone to purchase two cans at the same time? There must be many cockroaches or ants crawling in which she lives.” I hate cockroaches and they love coming out at night to scavenge for food in the kitchen area. I remember when I was very little, around 8-10 years old. I would tiptoe at midnight toward the kitchen with my older sister. She hissed and signaled me, “Are you ready, Cotton Boy?” I nodded and sprang open my 10 stout fingers. She switched on the light. We ran into the kitchen and declared a genocide to the cockroaches by using our thumbs or palms crushing and tweaking their bodies. A minute was the time limit for each stampede, we competed and counted. Approximately, 20-30 smashed dead bodies would be left behind. My sister always excelled me; she probably had bigger fingers at that time.  

At 4 p.m., this unkempt lady returned and appeared in front of me. She looked very impatient and rushed me to help her check out another can of insecticide spray. I did it promptly; she snatched the receipt with one hand. Meanwhile, she was scraping her neck harshly, leaving lengthy red marks and vanished again. I was stunned and flummoxed.

Another 4 hours had gone right before I was closing my cash register. The Lady Ninja whom I addressed emerged once again. She looked desperate, but infuriated. She placed another two cans of Raid. This time I could not shut off my curiosity. I courageously inquired, “You just bought three cans of Raid. Now, you are buying another two. They are expensive! What is going on?” “Son, I know. There are too many fleas in my house. The premise was bigger than I thought. Tonight, I am having a dead or alive battle with the fleas.” She swept away some hair from her mouth and lifted up her sleeves. The bug bite marks were numerous. I was horrified. She looked like the demon in the 1987 renowned movie, Hellraiser.

Once she left, I senselessly scratched my neck as well. “Fleas! Shouldn’t they only exist in the Third World countries? Many Americans are living in substandard living condition now due to this bad economy time. I am blessed I have a cozy warm bed with no fleas waiting me at home.

Interview Time: Talk and dress like a Peacock

Cotton Boy’s piggy bank is on diet. The gold coins are dribbling out from the slot with no control. Bills, including the health and auto insurance, mobile phone, cable TV, car payment, student loan, credit card are continuously flooding into my household. I squinted my eyes tightly, wiggled my nose and trembled my shoulders, emulating myself as if I were “Harry Potter” who was making a spell to eradicate all troublesome, worrisome and unpleasant feelings. When I re-opened my eyes, “Damn, all the bills are still there. I can’t ignore making payments. The consequence is fatal to my life. My credit score will be ruined. Purchasing a castle will be a fractious dream to reach as no one will lend me money for a mortgage loan.”  I need to find ways to gasp for air before I am suffocated and am about to be flushed by the deluge. Someone has to construct a floodgate to stop the water coming in. “Who is my superhero?” I questioned with two hands cupping my face while I was sitting on the toilet.  I look around and the only reflection from the mirror is me. I am distraught first, but a minute later, I realize I am the true rescuer.   

Yesterday was a big day for Cotton Boy. I got an interview for a full time job in an auto rental company. Throughout the last three months, I have filled out over 60 applications electronically and have gone to at least 5 employment agencies. I solely received 4 replies. Fortunately, three out of four offered me the work, but they are part-time work. I seriously need a full-time job which guarantees a 40-working hour per week, paid vacation, health, dental and vision insurance and a reliable pension fund. This auto rental company is a perfect match to cover all my bubbly dreams.

A day before the interview, I toiled the whole day digging out all the relevant information of the company, studying and rehearsing all the common questions that an interviewer will inquire, such as, “Tell me about yourself! What are your strengths and weaknesses? Why do we hire you?” At the end of the process, interviewers usually ask, “Do you have any questions?” Hahaha, Cotton boy had done all the preparations and was ready to pierce through the bloody battlefield.

The final morning had arrived. I took out the nicest suit, wore a sparkle sleeky white shirt, slipped into the shining leather shoes and put on an immaculate blue and red strip tie. (Hey, red and blue are the colors of USA’s spirit. I, as a new immigrant, should be given some credit to be a copycat.) I arrived the premises, switched off the car keys, inhaled and exhaled an enormous amount of air and loudly commented, “I am now dressing like a peacock, will speak like a peacock and have to act like a peacock. This is my moment to deliver a deep-rooted colossal impression to the questioner(s). No mistakes are allowed to be committed. I need to get out of working at the drugstore (where I am working now). Please, Jesus, give me the power!”

I was placed in the conference room. 10 minutes passed, the manager welcomed me; I greeted him back. I was set he would ask me this popular question, “Tell me about your background!” Instead, he said I looked very nice and asked me a series of questions, “What nationality are you? What brought you to Cleveland? Have you experienced how brutal the winter here yet?” Then, he continued, “Let’s do some role plays!” He pointed at several objects in the room and demanded me to sell them to him. “It is as easy as flipping my hand,” I grinned. I love to sell and I am an excellent salesperson. I swung as if I were a peacock launching my beautiful feather to stick up in the air.

He praised me, “Very good! Do you have any questions for me? I replied, “Certainly, what do you think is the best part of working here?” He contemplated deeply for a while, stuttered a few disorientated words and was agape. I wrapped the questioned up nicely by asking him another query.

45 minutes later, the whole process was done. I jumped back to my car, and looked up the sky, “I wonder if this place is really the job to fulfill my bubbly dreams as he couldn't even point out what are good here!”

Be Strong, Crack-Baby! (Part II)

“A “Crack-Baby” refers to a baby of a woman who uses cocaine during her pregnancy. Her fetus is exposed to the drug. Cocaine slows fetal growth. When the babies are born, they tend to be smaller with smaller heads,” he explained literately. I glimpsed at him from head to toe. He does have a tiny head; my head is one and half of his size. Since the term, “Crack-Baby”, was so interesting and invigorating, I went home and conducted some research the same night after work. You may be wondering if “Crack-Babies” have any defects in cognitive, developmental and language problems.  Studies claim as these “Crack-Babies” grow, their brain and body size, indeed, catch up like others. The effects of cocaine on a fetus are thought to be similar to the usage of tobacco and less severe than those of alcohol. In a nutshell, there is not much difference except, “Crack Babies” generally have a smaller head.

I started thinking, "huh, I have a bigger head, but it may actually contain a smaller brain." This explains well why I am anchoring my life at the drugstore with all these education that I have invested. I can’t even compete against a high school graduated “Crack-Baby. “I am doomed”, I moaned. My heart sank and wept not because Jacob has a meager life; I sobbed silently because I am striding on the same career path along with Jacob.

I looked at my iPhone. There was a 10-minute left for my lunch. I gobbled up the sandwiches and finished my Mountain Dew. I wiped the crumbs on the table and readily made a visit to the bathroom before returning to work. I signaled him that he may finish his story one day, but he couldn’t terminate the conversation. He continued standing in front of me with his two hands griping on the table. “I was born prematurely. My mother left me. I was placed in a foster home. My grandparents claimed me back. I lived with them until I graduated high school. My Dad showed up a few times throughout a year at my grandparents’ apartment, but no one knows what he was doing, where he lived and how he sustained his life. Until two years ago, Dad asked me to move in with him. Everything starts crumpling down.”

I had no idea why he was making this confession to me; as a matter of fact, I had heard enough, but it was rude to abandon him alone in the pantry. I wish someone would come in to dissolve his tense and my awkwardness.

“My girlfriend is living with us for a year. She wants to get married and have babies,” he chuckled softly. “Jacob, did you say, “BABY” or “BABIES”? Are you planning to have more than two? You are still young. The world is waiting for you. What is the rush? You need to plan!” solemnly I responded.

“Oh, Cotton Boy, in China, I heard you guys are only allowed to have one baby. Here in America, we can have as many babies as we want,” he tried to convince me. “Jacob, it is not what I was implying about One Child policy. It is all about a “PLAN”. My lunch time is up; I should go,” I retorted.

I understand I have no right to criticize anyone; as a result, I had better leave the discussion. He has dreams and Cotton Boy has dreams too, but our dreams are not on a same orbit.

***According to the latest figure from an article, Report: Child homelessness up 33% in 3 years written by Marisol Bello and posted on USA Today on December 13, 2011, one in 45 children in the USA — 1.6 million children — were living on the street.***

Be Strong, Crack-Baby! (Part I)

A flaring dragon with a pair of oversized wings, flapping in the mid-air ferociously, created deadly turbulences. Tree leaves, squirrels and hummingbirds were swirled into an eddy of dust. The dragon roared and discharged fire against my castle. I screamed “Stop” and hurled myriads of thumb-sized pebbles at his ridiculous undersized tail. He flung me a scornful look but continued the evil act. My castle burnt in flames and turned into ashes. I was aroused in my dream with fear; I sat upright on the edge of the bed with a hand rubbing the cold sweat off my face. My mouth was so dried. I paced to the kitchen and gurgled half bottle of distilled water and sighed, “Life in America is tough. I can’t even dream peacefully to wait for a mighty God to pull me out of the quicksand. Tomorrow is another crazy day in the drugstore.

Jacob is one of my co-workers, who is almost 20 years old a month from now; in fact, he and I share the same month of birthday. He is a very energetic, enthusiastic and devoted worker. His smiles shine and make everyone smile back to him even though he has countless acne on his up-side down triangular face. His body is much smaller than his own specie, Caucasian; he is even tinier than many Asians. His both lengthy skinny arms are awkwardly dangling in the air as if he was released after being crucified on the cross. I don’t often ask personal questions unless someone wants to share. Today afternoon during my lunch break, Jacob has revealed some of the myths about him.

Everyone is entitled to have a 30-minute lunch as long as you complete a 6 hours of work. I was at the pantry eating my turkey and cheddar cheese sandwiches with one hand playing “Angry Bird” on my iPhone 4. Jacob walked in and said, “Hi, Cotton Boy. What are you playing? I wish I had an Android or iPhone. My piece of crap is worse than a Nokia.” I gave him a quick glance and replied, “You will soon! Are you going to school now?” “I wish I could. I have to work. I am in debt around $20,000. I can’t even earn enough to clear the monthly minimum payment.” My mouth stopped chomping. I asked, “What the heck? You are only 19. How did you get yourself into this mess?” I surprisingly questioned. “My dad is a crack-head. He stole my credit cards and spent on drugs. I can’t report him to the police and put him in jail. He is still my Dad. In fact, he is living with me and my girlfriend now. He is unable to work. He stays home all day and is a bum,” he remarked. “Wow, really! He is living under your roof. You didn’t kick him out after he sabotaged your life” I re-started munching my sandwiches and gave him 100% attention. “My mom was a crack-head too. She left me after I was delivered. I was born a “Crack-Baby”? Do you know what a “Crack-Baby” is?” I shook my head as my lips quivered, “No, can you elaborate more?”

***Crack-Baby (Part II) will be posted by 6:00 p.m. tomorrow (Eastern Time). Stay tuned and come back to explore the world of Jacob***

Are you serious?

Cotton Boy may be sort of delirious and is a person who has too many bubbles of dreams floating in the air. I am working diligently and juggling them as fast as I can to assure they won’t crush and shatter on the ground. I have dreams; I am deliriously funny but I am logical, sensible and practical as well. I certainly understand what I should be conducting in life though the outcomes, perhaps, are occasionally different than I expect to receive. “That’s life! We can’t all be a winner, huh?” I roar at myself often to boost up my falling determination. I dare to say I am a sane living creature; I am a damn good civilian because I don’t trick people!

The following story once again happened at the drugstore in which I work. Each day before I step in the entrance of this “San Diego Zoo”, I know something weird and odd is about to occur. Yesterday, a highly delusional lady dressed in pitch black with a gigantic Christmas catchy red flower up above her left ear stalked at the store aimlessly. She asked many, I was one of the inquisitors, “Where is the mirror?” She blurted. I said, “Mam, you are standing in front of the mirror. It is the biggest we have at the store.” She twirled, tittered and winked at the mirror.” A moment later, she raised her voice again, “Where is the mirror?” I decided to grab my restocking stuff and hustled out of the aisle because her behavior was way too difficult for Cotton Boy to fathom.

Later, I was at the Christmas aisle of the store to replenish and tidy up the mess on the shelves. Christmas is a joyful season; I was immersed in the spirit while listening to all the Christmas Carols.  While I was humming “Let it snow; let it snow; let it snow,” I heard a young lady next to me with a basket on her elbow, first weeping, then sobbing, later bawling on her mobile phone. I thought this embarrassing moment wouldn’t last long and I pretended I was attentive only to stock the shelves. She burst out and slouched on the floor as if her life was destroyed by a brutal tornado. I mumbled, “Time to go before getting into trouble,” I wrapped up and pushed my stocking cart away.

An hour later, I was assigned as a cashier to release someone to have lunch. A dark curly hair dude, with a big pair of light brown eyes, in his 30’s, medium size and clean cut emerged and requested the following:

“I need two packs of Marlboro Lights; one regular Camel Lights and two Winston's Lights,” blatantly said by him. “This comes to the total of $31.54,” I stated. He swiped his credit card. I was courteous and claimed, “Sorry Sir, the transaction didn’t go through!” (If you have some extra time, go back and read one of my posts, “I got money; you guys are wrong.” It is a slightly similar story to the one I am telling now.)

He excluded the 2-pack of Winston’s and indicated me to adjust the total. I replied, “It is now $20.30.” He swiped it and the screen displayed the word, “Declined” again. He looked jittery, but his hope was still high. He reduced to One Camel Lights and uttered, “Can you take the two Marlboros off?” “Sir, you total is now $6.14,” I firmly confirmed.

The order, the cancels, the voids and the adjustments consumed more than 2 minutes; the waiting line was thronged with customers. I began getting impatient. He swiped once more time. Guess what? It was declined! Before I tended to ask if he could pay by cash, he was dismayed and walked away with a qiuck response, "Oooops, Sorry".

“What a fuss and waste of my time! This guy craves for cigarette badly. He is totally addicted by nicotine. It is a shame to have credit card that cardholders don’t even have a $6.00 credit but still use it to search for luck!”

By the way, do you know which State in America has the most smokers and which State has the least?

According to the latest Smoking Prevalence in the U.S, Kentucky is ranked first, 28.6% of the population are the smokers. Utah is ranked last with 9.8%. The State of Ohio where I am residing is ranked 12^th out of the 50 States with 22.5%. (Figures are extracted from Wikipedia.com)

Where is my 12-can pack of Pepsi?

Standing at the kitchen this Thursday morning, looking around to see if there was any bread and milk left in the refrigerator, I was disappointed with the rummage of food because it was negative. My body was dragging my soul and demanded that I needed some sugar or caffeine substances so as to infiltrate my bloodstream and lift up my spirit. I opened the refrigerator door again and searched for a can of Pepsi. “What? They are all gone?” I groaned. A home without Pepsi rarely happens in any ordinary American family. I live in America now; I should have restocked plenty of Pepsi whether it is regular, diet, caffeinated or non-caffeinated. If any guests stop by and discover that I can’t even serve a glass of Pepsi full of ice, I will be mocked that I fail to meet the minimum requirement to become an American.

I, immediately, took a quick shower and put on some facial lotion before my face began to crack by the dry frigid air. The supermarket which I usually visit is called “Giant Eagle”. Every year during this time of holiday seasons, someone from Salvation Army is always lingering outside at the entrances of many big stores, swinging a Christmas bell to signal shoppers that it is time for sharing. I fumbled in my pocket and wallet to see if I have any coins or small bills. “Darn, Cotton Boy, when was the last time you used cash? Mostly everyone pays by credit cards in America. I only have two $10 bills and I am not as rich as Donald Trump,” I murmured to myself and rushed away from the Salvation Army guy with an apologetic face.

I shopped for this and that, and 3 twelve-pack of Pepsi to assure that I didn’t have to make another trip at least a week. The cart was full. I was ready to check out at the self service cashier lines as these are always open and I can hasten the process of scanning items. The only disadvantage is normally that no one will do the packing. You have to do it yourself. This morning the store perhaps was busier than usual, an ostrich shape female store employee wearing a light yellow sweater helped me stuff the items in bags while I was scanning. By the time I was finished, all my merchandizes were in bags. I said, “Thank you very much!” She nodded and replied, “Have a good one.”

I unloaded the bags into the car trunk and realized there were only 2 packs of Pepsi. “Where is the third pack?” I examined everywhere and looked around the parking lot. Nothing! “I shouldn’t have let anyone touch my stuff. The ostrich must have misplaced my Pepsi,” I begrudged. I stomped back to the store and looked for her. She was assisting another customer. I waited my turn and asked her politely if I had left some Pepsi behind. “I don’t think so. I packed everything,” she coldly replied. I showed her the receipt to demand they should give me back the Pepsi. She scowled and moved her tweety beak, “You may have dropped your Pepsi on the way to the parking lot!” I resented and shouted at her, “Excuse me? Do you think I would miss hearing the dropping sound of a 12-can pack soda on the concrete ground?” She sprinted to the Lost and Found Department which was behind us. A much slimmer lady handed her my Pepsi and told her the Salvation Army guy found the soda and brought it in a minute ago. She was smug and arrogant. I uttered my apology and left with my Pepsi.

I approached the Salvation Army guy and showed my appreciation. I dropped my $10 bill into the donation box. Then, I drove home!

The 7 (Seven) Cents Nail Polish Girl

The sky was dark and damp. The rain had been drizzling all day yesterday as the mammoth cold air mass was pushing towards the Eastern part of America from the Rocky Mountain Range, forcing the idle warmer air to elevate to the higher sky and forming an enormous piece of charcoal blanket covering the entire space.

My work at the drugstore started at 4 PM. I, Cotton Boy, thought the harsh icy rainy weather would hinder many shoppers from going out to run their errands. When I arrived at the parking lot, I was surprised and screamed, “Damn, almost all the parking spaces are occupied. People should stay home and watch “Two and a Half Men”. I entered the store, clocked in, put my name tag on and confiscated my territory as a cashier once again. The sun flower seed size raindrops were still descending. Americans, in general, do not have the habit to carry umbrellas even it rains torrentially. People drive their own vehicles to reach anywhere at any time. The cash register machine is next to the entrance. I stood there and watched people running in and out of their cars with their tiny hands sheltering their big heads.

I believe after the clock hit 8 PM, business began slowing down bit by bit. I caught my breath and looked around to tidy up my region, such as filling up the cigarettes on the rack, returning the baskets in which they should be located. At the cosmetic area, a young girl around at age 12-14 was holding several bottles of nail polish. I realized she was there at least around 8-10 minutes and assumed she must be dazzled by all colors that she could select.

She approached me with a bottle of pinkish red nail polish and asked, “Do you mind telling me how much it is?” I verified and told her that the price was $1.99. She gaped in bewilderment, “How much is the total after tax?” (Here in America, everything is about tax, tax and tax. If you purchase goods besides food and non alcohol beverages, everything automatically attaches 7.75% sale tax in Cleveland, Ohio before you can check them out from stores.)

I replied the total was $2.14. She frowned and re-started counting her coins; some are quarters, but mainly nickels and pennies. She was much abashed and whispered, “I only have $2.07. What can I do?” She looked like she was falling into a black hole. I wanted to rescue her by giving her 7 cents, but I was not in a position. First, have you ever heard of a cashier paying his client’s merchandize? The answer is obvious “NO”. Second, if you can’t afford it, you don’t buy it. Third, many surveillance cameras were installed on the ceiling. If I pull out my wallet, I would be on the cameras. I really pitied her but said, “I am sorry!”

I judged she would place back the item, go home and return with sufficient funds. Instead, she stayed and looked at me with a pair of sparkling begging blue eyes. A shooting star flashed through my mind. I said, “Just give me few seconds.” She froze herself on the floor with her hands praying.

At that precise moment, a middle aged lady was ready to check out her merchandise and overheard the conversation between the purple dress girl and me. “How much does she owe? I will pay for her,” she stressed candidly. “7 cents if you can,” I informed her. The girl instantly was in high glee, “Thank you so much, both of you”. She grabbed the nail polish and ran out with her little two hands on top of her head. The rain was still dropping.

I praised the lady as a heroine. She said, “Don’t mention it. Everyone deserves a better Christmas.” She walked out and disappeared in the rain with her both hands on her head too.