"Make do."

I'd arrived early for my shift at the shop, so I was sitting on the curb, reading the Examiner and eating (yes) a generic Twinkie, when who comes walking up to me? The littlest pervert — the short black dude who tried to fuck me on Market Street last week. He didn't even remember that I was not the happy recipient of his pelvic thrusts. Today he simply said, "Hey, got any spare change?"

"No," I said sharp as a razor, "and get the fuck away from me."

Being panhandled is ordinary. It's a big city, with a whole lot of poverty and misery, beggars everywhere, and sometimes they want spare change. Sometimes they get it, from me.

Don't panhandling me, though, while I'm eating. That's just rude. It's a long-time pet peeve, even if the guy asking me for spare change isn't someone who molested me a few days ago. 

Bother me when I'm chewing and you'll probably get bit. Bother me after what this guy did on Thursday, and well, I had my hand on the mace in my pocket.

To my get-the-fuck-away-from-me, his response was, "Then, do you want to party?" I threw down my paper and stood up, maybe a foot taller and 150 pounds heavier than this miniature jerk-off.

"You're not too old to die young," said I, trying to put a psychotic look on my face. Some international slobber spewed out too.

He put up his hands and walked away, and I am not sure what I would've done next if he hadn't.

♦ ♦ ♦

Most of today I worked inside the shop, cleaning crystal and polishing knickknacks, and there's a "bull in a china shop" effect whenever I work inside, because I'm big and a lot of the merchandise is fragile. Especially in the restroom.

Any of the 'new' used items — anything besides clothes, basically — that need to be cleaned are boxed and stashed in the employees' restroom, because that's the only place with running water. The restroom, therefore, is stuffed with boxes of silver, glass, and woodware to be cleaned. The back of the toilet is has vases and ceramics, so don't sit too enthusiastically. There's a tall pane of glass that's been leaning against the wall for a month, and there's barely enough space remaining to squeeze into the room without having the doorknob jab my groin. Once past the door, I need to contort my knees and hips, to step over a box of brass and reach the sink. It's all precarious. Maybe even dangerous. And what if I need to use the john as a john instead of a workroom? Well, then everything needs to be rearranged, else the splatter from my pee splashes the dresses hanging mere inches from the bowl.

One of these days, especially if I'm in a hurry to take a dump or something, I'm going to stumble and land wrong and there'll be shattered glass or bloodshed. And today was the day. I accidentally broke a vase, and Stevi was forgiving, said it was no big deal, but I pleaded with her to let me take some of the junk overflow to the back room until there's time for cleaning. She looked at the mess in the restroom, and nodded like she was going to agree, but then she said, "Make do." 

Make do? Can do. Of course, LeeAnn and Stevi have a private john, up front, just off the office. I've only seen that room once and from a distance, but it's spacious. No clutter. Maybe I'll "make do" by pooping there next time I need to.

From Pathetic Life #11
Wednesday, April 12, 1995

This is an entry retyped from an on-paper zine I wrote many years ago, called Pathetic Life. The opinions stated were my opinions then, but might not be my opinions now. Also, I said and did some disgusting things, so parental guidance is advised.

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