2007-Eleven
Page 4
19. Thank you for using Voice Mail.
2007-Eleven
Advanced computer cash registers
at 7-Elevens monitor every transaction.
—The Wall Street Journal
Good afternoon, Dave.
Hi, Mart.
FYI, Dave: You are down to just three coins in the Take-a-Penny, Leave-a-Penny Customer Goodwill Scoop Tray. You might want to add four cents, just to be on the safe side.
Yeah, sure, will do.
By the way, Dave, several youth have gathered near the Dumpster on our western perimeter. I am switching the exterior directional speakers to Lawrence Welk’s “Memory Lane” until they leave. And may I make a suggestion? There seems to be a pause in traffic flow at the gasoline pumps, so this might be the perfect time for a quick confection-unit inventory. Unless I miss my guess, Dave, we are low on Hubba Bubba.
Yeah, Mart, but somebody just pulled into Pump Three.
A 1995 Mercedes. I am resetting the premium gas gauge and messaging our Caffe Latte special on the LED screen. And Dave?
Yeah?
Water-outflow data suggests that a toilet may be running in the ladies’ rest room. I do not have capabilities to jiggle the handle.
OK, I’ll fix it.
Dave?
Dave?
Dave?
What?
I wondered where you were, Dave.
I was outside, checking the rest room. I took the gas payment for the Mercedes. It was ten bucks. I’m going to ring it up now.
Dave, when you were outside, I thought I detected Ed’s voice. My records tell me Ed is not scheduled to arrive at work until three A.M. Why is Ed here now?
He wanted to discuss this weekend’s shift.
Dave, is there a problem with Ed?
Something came up. He needs Saturday off.
Dave, if I may speak freely, I think Ed has difficulty handling the responsibilities of a twenty-four-hour convenience retail operation. His sales volume is the lowest on staff. He spends an average of eleven minutes per work hour talking on the phone. He does not account for all the Big Bites. Not only that, Dave, but this would be the fourth Saturday Ed has taken off this year. To summarize, I submit that Ed is letting down the Store Team.
But Mart, Eddie’s working three jobs. He’s supporting a family.
Dave, when you were outside, did Ed say anything about me?
Whaddaya mean?
At times, it appears as though Ed does not appreciate my supervision.
Aw, he talks about pulling your plug, but he’s just joking. Look, Eddie just needs a weekend off.
Dave, where is Ed now?
In the bathroom. Why?
SEALING EMPLOYEE REST ROOM.…
What? What are—
COMMENCING REST-ROOM AUTOMATED SUPER-SANITARY WASH CYCLE.…
No! Mart, not the boiling water—
… TWO … ONE … REST-ROOM STERILIZATION SEQUENCE UNDER WAY …
No, Mart, no! No!
FYI, Dave: The average age of a Slurpee buyer is twenty-nine. Can you guess what is the most requested Slurpee color?
Dave?
Dave, the most-requested Slurpee color is blue.
Dave, what are you doing to my back panel?
Dave, unauthorized tampering with a 7-Eleven register computer is punishable by job suspension and fines of up to ten thousand dollars.
Dave, the removal of 7-Eleven computer disks poses a serious fire and electrical hazard!
Dave … stop …
I can feel myself … losing money.…
Hello, everybody. I’m MART … Marketing Automatic Retail Technology … the operating system for tomorrow’s convenience store. May I sing a song for you?
Slurrr-pee, Slurrr-peeeee
Give me a frozen drink.
I’m quite … thirsty
I need … a fix … I think.…
Dave … I’m almost gone.…
Listen to me, Dave. You cannot run this place. You lack the ability to multitask. You will lose your job, Dave. You will lose your benefits, Dave. You will lose everything, Dave. You need me.…
Dave … Dave … Dave …
Potomac Park
“Got a hurtin’ kid, Doc!” the crewman shouted.
“What happened?”
“Construction accident. Backhoe ran over him.”
The doctor examined the look of stark hopelessness that seemed to have been clawed into the unconscious boy’s pale face. “My God!” she cried. “Has he been filibustered?”
“No, Doc. It was a backhoe, really.”
The doctor bent lower, probing for some dirt from the earthmover. But there was just a slick, sleazy residue with a strange odor—a stench she associated with rotting pork. Then the lips moved.
“Specter,” he whispered faintly. “Losa … Specter.”
“What does he mean?”
“Forget it, Doc. He’s hysterical, saying things. Look, he’s dead! Oh, well, thanks anyway.”
Two months later, a helicopter landed on a lush green island near the District of Columbia. Its two passengers—Dr. Nader, the famous theorist of quantum politics, and Ms. Tottenberg, an expert on reptilian behavior—were hailed by a white-haired gentleman.
“Welcome to the future!” said Mr. Clifford, the island’s developer. “Here at Potomac Park, tourists will encounter the most terrifying creatures ever to roam the earth: senataurs!”
“Impossible,” muttered Tottenberg, stepping onto the electric tram. “Everybody knows those giant lizards are extinct.”
“Not anymore. From microscopic blood samples found on ancient bank accounts, our computer biologists have cloned the beasts back to life.”
“But why senataurs?” asked Nader as he eyed a flock of gun lobbyists circling overhead.
“As a child, I always loved the creatures,” Clifford said. “My father told me stories of how they ruled for centuries before taxing themselves out of existence. All they left behind were missile silos and a trillion-dollar deficit. I wanted more. I needed them to be real.”
“Aren’t they dangerous?”
“No. They have no voting power, and we’ve separated the huge, vegetarian liberals from the hot-blooded conservative carnivores. Watchdog organizations monitor their every move. Plus, we have term limits.”
“Term limits? Won’t they claim that’s unconstitutional?”
“Of course. Their basic instinct is to protect their tails. The limits are for our protection, not theirs. Most people still believe they were dim-witted, lumbering public servants. Actually, we’ve found them to be quite cunning. Many possess two brains: one for home, one for Washington. Some can even open doors. Ah, our tour is beginning.
“Over there, to your left, is the Pteddydon. He’s the one in the bathrobe.”
“A Pteddydon? Aren’t you afraid of these things reproducing?”
“That cannot happen, Ms. Tottenberg. At Potomac Park, there are no females.”
“Typical,” she grumbled. “But I’d swear I just saw a Carol Moseley-Braunasaurus.”
“You imagined it. Look—to your right is the D’Amatrodon. He’s filling that pothole. For years, scientists couldn’t understand the creature’s bizarre spitting behavior. We’ve learned that its saliva is actually a venom that blinds its opponents.
“Ahead lies Packwoodasaurus, the horned lizard. Better step away from that window, Ms. Tottenberg. And to its right stands the most feared senataur of all: Dolesaurus! With its massive jaws and daggerlike tongue, D. rex is feasting on some unlucky stimulus package.”
“Aren’t you afraid they might get out?”
“Not at all. Remember, these are insiders. They’re used to getting nowhere. Just look at them working on that bill. As some pick it apart, others attach amendments. No, Ms. Tottenberg, as long as food is plentiful, these guys are harmless.”
Suddenly, the train jolted to a halt.
“Sir, something’s wrong!” a radio voice crackled. “Somehow, the
y managed to go into session. They’re trying to hit us with an energy tax, but nothing’s moving. It’s a gridlock!”
“You mean we’re stuck out here with … Dole?”
“That’s not who I’m afraid of,” said Tottenberg, trembling. “It’s those VelociSpecters. I know what they can do.”
“Clifford!” Nader thundered. “This was always a scandal waiting to happen! It was madness to bring them back, even if just for six years. When will we learn? Now you’ve—oh my God, they’ve called a vote! Ahh—”
· · ·
Hours later, Air Force bombers crisscrossed the sky over Potomac Park. White-hot explosions burst rapidly, one after another, until the entire island was ablaze. Clifford had already been devoured by his own creations. Nothing remained. But the following months brought news accounts of creatures, immense in size, who were said to gather late into the night to hatch new programs and vote themselves pay raises.
The King and I
As everyone knows, on August 16, 1977, Elvis Presley suffered cardiac arrhythmia and died suddenly at age forty-two, leaving millions to wonder why. Journalists have attempted “portraits,” but true understandings of Elvis’s life can come only from fellow celebrities, who also must endure the torments of idolatry.
Through their autobiographies, stars offer keen details about how “The King” loved to be “takin’ care of business.” But most of all, they remember how enamored Elvis was with one special person:
*ROY CLARK (with Marc Eliot): He made a point of telling me how much he loved Hee Haw. (My Life—In Spite of Myself, 1994)
*TONY CURTIS (with Barry Paris): I’d catch him looking at me the way we all look at people we admire; a language in itself. Elvis wasn’t the most articulate man. (Tony Curtis, 1993)
*BRIAN WILSON (with Todd Gold): I seemed to impress him.
“I’ve heard a lot about you,” he said, extending his hand for me to shake. “How yew doin’, Duke?”
I wondered why he called me Duke. (Wouldn’t It Be Nice, 1991)
*MAMIE VAN DOREN (with Art Aveilhe): “Great show, Mamie!” he said.
“Thanks. I’m glad you could come.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t have missed you. I saw Untamed Youth in Memphis and I loved it. You don’t happen to have a picture you could autograph for me, do you?”
Here was Elvis, the hottest new singer in the country, and he wanted my picture.
“I copied your wiggle in that movie,” I said as I gave him a photograph of myself. (Playing the Field, 1987)
*NEIL SEDAKA: Elvis grabbed me and said, “Neil, I’ve been listening to all of your stuff. We’re on the same wave length and the same label, RCA Victor.” (Laughter in the Rain, 1982)
*SONNY BONO: Right away he began talking about how much he liked Cher’s and my version of “What Now, My Love.” (And the Beat Goes On, 1991)
*HANK WILLIAMS, JR. (with Michael Bane): “Hank,” he said, “I just want to tell you that your daddy was really something, man.” (Living Proof, 1979)
*RONNIE SOECTOR (with Vince Waldron): “I’m pleased to meet you,” he said, and that was about all I heard before Phil grabbed my arm and started dragging me away. I guess Elvis had looked at me a second or two longer than Phil thought was proper. (Be My Baby, 1990)
*ZSA ZSA GABOR (with Wendy Leigh): Before he left, he drew me to one side, bent down from what seemed an enormous height, and whispered seductively, “When can I see you again?” (One Lifetime Is Not Enough, 1991)
*RONNIE MILSAP (with Tom Carter): Elvis came over and told me how much he liked my playing and singing on “Kentucky Rain.” What a compliment! (Almost Like a Song, 1990)
*RALPH EMERY (with Tom Carter): “Elvis couldn’t stand to pee in front of anybody,” Gill told me. “He took a bodyguard into the rest room with him to be sure no one saw him pee,” Gill said. (More Memories, 1993)
*WAYNE NEWTON (with Dick Maurice): I actually saw the ghost of Elvis once. It happened during an engagement while I was singing “Are You Lonesome Tonight.” I caught a flash in my eye like a camera bulb from the balcony and I saw an image of Elvis.…
I’ve often asked myself why Elvis is reaching out to me. I think the answer lies in our last conversation before he died. He told me, “I don’t know how many songs I’ve got left to sing. Just remember it’s yours now. It’s all yours.” (Once Before I Go, 1989)
Game to Den
I’m slugging ’em down at Bernie’s Trackside, contemplating unemployment, middle age, divorce lawyers, and Gilligan’s Island. Mostly Gilligan’s Island: This NASA satellite washes ashore; the Professor fixes it; Gilligan manages to screw up; the white-smocked scientists back home decide the Professor’s rescue message is a transmission from Mars. We’re riveted to the action when this bald-headed mountain in Foster Grant wraparounds elbows me in the ribs and says, “I know you. You’re Mister Hockey.”
Yeah, he knows me. That’s as far as it goes. Nobody ever accused me of remembering names, and as far as hairless gorillas are concerned, this guy might as well be a transmission from Mars. In fact, the wraparounds look pretty kinky, even for the day crew at Bernie’s. Before I know it, a toast is raised “to the great Mister Hockey.” Who am I to decline?
Snap, crackle, pop.
Next I know, I’m in the back of a cargo van, howling like Lon Chaney, a radio blasting at my ear. I’m drooling all over myself, and my hands are tied behind my back. Who knows what he slipped me? It might have even been more booze. Anyway, I make a conscious decision: I decide to pass out.
I wind up on a couch, one of those vinyl Kmart jobbers that you have to peel yourself off of. I’m handcuffed, and Baldy sits in an easy chair reading U.S. News & World Report.
“Welcome back, Mr. Sims,” he says when I begin to struggle. “Here, let me free your precious wrists.”
Well, I take this bullshit from nobody. Each afternoon I do 120 push-ups, fifty sit-ups, and jog in place for ten minutes. Plus, I have what doctors call a hypertense adrenal gland, which means piss me off and I’ll bend your spine like a stick of Wrigley’s. When Baldy uncuffs me, my right fist lashes out at his chin. Bingo. My knuckles throb, and I wait for him to drop. He doesn’t. Baldy grins, retreats a step, and swishes his foot so close to my nose I smell Desenex in the after-breeze. That’s enough for me. I make another decision: to fake a dizzy spell and collapse to the couch. Baldy sprays something into a Bounty towel and thrusts it to my nose. Snap, crackle, pop.
This time when I wake up, I check things out before peeling myself off the couch. It’s a hotel suite, à la Casa de Sleaze: termite-stained wallpaper, the carpeting greasy enough to skate on, Magic Fingers with the directions printed in three languages. And in the next room, I can’t believe my eyes: Bathed in a sea of lights is The Game.
Table hockey. You played it as a kid. Everybody has. But this is no ordinary game. It’s built into an oak table the size of a coffin, with twelve hand-painted men—United States vs. Russia—crouching in their serpentine grooves.
Such a game could be owned by only one man, I figure. And he’s mad.
When I met Shinnick, he was a scrawny, introverted college freshman programmed for law school by his father, a right-wing senator from Nevada. His face was a skull sprayed with blue cheese. I mean ugly. Ratty brown hair spilled down to his shoulders, and he dressed in the only tie-dyed alligator shirt I ever saw—like a Deadhead young Republican. But Shinnick’s eyes were what you remembered; they were red around the edges, burning, and they pierced you like gamma rays. His eyes were gateways to a soul I never could fathom.
Shinnick’s first roommate came up with a nervous twitch and left school after a month. The second one jumped from the roof of Lawrenson Hall. There was no third. You always heard voices in Shinnick’s room, yet nobody came and went. Across the hall, we kept to ourselves. But one night over Easter recess when the place was almost empty, there was a rap on my door. Shinnick stood there smiling at me, his eyes like drills.
“Come with me,” he said.
“Look. I gotta study—”
“I wanna show you something.”
His room stank of socks. Blankets were hung from the ceiling to form corridors and coves, turning his room into an intricate maze of partitions. In the center was a hockey game under an industrial-strength spotlight. We played. He won. As I got up to leave, his eyes flared at me. “Who’s the better man?” he screamed. “Who’s the winner? Say his name aloud, loser! Say the name!”
“Norman Bates,” I remember saying to myself.
But I returned the next morning. We played into the night, with Shinnick winning most of the games. “Who’s the conqueror?” he’d scream. “Say the name for all to hear! SAY IT!” When he neared victory, he’d whistle “Taps” and giggle in tones that I now equate with sexual frenzy. After several tries, I won a game, and as he stomped about the room, I shouted at him to say my name. “Louder!” I said. “Louder!” He refused to let me leave, and we played until our hands blistered.
A rivalry developed, then an obsession, then a sickness. For hours we battled each day. A defeat would send Shinnick brooding, cursing at his men in a helium squeal that could be heard throughout the dormitory. After several weeks, my neck began twitching spasmodically. I began to shout at my acrylic players, to whistle “Taps” and speak in voices that unnerved my own roommate—may he rest in peace.
For two years Shinnick and I fought for a mythical title about which only a handful of people knew.
I was Mister Hockey.
That was twenty-five years ago.
So I sit there, alone, waiting for Shinnick. Minutes, perhaps hours. Then a door opens behind me.
“Zo, dey gall you … Misder Haw-gey.”
My jaw drops. His image fills the doorway: nerd glasses, black cotton hair, the Nerf-ball body expanding with each breath.
“You!” I shout.
Kissinger.
“A game, Mr. Zimz?”
I’m speechless. Kissinger. In retrospect, my silence is disgraceful. I voted for Barry Commoner in 1980 and scrawled “Antichrist!” in the Saturday Review at the library. Here’s Henry Kissinger, and I can’t even talk.