Thats what.

Allow me clarify a few things before I get into what happened recently at the bodega. I deplore violence. Nothing good ever comes from it. I personally feel that anything….well, almost anything……can be talked out without it ever having it escalating to the point of physical confrontation.

In my younger years, I was a hot head with a very short fuse. I was quick to take a swing at someone if I even felt slightly “disrespected”. And Baby Jesus forbid you got smart with one of my friends…especially if they were females. It was ON and POPPING! Anyone who’s known me for a long enough time can attest to this.

But in recent years, as I’ve grown and matured, I’ve shied away from fighting. I can talk a very good game, and Ive learned to use that skill to diffuse many potential situations that would’ve led to fisticuffs…..or worse…..

Unfortunately…..there are still a few things that set me off the deep end.

One of those things being shoplifters.

The main reason being, of course, is because they’re taking money out of my pocket. That bottle of lemon-lime gatorade didn’t just buy itself, you know. The other reason is that they insult my intelligence.

How, you ask?

By lying to me when I catch them. And I ALWAYS catch them (at least Id like to think so….). They lie to me…..in my face….and swear on everything they hold dear in life. They swear on God, Jehovah, Allah, Jesus, The Virgin Mary and Rodney Dangerfield that they didn’t steal anything……..knowing damn well they have a bottle of MD 20/20, a bag of chips, and a bottle of palmolive down their pants……

*sigh*

Okay, I’ll get to the meat and potatoes of it. Heres how it all went down:

Yesterday, mid afternoon, the after work rush is in full effect. People who are just getting out of work are picking up groceries for dinner. I have about 3 deliveries coming in at the same time, with a line at the Lotto machine, another at the register, and my new cashier asking me how much a 10lbs bag of rice costs…..when I spot a dude just standing by the front door…..looking around….adjusting his pants. Suspicious? Very. But I didn’t actually see him do anything, so I turn my attention back to the customer in front of me, who for some odd reason, can’t grasp how the lotto pay outs work. Nevermind she’s been playing her numbers since Biblical times.

I brush off my gut feeling that buddy probably had something in his pants. I go about my business.

Then a regular comes to me and tells me to watch out for that guy (points at suspicious man by the door). Apparently, he’s well-known in the ‘hood to be a thief and a shoplifter.

*double sigh* here we go…..

I thank my regular customer, than proceed to go outside to see if “suspicious man” is still on the premises.

He is. I act like I’m looking for someone, than rush back inside to check the footage on my security camera ( a must in the hood!). And since Murphy’s Law is ALWAYS in effect when it comes to me (“Anything that can go wrong will go wrong”), the mouse that’s connected to the security systems PC isn’t working! I replace the batteries, and the PC freezes!!

I proceed to channel Charlie Brown: “AAAAAAAAAAAAARRRRRRRRGGGGGGGH!!!!!”

OK….PC starts cooperating…..I start going back, and BINGO!

Money.

I see “Suspicious Man” stuffing a bottle of wine down his pants. But by this time, about 5 minutes have passed. More than enough time for him to make his get away. So I run outside, hoping to catch him still standing outside, smoking his cigarette….basking in the glory of his successful boost.

No luck.

Instead, he’s riding his proverbial horse (in this case, a bike. Probably stolen) off into the sunset, really, really, REALLY slow. So I run up behind him, grab him by the neck, and knock him off his bike.

Its Go time…….

I back up. Dude is about 6′3″, in his forties, and looks as healthy as a shoplifting crackhead could…..but Im still cautious.

“What if he pulls out a shank?”

Fuck it. I grab him by the neck and ask him where’s the bottle of wine he stole. He denies stealing anything. He then starts swearing to God (surprise, surprise) that he didn’t take anything. I begin to search his pockets.

Nothing.

Shit! I SAW HIM!! Where the h-e- double hockey sticks is that bottle of wine?!?!?!?!

I then turn my attention to the bag he dropped when I yanked him off his bike, sitting in a pool of cheap red wine. I look at him, ask him whats that…….

He stutters…..

I kick the bag to reveal a broken bottle of wine.

Glorious Day.

I ask him AGAIN.

He says nothing.

So what do I do?

Cock back my right hand, and unleash the most humiliating slap that’s been administered since Mary J Blige caught Kendu slipping.

He damn near came out his shoes. Got back up quick….looked at me, and apologized.

An apology?

Really?

I looked him dead in the eyes……pointed at his head the way “The Rock” used to back in his WWE days, and proceeded to threaten his life if I EVER saw him even walking in front of my store.

I turned around…..walked back to my store. He picked up his bike, and whatever was left of his pride, and rode off……..

All in a day’s work, I guess.

*How many Lotto’s and scratch off’s did you say you wanted?*

Is it REALLY that important?

*Sigh*

Never thought I would see this day come. Not in a million years. I never thought that one would have to resort to posting such a crude sign on the bathroom door JUST so I wouldn’t be disturbed when I’m “chunking a duece”…..”sending a fax”…….”sitting on the throne”…..”hablando con Mistoyca (Mistoycagando, that is)”.

But thats what its come to.

It’s bad enough that I havent been able to eat a hot meal in about seven years because I’m too busy taking care of customers. Baby Jesus forbid I *attempt* to try and have a conversation over the phone while I’m at work without any interruptions…….

But I’m cool with that. I understand that my profession requires certain sacrifices from me. And I’m more than willing to concede certain luxuries such as eating a hot meal. But my bathroom time!?!??!

NO.

HELL NO.

I don’t know about ya’ll….but my toilet time is sacred. Dropping the “kids” off at the pool is one of the few times I have to just relax. Unwind. Think about things. Rehearse my good guy routine for my customers. Plan out the rest of my day. Think about what I’m gonna have for dinner, or even read a good comic book. But when I have these wild ass, no manner having customers screaming my name at the top of their lungs…..KNOCKING (yes knocking) on the bathroom door WHILE I’m trying to wipe my ass?!?!

And for what?

To ask if you can get a beer and some cigarettes on credit? To see if I can please ring you up at the other register because your in a rush?!?!

Really?

You KNOW DAMN WELL I am NOT gonna give you any credit. Especially if I gotta get up off the toilet just so you can ask me. And I have no problem ringing you up if your in a rush…but honestly, I am NOT getting up off the toilet with a shitty ass to ring you up. I’d rather you NOT buy anything and just go to the bodega down the street.

I even had a dude that had the audacity to knock on the door and tell ME to hurry up because he had to take a piss. And don’t even get me started about the time I had a guy screaming my name at the top of his lungs and knock on the door just because he wanted to say “hi”.

*double SIGH*

I wonder if this happens in grocery stores that are in good neighborhoods. Of course it doesn’t……

Only in my bodega……

I apologize for my extended absence, but a bodeguero has been busy as of late. Starting in mid

November, and running through end of December, its like an insane asylum here……which is excellent for business, but doesn’t really leave much time for anything else.

But fear ye not…….I will be back in full effect next week. Firing on all cylinders and what have you.

Thank you all for your patronage. And as Jenna Jameson would say……”Come again!”

Enter the homie B.YONEST, hailing from Columbus, OH. With sharp, witty rhymes and a descriptive flow, B paints pictures with his words, and draws you in to his world to the point where you can actually visualize what he’s saying. “Dear Love” is a perfect example. Produced by one of the most versatile and talented producers in the game, Sha’ul (www.shaulmusic.com), B.YONEST shares with us an open letter to love and relationships. This is the type of music we need more of in the mainstream. Check it out for yourselves……

DEAR LOVE – B.YONEST by LETZBYONEST
Enjoy….

Pardon me for a minute…..I just threw up in my mouth a bit……

There is nothing, and I mean NOTHING, in this world that gives me the willies more than being handed cash….by a hooker…..from her bra…..that’s soaked in bodily fluids.
There goes my breakfast…….
I don’t think I can accurately describe the feeling that comes over me when I’m handed the wet, nasty, soggy bills. It’s kinda like a cross between the time you accidentally walked in on your Grandmother while she was getting dressed, and the “Barf-o-rama” scene from “Stand by me”.

Yeah…I think that’s about right.
Why can’t they keep their money in a Ziploc bag or something? Why must they keep it somewhere someone just licked, kissed, sucked or stuck? I need to keep some forceps and surgical gloves by the register for those gag inducing moments. Or maybe I can come up with some sort of “Hooker Bill dryer & sanitizer”. All I know is that I cant keep washing my hands with Clorox and ammonia every single time I ring up Betty Blowjob for a bottle of Listerine.
Maybe its time I start exploring alternate forms of payment from them……

By no means am I condoning child abuse ,btw (although it seems warranted in certain situations! I kid, I kid……maybe)
Morale of the story, folks? Don’t be Mr.Softee with your kids, specifically when the situation calls for some sort of action. Don’t be that parent with the kid screaming bloody murder in the middle of the store, and you’re solution to the problem is trying to put them on “time out”.
Do what my mom used to do……give “Rosemary’s Baby” the evil eye, a pinch on the leg and say (in Spanish if you can): “Espera hasta que llegamos a la casa, hijo de la Gran puta, cono!”
Translation: Wait until we get home, you son of a b*!ch!

Worked everytime………

I was fortunate enough to meet a very special woman early into my bodeguero career, so meeting chicks was never relevant in my life. But as my relationship went the way of the Titanic, I found myself in a very strange and awkward place. I wanted to get out there and socialize. Meet new people. Maybe find myself a new “slimmy” to occupy my time with, but I couldnt. You see, we Bodegueros keep very hectic schedules. I only have 1 day of liberty. I work 10-12 (sometimes 16!) hour shifts. So the majority of my social interaction occurs at the store. Now, this wouldnt be an issue if I was, oh I dont know, located somewhere on South Beach….
But Im not.
Im smack in the middle of the ‘hood. Its pretty much slim pickings ’round here. Not too many 18-30 yr olds come in here. And if they do, its usually your everyday ghetto booger bunny with AT LEAST 2 kids, no job, on welfare, and with more battle scars than you can imagine.
Now, “relationship” BodegaLife wouldnt look twice at these girls. But “single” BodegaLife thinks about it. I liken it to being stranded on a deserted island and hating Fish, but thats the only thing around for you to eat. Either you learn to like it, or you starve to death.
What would you choose?
Thats what I thought……
As of now, Ive done an excellent job of fighting of the lure of the “darkside“, but how long can i hold off? How long will it be until I find myself shacked up with *random hood chicks name here*, taking care of her 4 kids, exchanging her WIC checks for cash because her rent is due, and the child support checks havent come in yet?
Im scared.
Im scared ’cause these girls are starting to actually look good to me!
Pray for me, ya’ll……

Riiiiiiiiiiiight…..just thinking out loud here, but I dont think you have a choice about the whole getting married thing. Short, old men who look like a former Communist Leader and smell like a bag of BonTon corn chips normally do not have women lining up to go on dates with them.

So he’s going on and on about how he “dumped” this one particular lady cause she was really crazy. I guess she must have been if she was with him.
All the while, Im trying to get into position to catch some of this on camera without him noticing it. I was able to catch the tail end of the story. Its in Spanish…..I promise to either re-enact or transcribe it later tonight.

hey, that doesnt sound like a bad idea……

*pops open a Corona*

Cheers!

I know youre probably thinking: “Listen to this ol Metrosexual ass mofo whining about what to wear”.

Let me explain why its such a pain to decide what to wear. Aside from selling lotto tickets, berating the drunkies who are a nickel short for their beer EVERYTIME they go in my store, and thwarting would be quarter water and lil debbie Zebra cake (deeeee-lic-ous, btw!) thieves, we also prepare lechon asado (FYI:we are taking orders for the upcoming holidays already!). I need not explain to my fellow Latinos/Hispanics what a lechon asado is, but for all my readers who werent born with the Sazon Goya genome, its a whole pig cooked to perfection via a big ol’ pizza oven.

“But Mr.Bodega Life, what does this have to do with what you wear?”

Excellent question. You see, when one cooks a whole, 70-90lbs relative of Porky Pig, it release a lot of grease. Said grease occasionally spills out of the pan and on the oven, which creates a wonderful, but not really, cloud of smokey goodness that flows throughout the whole store, and for some strange reason, seems to collect in my office. Now, after a whole day of this, you start to feel the grease on your face. And by the time I leave the store, I smell like I sprayed eau de pork fat all over myself. Pretty nasty feeling. But it gets worse. The really bad part is when its time to take piggy out of the oven. Imagine trying to balance a tray with a whole pig on it thats been in the oven for 5+ hours, full of hot ass grease AND the person helping you remove it from the oven is an old, arthritic man who pays more attention to anything that walks by him with a pulse rather than the scolding hot pan in his hands.

The end result is usually the same. Grandpa loses focus, tips tray towards me, I get burned AND end up with nice grease stains on my AF1’s and on those really expensive jeans that I paid bottom dollar for at Marshalls! Imagine my frustration. Imagine going through a whole work day not only smelling like a fry cook but also wearing grease stained clothes while dealing with customers and vendors. Not a good look….not a good look at all. Ive thrown out countless shirts, jeans, shorts….most of which were relatively new…… because once those stains set in, no amount of Wisk in the Universe is getting them out.

So I end up staring at my closet way too long, just to put on the same ol’ cargo shorts and musty ass Tee’s that I usually wear ( I have a heavy rotation of 3 shorts and about 5 or 6 shirts that I normally wear).

Oh, how I wish I could wear my Hare Jordans, or maybe even my nice Bruno Magli shoes and a fly ass Express button down to work.

*sigh*

You desk jockeys got it made………