Back at the main fruit stand. It’s the first Wednesday in August. Yancy was here when I came in. Janis arrived. I sat at Janis’ desk for a while, then Yancy had me shift to where he was sitting, which is where Violet usually sits. Violet is out. She was ill yesterday. I found out sitting at her desk and was reassured that Yancy wiped everything down.

It’s not my humble working abode of course. Things that are suppsed to carry over from fruit stand to fruit stand, from computer to computer, do not, despite Yancy proclaiming they do. I can’t argue with him so I stand with my tail between my legs. Just now, a fruit picker from the fields was asking about gloves.

I know where the gloves are, but assigning the gloves doesn’t happen often, rendering me ‘rusty’. This bloke was young and impatient. I was not processing the glove request fast enough for him and after 2 attempts he gave up saying he had to get back to the fields. I continued trying to figure out how to assign his temporary gloves, and stood near the door to find out.

I got a green light when the young bloke walked by, not saying anything. I turned and gave him the green lit gloves and said ‘here’. Then I walked away headed back to Violet’s desk. Perhaps my memory is shot. Perhaps smoking weed for all those years left my brain looking like Swiss cheese and leaving me unable to remember much.

It’s true. I thought it was charming years ago, but now it’s catching up to me as my charm fades away.

Tonight is the night Bill and I had hoped for for a year or two, the return of Ted Lasso. A new season which is much needed. I have been rewatching previous seasons to catch up as well as to get some positivity in my life. And it worked. Now there is trepidation as to how good the return will be. Old faces won’t be on board; some new faces. And it’s a women’s football league rather than the men’s league. We have high hopes and great expectations and are jaded enough to realize that things might not turn out as we hope them to be.

My lunch time is the same though in a different method. At my fruit stand, I sometimes get food and eat it while working. That is frowned upon.

I was just caught short once again. A woman from the left coast needed some activation which is something I had never done before and being a solo act at the moment I could not do it and did not want to keep them from their lunch meeting.

And now questions of which I have no answer. I kick the can down the road, telling them that Janis will be returning in a few minutes and will have all the answers to whatever questions they might have. I explained that I was the deer in the headlights and even placed my open hands to my head in a pantomime of antlers which got a giggle and could bite me in the ass.

Richard Kovalchik is more than likely dead. He was someone who did not like me at all. He let me know it whenever he could, just not verbally. I would smile at his scowl because I could not fathom how anyone could not like me. Once again it was the grace of my mother that kept me from harm, and since this was in the days of HBJ, I was well protected by her grace.

He popped into my head as I was washing my hands in the men’s room. And Richard Kovalchik led me to Pat Crowley. Now she was a character. I do not know if she still is. She and her husband Vinnie were habitués of the VFW in Saddle Brook. They were renowned for their dance to The Stripper. I never witnessed it, though it was legendary.

I hung out with Kevin Crowley for a while, just driving around and smoking weed. Kevin was the passenger in my car when driving on Westminster Place and approaching a busy intersection, my brakes failed. I smelled blueberry PopTarts and when applying the brakes, I noticed the brakes were not there. I think the smell of blueberry PopTarts was a psychic phenomenon.

I flashed my headlights and honked the horn, getting through a red light unscathed and pulling onto the curb and sidewalk where the car finally stopped. Kevin went his way, and I went mine. I don’t think we hung out much after that. I was home; my father came in, half out of the bag, and asked where my car was.

I told my father what happened, and he was so concerned he clocked me in the face, leading me to realize he cared more for the car than he did for his son who had nearly died.

Bill came home last night. I arrived first and saw a few of his bags on the first floor landing. Despite having my own bag and umbrella, I gathered three of those bags and awkwardly carried them up four flights of stairs, heart beating wildly against my chest, and I gulped for air with each step.

A few hours later, Bill arrived home safely. About an hour later he was once again driving me crazy. But I really would not have it any other way. So deep in my heart, he’s really a part of me.

There was a woman who worked in the warehouse in the same area as Rich Kovalchik and Pat Crowley. Her name was Ilona. I don’t know her last name, but she was a favorite of my mother. She used to live in Rochelle Park by the laundromat where we’d go if our washing machine was on the fritz.

She was a checker, meaning that she would check the orders that were picked before they were packed up. And being such a lousy picker, I would usually see her a few times a day. Other people would have gotten fired because of their ineptitude but once again through the good graces of my mother…

My parents had gone on a cruise once or twice from Manhattan to Bermuda, and having a Bermuda t-shirt that I wore often, she would call me ‘Bermuda’. I did not mind since I had been called a lot worse.
Ilona left the HBJ book warehouse, moved from Rochelle Park to Little Ferry I believe. She was nice enough that I wish I knew her last name.