Another day, another dollar, or something less than that I suppose lately. It’s a Wednesday and once again I find myself at the cigar shack. Life is great with Bill, my rock, the love of my life.

Right now, Bring on the Night is playing by the Police. It’s just Calvin and myself for the next hour, then he heads home and I figure out how to balance and reconcile the register with whatever transactions might have taken place.

The day has been not so bad, once again though I find myself trailing in the sales department, all through the luck of the draw and I’m all sixes and sevens and nines. Tomorrow is a day off which is something to look forward to.

The cigar shack is getting ready for an inventory this Sunday, which is something that I’m dreading though it probably won’t be that bad. My only previous experience doing inventory was when I was working for Harcourt Brace Jovanovich and if it wasn’t for the canonization of my mother I probably would have been fired.

And justifiably so. Counting books, counting cartons of books all without the use of calculators. The non-use of calculators probably helped with the decision to get rid of certain people who simply couldn’t add and I was one of those people.

I was partnered with Lou Nagy, a gruff forklift operator with a mouth like a sewer and a pot belly to match. He was funny and also crazy and the fact that I wasn’t killed while being sent up hundreds of feet in a ramshackle contraption is basically a miracle.

Inventory meant overtime and that meant good money in the late 1970’s early 1980’s. I mainly recall inventory before the introduction of Julie Diemer and Andy Johnson and Noel Walls and the departure of Dave Manzo, Paul Lo Presti and John Vasichek.

Just had an arrogant yet cute bull of a man who seemed to be getting upset with the fact that couldn’t read his mind regarding the cigars that he had wanted to buy. I did eventually set him off on his way with cigars I would like after he showed me a text message he got from Elizabeth Marvel swearing that she would do anything he wanted since he hasn’t steered her wrong yet.

Perhaps a rendezvous is on the books for the Cigar bar a few blocks from this cigar shack. 20 more minutes with Calvin is on the agenda then another hour for me solo. I could have sworn I hit at least 500 words so far but no, not really.

Still below 450 which is disappointing somewhat. Time to put this away before Calvin returns from his beer run.

Now Calvin has split and I am solo. 20 minutes before I can close the cigar shack and count the money. Janet Jackson’s When I Think of You is playing. Really sweet song. Almost at 500 words.

Actually less than 14 words are due. Now less than 4.

And just as I was about to close, an old handbag of a woman walks in. She is wearing hipster glasses which makes her 70 something self seem ridiculous. She pulls out a bottle of Lampe Berger and asks if she can exchange it for a bottle that doesn’t make her want to vomit.

It seems her husband bought it for her and she is not one for the Ocean Breeze. I ask if she has a receipt and she doesn’t. I explain that any exchanges must be done within 14 days of the purchase and must be accompanied by a receipt.

She complains that she’s a regular customer and doesn’t deserve to be treated like this. I explain that I’ve never seen her before and she responds that she doesn’t come here, her husband does and she doesn’t smoke cigars.

I figure I have a minute left and don’t need her post-menstrual aggravation so I let her do the exchange, while mentioning that I could lose my job over this. The aging hipster decides on some bullshit and she’s relatively happy, flaky thighs and all.

Her horribly hen pecked husband shows up all smiles and I merely say, ‘Have a good happy’ and show them to the door as I watch her explain to her humbled and hobbled husband what just transpired.

I get the job done, everything balanced, ride the bus home with Hyman Gross once again and now I am home with Bill. Day off tomorrow. Happy about it.