Dogs Don't Roll Over
Written by: Alex Sandell
My Date With Delores
"Yeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeesssssss," the first word from her decrepit, "I'm 54 years old, never went to college and I'm married to a man I don't love" face leaves me with that inferior kind of feeling usually reserved for the gym. I scratch at a stray hair on my eyelid and explain the reason that I'm making this "fine" lady do her job.
"I have a little problem with my pants." The wardrobe lady removes her glasses (it seems that 60% of the glasses wearing public must remove their glasses before they can see) and sends a pair of squinting eyes up and down my body. "So, what seems to be the problem? Hmmm?" Jeez, this lady really does need her glasses. I try not to create any animosity as I explain my predicament. "Um, my pants are soaking wet." The lady gives me her best "at 54, I shouldn't have to be putting up with the likes of you" look and the interrogation begins:
Bitchy Lady: "And how did you wet them?"
Me: "The sink in the men's bathroom malfunctioned."
Bitchy Lady: "Are you sure that's how it happened?"
Me: "Um . . . positive, ma'am."
Bitchy Lady: "And how many pairs of
slacks were you assigned when you
were employed at `Broken Arrow' Casino?"
Me: "Two . . ."
Bitchy Lady: "And where is your second pair of jeans? hmmmm?"
Me: "As I was going to say, Delores,
I get a glimpse of her nametag and use her antiquated name to my advantage.
before you interrupted me. My second pair of
been with you guys at wardrobe, waiting to be sewn up.
You see, Delores,
(I'm on a roll now. So much for avoiding any animosity).
I wasn't 'assigned' two pairs of slacks when I
hired at 'Broken Arrow' casino. I was forced to buy two
pairs of extremely generic slacks to wear in this 'swell'
Delores: "I, ah, but . . ."
Me (interrupting): "Not only that, Delores,
I'd have my other pair of
jeans on right now, and we could have avoided this conversation,
if any of you morons in Wardrobe would learn how to
do anything besides sit on your lazy asses. I put
those pants in to you over a month ago. If I wasn't
such a damn nice guy, filled to the brim with integrity
and loyalty toward my fellow shit-workers, I'd report
you, and your whole fucking department to upper
management. I mean, come on now, Delores, how long should it
take you guys to sew up a dinky little rip in the
crotch of a pair of generic trousers? Now, could I
please sign out a pair of pants to use for the day?"
Delores hands me my loaner pants without a word. I grab my pants from her hand and mumble a genuine "thank you." I'm starting to feel guilty over my slightly "snippy" attitude. Still, as I see her standing their, holding my pants in her hands and thinking she's better than I am, I can't resist one final comment as I walk from the room. "Pardon me, Delores. I was wrong about the sink in the men's bathroom, it didn't malfunction. Those pants are drenched in about half a gallon of my very own piss. Sorry."
I walk out of the room as I hear my soiled slacks drop to the floor.
Go to: Chapter 21
©1997 Alex Sandell but, if you're a book publisher and, you wanna get this puppy out, please get in touch with me, hand me a nice, big contract and, of course, a 12 pack of Grape Soda and maybe we can do lunch.
You know the routine, just click it.
Get your own free homepage at: geocities.