August 7, 1992–March 11, 2010.

All Photos © Jon Randolph

They also provide conversation to make a shift more enjoyable and a chance for me to chat up prospective Two-Headed Girls (see earlier post). To make fun of them would be biting the hand.

But, man, people are weird.

Bombarded with such a large amount of humanity everyday, you’re bound to see some strange stuff happen — or at least contract h1n1. Here are some highlights so far.

Toddler Love

Little kids are a constant destructive force. Comedian and funny-voice advocate Nick Swardson once noted that a baby is like “the smallest, drunkest person you’ve ever seen in your life.” They are constantly crawling, climbing and just messing things up.

My first day of work was Black Friday, the busiest retail day of the year. Entering the store, I witnessed a mannequin fall on a hapless toddler. I still fantasize about a slow-motion slide to push the tot out of harm’s way and catch the expensive mannequin. I would have been a made man at The Clothing Store.

Children aren’t always caustic though. I was hanging out in the fitting room, only to see a small child, around 9 years old, face-to-face with his reflection in a nearby mirror. Soon he locks lips with his reflection, and begins to make out with himself. This is not Grandma’s kiss on Christmas — this is a full-blown make out session, around 22 seconds. Left behind as evidence for me to show my co-workers is an eight-inch horizontal smudge of saliva.

Was this kid’s behavior really a bad thing? A little self-confidence goes a long way. Aren’t we concerned with the self-esteem of youngers anyway? This kid is a pioneer. Maybe his dad was doing the same thing in the fitting room.

The Peach

One of my pet peeves is a late shopper. Some customers like to show up minutes before store close and trot around the store. They are so V.I.P! The store is empty, totally just for them!

Late one night, a diverse crop of well-dressed male shoppers swarmed to me, kind of like a multi-racial boy band. As they parted like a well-accessorized sea, a tiny female reminiscent of Lady Gaga (Ga-gish?) emerged.

“Do you have any T-shirts for The Peach?” the leader of the entourage inquired.

It didn’t take long to conclude that this girl was The Peach.

“Um, we have lots of great shirts? This one’s pretty cool”

“Do you have this shirt in The Peach’s size?”

“Um, we have these shirts in lots of sizes. Probably Peach size.”

The Peach and her entourage walked around the store, eventually buying some items. Soon they were off to go eat dinner. I could imagine the scene.

“Do you have any complimentary bread sticks for The Peach?”

I still wonder to this day who or what was The Peach. Maybe The Peach is just a frame of mind. Maybe The Peach is a way of looking at the world. Maybe these people were just friends and enjoyed messing with me. In that case — touché.

Selective Pricing

A flustered gentleman entered my store with his wife a few days ago, reminiscent of an Indian Richard Dreyfuss. He asked for a pair of jeans that were on display in a store window. I couldn’t think of the pair he described, but took him to where all the jeans are in hopes to find what he wanted.

“I want these,” he said. “For $19.95.”

He didn’t want certain size, or a specific color. He wanted them for $19.95, actual price $39.95.

When I told him he couldn’t have them for that price, he was upset and stormed out. He re-appeared, grabbing a pair of pants and bringing them to my manager. He pointed back at me, mouthing furiously.

He told my manager that I told him he could have the pants for $19.95, so my word should be a guarantee. This never happened. Finally his ornery filibuster ended and he purchased the pants for full-price.

This is an interesting way of viewing the world. See that car? Five bucks. That sandwich you’re eating? I’ll give you a dollar. The shoes on your feet? How about seven Sour Patch Kids.

I wonder if a customer out there keeps a blog on kooky retail worker encounters.

Who am I to talk though? I’m not the most normal guy out there anyway. I recently began to grow an awesome mustache. A lot of customers stare, or strike up a humorous mustache-oriented conversation. I look like a cross between John Holmes and Colonel Sanders. More on that later though…

by Two-Headed Boy

Teddy’s forty-something or so. Friendly, courteous. Great storyteller.

Here’s the thing – he did twenty-some years on a Mississippi work farm.

Milo caught me off guard when he told me that. I don’t usually come across people who did hard time in Mississippi.

You’d figure a guy like that must be mean and ornery.

But Milo says Teddy’s a really great guy. He calls him – and I quote – “the sweetest guy in the world.”

Teddy went in for robbing banks.  He got away with three robberies and got nailed on the fourth. His method was fairly straightforward: He walked into a bank with a pistol and walked out with the money. One haul brought him thirty grand.

He had a partner in his crimes. Milo doesn’t know his name. Says Teddy never told him. For all I know, the partner’s Milo – the man does have a shady past. For what it’s worth, Milo swears he never spent a day in Mississippi.

When Milo first told me Teddy’s tale, I thought – damn, I could do a lot with thirty thousand dollars. Of course, it doesn’t go as far when you have to split it with someone else.

They also convicted Teddy on kidnapping charges. Apparently, he and his associate took someone — a bank employee or customer, I can’t recall — into the parking lot with them on that last robbery.

In Teddy’s mind, it’s a bogus kidnapping charge cause they weren’t kidnapping the guy so much as temporarily holding him hostage until the got away. They never intended to harm anyone and no one was harmed. You might say, he did the robbery but he didn’t do the kidnapping.

Reminds me of that line by Bob Marley: “I shot the sheriff but I did not kill the deputy.”

Actually, there’s another line that’s even more appropriate to Teddy’s fate:  “Only thing I did wrong, stayed in Mississippi a day too long.”

That’s from the song Mississippi by Bob Dylan. I can’t get enough of Mississippi. It’s on the Love and Theft CD. I listen to it all the time, especially when I go on long drives.

Thanks to Milo, I think of Teddy every time I hear the song. I’m not sure Teddy’s knows the song. But I’ll bet he’d appreciate it more than most. If he’d only got out of Mississippi one day sooner….

I can’t tell you exactly what Mississippi’s all about. (Here’s the link – figure it out for yourself.) It’s like a lot of Dylan’s songs — just when I think I know where he’s going, along comes a baffling verse that loses me.

I’ve concluded that Dylan fills a lot of his songs with gibberish. He’s either messing with our minds – cause he knows we waste far too much time poring over every word he writes — or he’s got one really great line that needs a bunch of not-so-great lines to set it up.

If so, I understand. As Milo likes to say: A good line is a terrible thing to waste. If you have to string together a bunch of gibberish just to get to one good line — well, a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do. As John Wayne used to say.

But back to Teddy….

Milo called the other day with a bombshell: Teddy’s back in jail. Something to do with a woman. I’m not really sure. It’s all very complicated, as these things tend to be.

It’s hard to believe a sweet guy like Teddy can get in so much trouble. Just doesn’t make any sense. It’s like he can’t get out of Mississippi no matter what.

If you can’t stomach Midwest weather, then go back to your West Coast Utopian climate of monotonous perfection — the dandelions in your sun-bleached dreadlocks will grow better there.

Frostbite and hypothermia? Character builders. To quote the great John Candy from the against-all-odds bobsledding classic Cool Runnings as he escorts a group of chattering-teethed Jamaicans through their first Chicago snowstorm: “It’s not so much the heat, it’s the humidity that’ll kill ya.”

Such was my thinking. But then my seemingly unbreakable Midwestern resolve was inexplicably shattered. Starting around mid-December, I fell into a wintry funk, and I have not been able to right the ship since.

Maybe it was my diet. But, no, everything was good there: Pierogies, deep-dish pizza, Italian beef, Old Style….

But then, deep in thought on a blustery night with the frigid lake wind viciously pummeling my windows, I came upon The Great Idea, an escape plan so foolproof that old Cool Hand Luke himself would be turning over in his grave. Immediately, I texted Arturo, my partner in crime:

“Guess what … I’m buying a camper van! The solution to all my problems!”

While I eagerly waited for the glee that my dearest friend would surely express upon learning that I had found a blueprint for eternal happiness, I began to imagine myself conquering America with my wonderful new portable home…

I would traverse all 50 states, and once fluent in the unique character that defines each, I would publish a generation-defining opus, a veritable hybrid of On the Road and Travels with Charley that would somehow manage to exceed the literary prowess of both.

I would name my beloved buggy Rocinante III as a symbol of my humble deference to the soon-to-be-vanquished Steinbeck, and drink expensive bourbon with migrant Russian families in its spacious cabin.

I would be a man of the world; small children would run after my house-on-wheels with tears in their eyes as it left their village; men would take off their hats as it passed and stare with looks of solemn, national pride; women would make the stations of the cross and scatter rose petals in its wake. Ah yes, mine would be a grand adventure with overtones of Great American Heroism.

Then Arturo responded:  “This would solve nothing as I would have to accompany you and I am useless to you in such matters due to the fact that I refuse to learn the Skill of Driving. And even if I did drive, the accommodations of the RV would be be too inviting for drinking canned beer — some while relaxing by a window, some by various drinking games. This brings up the problems of a sober driver. We could hire one but there’s still the issue of money for beer, Beef Jerky, gas, hunting jackets and overalls. Realistically, we would end up parking on the side of your mother’s house trying to get the Cubs game on a dollar-store AM radio. Plus, RVs start at $40,0000.”

“No, no, no!” I began to protest. But then reality set in….

The cold wind beats at my window. A snowflake falls on the barren panes. It is shaped like a Winnebago. A singular tear begins to make its way down my cheek, but it freezes before reaching its destination. The Winnebago is whisked away.

I open up Google on my computer and type:

“Seasonal affective disorder….”

by Sam Adams

It’s times like these — rare though they are — that make me wonder why I still keep taking Zoloft. I’ve been on it since 2002. Before that I did imipramine and desipramine, a couple of early anti-depressants that today seem laughably primitive. I also swallowed a lot of Xanax back in the 1980s and 90s.

In fact, I wouldn’t leave the house without at least a half dozen Xanax in my pocket. Not that I was going to take all six of them. But merely having them clacking around in the plastic pill case gave me just enough spine to go out into the world and face down agoraphobia, panic attacks, and — horrors — people. So I’d take one or two on a good day, four on a bad day.

Not only that, I had my head shrunk by psychiatrists, psychologists, and licensed clinical social workers. I tried prayer, meditation, chanting, booze, and good old positive thinking. No matter what I tried, my terrors of going outdoors, high places, confined spaces, and the rest of the cornucopia of neuroses I entertained made me a shuddering wreck.

I’m thinking about all this because I just finished reading a piece in The New Yorker about depression. The author, Louis Menand, seems to think all the rage for diagnosing depression in people is a load of crap. He implies that this mania is nudged along by drug manufacturers who want to peddle more and more anti-depressants.

He’s not the only one who thinks that way. He writes of a hot new book out called Manufacturing Depression: The Secret History of a Modern Disease. Its author, Gary Greenberg, also sees a lot of business opportunism in telling people they’re pathologically blue.

Gary Greenberg

None of this is new. My old pal Danny long ago told me his daddy-o felt psychiatrists, psychologists, therapists and the like loved to tell you your head was fucked up “so they could get you hooked.” It’s unclear whether Danny’s poppa-rino meant hooked on medications or hooked on weekly visits — probably both. The latest stats seem to bear his fears out. The National Institute of Mental Health reports that 26.2 percent of Americans can be diagnosed with a mental disorder (primarily depression) in any given year.

Sheesh! That means if you’re car-pooling this morning with three other people, you’d better hope today’s driver isn’t the NIMH’s one-in-four, especially when the car nears that concrete support column up ahead.

“Please, Please, Please Don’t Be One Of The Four!”

Then again, as Menand and Greenberg argue, the driver merely might be experiencing some normal everyday sadness — the loss of a loved one, say, or a pressing financial concern. She or he feels down about it all, happens to catch an ad for Cymbalta on TV, makes an appointment and says Hey doc, lemme have some of those skull jockey pills.

Menand even cites the case of Paxil. Its manufacturer discovered in the 90s that the drug seemed to make people less shy. So it went about the business of positioning shyness as a mental disorder so that shrinks could prescribe barrels-ful of Paxil.

No doubt all of this is true. Trivializing clinical depression just to make a buck is so craven you’d think a Wall Street banker came up with the idea. The only problem is when I read this stuff I start thinking that maybe — just maybe — I’d fallen victim to all the hype back when I was that shuddering wreck.

I don’t shudder so much anymore. I have no idea why. Was it the Zoloft? Or was it a combination of meditation, therapy, and booze? Or — worse — was I just imagining it all?

Someone very close to me once scoffed at my collection of loose screws. I won’t identify him because I don’t want to embarrass him (although I should.) Let’s call him Thomas. One day Thomas had as much as he could take of my little madnesses. “You know what your problem is?” he said. “It’s all in your head.”

Uh, yeah.

Even though I’m pretty certain Thomas was full of shit, there’s still that tiny little part of me that fears he was right. Then when I read the indictments put forth by guys like Menand and Greenberg, I start obsessing: I wasn’t really depressed; There was nothing wrong with me; It must have been all in my head.

Every once in a while, though, some crystal clear memory of the existential terror I felt being trapped in an el car some forty feet above the pavement hits me. I think of my racing, pounding heart. I recall hyperventilating. I can almost feel the sweat pouring out of me again. I get twitchy thinking about how I’d struggle to resist the urge in every cell of my being to tear the doors open and jump out. And that was only one of my little madnesses.

Then I realize that Thomas was right. It was all in my head. He just didn’t know how right he was.

All In My Head

Each year I say I won’t, but each year I do. Can’t help myself. Fact is, I can’t get enough of this shit.

I got a special reason this year. The Coen Brothers‘ movie, A Serious Man, is up for Best Original Screenplay and I want them to win. I love the Coen Brothers. Matter of fact, I sort of wish I were a Coen Brother.  But don’t let that get around.

They’re also up for Best Picture. But, trust me, that’s going to The Hurt Locker cause it’s directed by a woman and the Academy wants to finally give all the big awards to a movie directed by a woman, like they’re all noble and stuff.

I’m not hating, just saying….

Sure enough, they give the script-writing Oscar to Mark Boal, who wrote The Hurt Locker. Nothing against Mark Boal, but who the hell is he? He’s no Coen Brother, that’s for sure.

“Boo!” I exclaim.

“Stop booing,” says my wife.

“If you’re not gonna give it to my boys give it to Tarantino….”

I love Quentin Tarantino almost as much as the Coen Brothers. He’s up for Inglorious Basterds, which isn’t going to win anything either, cause of that woman thing I was telling you about.

I boo louder.

From upstairs my younger daughter, who’s trying to do her homework, yells: “Stop booing!”

Boal gives a great acceptance speech, thanking our troops in Iraq and Afghanistan, and I feel kind of guilty for booing.

They give some award for something to some black guy I never heard of. He’s in the middle of his acceptance speech when some redheaded lady shows up out of nowhere, pushes him to the side and starts talking.

“What the fu,” I say.

“Who’s she?” asks my wife.

“This is like something out of Saturday Night Live….”

It’s Robin Williams’ turn to make a presentation. He refers to the Governor’s Ball: “It’s one of many balls that will be held around town tonight….”

It takes me a second or two – okay, I’m slow – then I get it.

My wife brings in dinner: Greek chicken, oven-cooked potatoes and salad. Damn, it’s good. I’m chowing down – got a chicken bone in my hand – as James Taylor starts singing In My Life, while they show footage of the greats who died last year.

“Taylor’s killing this song,” I say.

“Shh,” says my wife.

“He’s singing it like a dirge — but it’s not a dirge….”

“I’m trying to listen….”

“This sucks….”

“Stop hating….”

For best actress, they bring a bunch of celebrities on stage to give testimonials for the nominees. This one guy’s going on and on about Meryl Streep, like she’s a saint.

“Gimme a break,” I say.

“Shh….”

“This guy’s got her walking on water….”

Oprah starts talking about Gabourey “Gabby” Sidibe, who’s nominated for her role in Precious.

“This is my girl,” I say.

“Quiet….”

“I’m sick of all the skinny girls winning….”

“Shush….”

Sean Penn opens the envelope and says: “The winner is….”

I chant: “Precious, Precious….”

“Sandra Bullock….”

“Boo…..”

“Stop it,” says my wife.

“Should have gone to Precious — Boo!”

“Stop booing!” yells my daughter from upstairs.

Bullock gives this fantastically gracious acceptance speech. Total class. Makes me feel salty for booing. I feel guilty all over again. Man, rough night for me.

As she’s finishing, she refers to Streep as a great kisser and calls her “my lover.”

I look at my wife. My wife looks at me.

“They’re gay!” my wife exclaims.

“How did I miss that?”

My wife grabs her cell phone. “I’ll call Sean.”

Great idea. Sean’s a hairdresser she works with. The man knows more Hollywood gossip than anyone alive. His particular specialty is The Golden Girls.

My man Sean knows all about it. Turns out Bullock kissed Streep at another awards show. It’s all a big inside joke. Only we’re not in on it cause we’re out of it.  Good thing we got Sean. This guy knows more stuff than Google.

“Ask him about that redheaded lady,” I say.

Too late, she’s off the phone.

In the end The Hurt Locker cleans up (wins Best Picture and Best Director) just like I told you.

“This sucks,” I say. “The Coen Brothers make one of the best movies ever and get shut out. That’s it. I’m through with the Oscars!”

“Yeah, right,” says my wife.

On my way to bed, I stop by the computer just to, you know, check out the latest on that redheaded lady. Turns out she and the black guy had been partners on the documentary before they had a falling out. The Academy designated him to pick up the Oscar if the movie won. Apparently, she said forget that and went for the glory. Said the dude’s mother stuck her cane in the aisle to block her from reaching the stage. I like that detail about the cane so much I read it twice.

Told you – I can’t get enough of this shit….

You see, I always thought that carrying a shoulder bag was an affectation, something a real man would never do. A shoulder bag, it seemed to me, was a sure sign of effeminacy. I mean, how much shit did a person have to haul around? You had your wallet, keys, cash, cigarettes and lighter, half pint of whiskey, extra-large, industrial strength condoms, and perhaps a concealed weapon, generally a straight razor or snub-nosed pistol.

All of those things could easily fit into the four pockets that traditionally come with a pair of pants in the Western World. Anything else was just extraneous bullshit.

But as time went on and life got more complicated, I found that four pockets were no longer enough to contain the things I had to carry around on a daily basis.

For example, when I got hired by Big Mike, the Barn Boss of the scabby, hygienically challenged crew that writes for The Third City, I had to start carrying notebooks and pens to write down the great thoughts that occur to me on a regular basis. And how was I supposed to haul around my paperback books, crossword puzzle books, sunglasses, vials of uppers and downers, bags of weed and other necessities of life? There was no way all of that crap could fit in my pockets.

As much as I hated to do it, it was time to get a shoulder bag.

The first bag I got was a funky old canvas bag that I found at a thrift shop on Roscoe Avenue. It cost about three bucks and served my purposes admirably. The problem was that it was an ugly old thing, covered with stains and falling apart at the seams. When my wife, the lovely Mrs. Milo, saw it she started laughing.

“Do think you could have gotten a nastier looking bag?”

“What’s wrong with it?”

“It’s covered with spaghetti stains.”

“I’ll throw it in the washer.”

“It stinks, too. Smells like a cat peed on it.”

“That should wash out, too.”

“Honey, you can’t wash out ugly.”

A few weeks later, Mrs. Milo came home and presented me with a brand new, black leather shoulder bag.

It was beautiful. The bag was made of deep, rich cowhide that shone like patent leather. It smelled like the interior of a brand new Buick Electra 225. It had shiny snaps and buckles and it was roomy enough to carry all of my essentials. Best of all, it was a manly looking bag. There was not a hint of effeminacy about it.

I’ve never cared about fashion. To quote the great Howlin’ Wolf, “I dress for comfort, baby, I don’t dress for speed.” I always considered people who made a fetish of fashion to be shallow, frivolous individuals. With so many problems in this world, with so many evils and injustices to contend with, spending time thinking about what to wear is a huge waste of time. Spending great amounts of money on clothes strikes me as the height of irresponsibility.

That said, my new shoulder bag affected me in ways I would never have imagined. I started paying more attention to what I wore. I started paying attention to what other people wore. And if I saw someone carrying a shoulder bag, I immediately compared it to mine. I wasn’t turning into a fop, by any means, but I will admit that the potential was there. I was becoming a changed person, a Milo 2.0.

But some things never change. The other day my youngest daughter asked if I had a pen. I told her to look in my shoulder bag. After looking through the bag, she asked:

“Dad, why do you carry that ugly knife in your bag?”

“Well, honey, “I explained, “if you ever need to cut somebody up, a knife is a good thing to have.”

“I see,” she said, nodding in understanding. “By the way, Dad, can I have some money? I need to buy some new clothes.”

“Sure, sweetie. That’s money well spent. How much do you need?”