Two-Headed Boy: Customers Do The Darndest Things

First off, customers are the reason I have a job in the first place. Every time they buy a new neon tank top, their money becomes part of the paltry sum that ends up in my bank account every second Friday — soon to be blown on Strohs and foolish t-shirt purchases.

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

Sam Adams: The Winter Of My Discontent

I never took much stock in made-up doctrines designed to show sympathy for the weak, like seasonal affective disorder.

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

Sam Adams: The Man Who Cried Woo

I was walking down Clark Street, a half block north of Addison, the bright sunny day instinctively prompting my horrible, winter-hangover habit of yearning for the coming baseball season even though I know it means I will spend another 162 days (165, if lucky) following a bunch of overpaid bums I mindlessly worship….

When who should I run into but Ronnie Woo Woo.

It’s mid-February. Thirty-eight degrees. The Cubs haven’t even played a single spring training game yet. But to Ronnie, you’d think we were in the heart of the pennant race.

He’s decked out in his trademark full regalia: Cubs home jersey (“Woo Woo” on the back), matching white pinstripe pants, blue-fitted Cub hat and white sneakers.  There’s something troublesome about this scene, but I don’t linger on it.

Instead, I return to the burning question I’ve been asking each winter since I was five:

“Yo, Ronnie — how are the Cubs gonna do this year?”

“World Series,” he says, as he cordially extends a firm handshake.

“What’s that?” I ask, not so much out of surprise (because, hey, it’s so damned pleasantly sunny that maybe Next Year has finally arrived) but because a guy whose primary vocabulary consists of the word “Woo” isn’t always the easiest to understand.

“World Series,” he says. “Back to back….”

Now that’s a hopeful prognosis if ever I’ve heard one. Perhaps the perpetual mascot has had a few too many Cubweisers – he is after all walking out of a bar at two-thirty in the afternoon. But, no, he’s sober – or at least as sober as a rabid Cub fan can be. Maybe Ronnie has a purer, more persistent strain of the virus that seeps into our Cubbie-blue blood streams causing us to have fantastical dreams around this time of year.

Immediately, I text Arturo, my longtime die-hard Cub comrade.

“Just bumped into Woo Woo,” I wrote. “He predicts back to back World Series – my nipples are hard!”

Immediately, Arturo – who clearly has nothing better to do because he’s as unemployed as I am — responds:

“He’ll die before that win and that might be one of the saddest things I have ever thought of. What kind of life is this for us?”

Good question. But today I have no answers. Even if Ronnie’s World Series prophecy is as hopeless as Benny Jay’s ability to handle a computer, I choose to believe it. After all, Opening Day is only thirty-five days away.

See you in the bleachers, Ronnie….

by Sam Adams

Two-Headed Boy: Tunes From Transit Vol. I

From my house to The Clothing Store, it’s about a twenty-five minute drive — a mundane commute on a road I’ve driven my entire life.

On clear days, I see Chicago’s skyline, a gleaming taunt from the skyscrapers to remind me that I’m stuck toiling in a suburban mall. The streets are lined with strip malls, hosting just about any chain you can think of: Panda Express, Verizon, Domino’s Pizza, and McDonald’s — on every corner.  I even drive by a Babies R’ Us, for goodness sakes.

My trip isn’t all bad thanks to my IPod, which I play through my minivan’s tape adapter. People lament about the death of the album, noting how the IPod and other mp3 players have created a “channel-surfing” effect — we don’t have the attention span to listen to an album in its entirety anymore.

At times I think this is true, as all the great songs stored in my IPod make me hyperactive in wanting to hear something else. 22 Two’s by Jay-Z can lead to Two States by Pavement, and then State Trooper by Springsteen, and then Getchoo by Weezer and so on….

The cure to album-abuse can be solved by a drive-time commute. I’m not the best driver in the world, but my car isn’t helping much either. The ol’ ’94 Nissan Quest handles about as well as a skateboard with babies for wheels.  I can’t afford to get into an accident while driving through thick traffic, trying to find a song.

I hear see the paramedics now, examining the wreckage and finding the IPod.

“Poor guy,” they’ll say. “All he wanted to do was listen to Jizz in my Pants.”

That’s why my drive is perfect for putting on an album and listening to it all the way through. Thus begins Two-Headed Boy’s Album-of-the-Month Club. February!

TITUS ANDRONICUS – THE MONITOR

It’s been a year since my band first opened for Titus Andronicus at a venue in the wonderful Midwestern college town where I went to school. The dudes from Glen Rock, NJ needed a place to stay after the show so my roommates/bandmates happily obliged. Two things struck me from the evening.

1.)   TA brings home the bacon live. (I’ve always liked the term “bring home the bacon” because I like bacon and I like clichés.) They are a stellar live band.

2.)   TA is a hungry band. Effort-wise and literally. When I boarded their van to navigate them to our house after the show, their always-engaging/always-bearded singer/guitarist Patrick Stickles was going to town on a bag of Kraft Jet-Puffed brand marshmallows.  It was like manna. As a marshmallow and rock and/or roll enthusiast, I excitedly thought to myself, “This is what life on tour must be like!”

The Titus guys couldn’t be nicer, leaving the next morning to drive to a show in Indiana, gracious for our hospitality. Marshmallows and tunes in consideration, I purchased their first release, 2008’s The Airing of Grievances and was captivated. It’s the sound of The Boss teabagging Win Butler, sprawling punk jams that could fill arenas if they weren’t gleefully self-sabotaged in a swirl of drones and shoe-gaze aesthetics.

Naturally, my friends and I have been eagerly awaiting their follow-up, The Monitor, to the point where once it got leaked we jumped on it. Officially, it surfaces March 9^th.

First off, it’s good. The first day I got it, I snuck back to my car on my break from The Clothing Store to re-and-re-listen to the song Theme from Cheers. Second, it’s epic. Epic is a nice way of saying long. Not considering the short, searing paranoia-blues of the live staple Titus Andronicus Forever and its saxophone-saturated bookend …And Ever, the remaining eight songs average out at around seven minutes long, concluding with The Battle of Hampton Roads, which clocks in at 14:02.

It’s almost like Titus don’t want the songs to be over, scared of what’ll happen if they put down their dukes. I was thinking of other instances of weaving together long, aspiring punk with winding, huge guitar work and thought of Marquee Moon by Television. Not so much musically, but similar in terms of such building, marathon song craft. Definitely not thematically, as The Monitor’s lyrical content references such subjects as Jefferson Davis, The Dark Knight and Keystone Light. Tom Verlaine was never up on that Civil War shit…or maybe I’m not listening close enough.

The interesting part of Titus is their constant line-up fluctuation. Members come and go from tour to tour. We got to play with them again in September, and I personally thought they were hurt by the absence of a real cool Americana-lookin’ fellow named Ian, previously their rhythm guitarist.

The show must go on, and the songs remain the same, so needless to say, I’m very excited to hang/see them when they play a free show at Reckless Records in Chicago in March in support of The Monitor.

That is if The Clothing Store bites on my “family event” excuse for taking the day off. I told them I was going to “the theater” — I mean, I’m seeing Titus Andronicus.

by Two-Headed Boy

No Blaise: Joakim Noah!

When I bought my ticket to last summer’s Lollapalooza, I knew I’d be in for an experience. What I couldn’t predict was meeting Joakim Noah.

That’s right, I got up close and personal with a big-time Bulls player.

If you know nothing about Lollapalooza, you should know that crowd turnout for this three-day music festival is massive. I was afraid to blink at certain points in the day in case my friends might get enveloped into the madness in that millisecond.

No, I’m not kidding.

Anyway…

Seeing basketball players on TV you know they’re tall. But because they’re all so tall, it’s hard to realize their height in terms of the rest of us here in the real world.  Post-Joakim meeting I’ve been enlightened—the dude is huge.

Remember my reference on crowd size at Lolla… Not even the music-loving mass could keep Joakim out of my line of vision.

Making our way from one stage to another, my girl, Anika, looks up, points, and simply shouts: JOAKIM!

There he was, at the beer tent no less.

I knew there was a reason he was my favorite Bulls player.

As is the natural reaction when you spot a noteworthy person within your proximity, we ran over to snap a picture with him.

You’ll have to take my word for it, but I am tall. On the non-NBA scale, that is. I’m used to being the head above the other heads in a group photo. But I ain’t got nothin’ on Joakim.

Anika, Hannah (my other girl), and I catch up to him and beg him for a photo. Unsurprisingly, he’s completely nice about it. Hannah and I take a place on either side of him.  Anika snaps the pic.

Sorry, Ani.

As soon as I fell into pose, I realized how tall he actually was. No longer was I floating above — in fact, my head just slightly reached the height of his shoulder.

How do people play defense on this guy? Oh, right – in his world, he’s almost short.

The camera clicks and my association with this Chicago Bull is captured for eternity.

We step out from under his wingspan and for two seconds, the three of us just sort of look at him like little girls. Giddy and ridiculous. He breaks our child-like stupor by thanking us and gliding back into the crowd.

I think I might’ve awkwardly shouted “THANK…YOU!”  But maybe not. My memory can only comprehend so much about that moment.

When I finally floated back down to real life and regained normal consciousness, I begin to understand what just happened. Not only did I meet Joakim, but I had my picture taken with him.

A picture I could post online!

And show it to everyone I know!

Which I did.

It was digital gold.

Even my Celtics-loving father was impressed.

Why write about that picture today, after so many months have passed? Well, I happened to find it just the other day. It’s as golden as ever. Look for yourself.

By the way, that’s me on your right and Hannah on your left. Nice picture, right? But now that I look at it, there’s a bunch of questions I wish I’d asked him. Like — who’s the dude in the back and what’s with the yellow-framed shades?

Oh, well. Next time — I swear.

I posted it on my Facebook page and everybody was either way impressed or totally jealous — all over again.

Even Two-Headed Boy thought it was pretty cool.

My picture with Joakim is the gift that just keeps giving….

by No Blaise

Two-Headed Boy: Romance In The Retail World

I have to work on Valentine’s Day at The Clothing Store, but it’s just as well.

If anyone’s wondering, there’s no Two-Headed Girl out there.  I haven’t had a girlfriend since high school. Ever since it’s been a series of dead-ends, constantly slipping on the cruel banana peel of botched romance.

What’s a single guy to do?

I’ll tell you what — flirt, flirt, flirt with customers.

When I first started the job, I was trapped in the fitting room, buttoning and folding away my days.  But recently I’ve been let out of the cage. I was register trained, and I also scoot around the floor handing out invaluable customer service. Well, kind of.  More like: “The bathroom is in the back left!”

These new-found responsibilities leave me with the chance to interact with the fairer sex, which flock to our store in troves.

The Clothing Store has plenty of styles that appeal to everyone from high school girls to soccer-yet-still-stylish-moms. I’m not the best flirt in the world, but I’m certainly not the worst. Talking to beautiful customers is a good way to preoccupy time.  I mean, I’m supposed to be helping them anyway.

I think my boredom at work has spawned a strange fantasy that somehow, through my impeccable service and friendly demeanor, some girl will think: “Who was that sales associate? Maybe I should go back and ask him to the food court on his break?  He looked hungry.”

True, I am hungry (probably for pizza).  False, the love connection hasn’t happened — alas.

One time a freckle-faced fashionista walked in sipping a chai latte. Well, that happens a lot actually, but this one was extra cute. Usually I help customers at my own leisure, but I approached her so fast I got an invite to the NFL combine. I helped her find a couple of pairs of jeans and a skirt, and decided to try starting a conversation.

“I see you have, um — tea there,” I stumbled. “Did you get it from the new place downstairs?”

Not the smoothest line, but definitely keeping it mall-centric. Turns out she got the tea from the town where I live. She teaches cheer leading there. She’s also best friends with a girl I’m friends with from high school.  We were legitimately talking! What do you know? The ol’  where’d-you-get-the-tea- from?-trick works!

Later, I asked our mutual friend about this girl. Unfortunately, she has a boyfriend. I felt stupid for asking. I don’t know what I expected my friend to say. Perhaps something along the lines of: “Oh, yeah, she mentioned you! You were the one who processed her monetary transaction!”

I started to realize that my fleeting retail romances might just be shams. The smiles aren’t for me — they’re for the plaid blouses I’m folding and sizing. The glances aren’t at me, but our fabulous sale prices. I might as well be a mannequin. Working in a clothing store is like being a rock in a river of bustling humanity. Every connection made — guy or girl — is fleeting.  Soon to move on to the next store.

Sorry, that’s getting a little morose. I’m far from miserable — it’s just an interesting thought.

My pebble-in-the-river status also allows me a unique perspective on romance in the retail world: Couple customers.

You can tell a lot about a couple by the way they shop together. Their body language. Their attitude.  Sometimes it is almost painful to watch, seeing a couple argue over something as simple as a cardigan. I work in the fitting room on the floor with men’s clothing, so I get a lot of dudes getting annoyed with the clothes their girlfriends pick out for them. The lack of patience that can be shown from one shopping trip is unbelievable. The most natural couple I’ve seen in the store coincidentally is my two best friends; their body language speaks volumes of why they’re still together.

Everyone on The Clothing Store staff seems to be in good shape, romantically speaking. Some are married, some are dating. One girl is dating a guitarist from a crummy local band. My favorite manager claims she loves her boyfriend, but she relentlessly flirts with the former employee who showed up drunk to the company party.

Sunday won’t be that bad though. I have a date with a 10 percent discount at the mall’s pizza joint. John Lennon once sang: “Happiness is a warm ‘za.”

Or something like that — the store’s soundtrack is really getting to me.

by Two-Headed Boy

Two-Headed Boy: The Who And The Why?

Business seems to be booming at The Clothing Store. All gripes aside about my purgatory of plaid, we steamrolled through the holiday season with record numbers and are on a hot streak ever since.

Just like in good sports clichés, team chemistry is the key to success. That’s the same in a department store, and my managers have called in a few “team meetings” to improve camaraderie. The first was a meeting titled “Let’s get Commercial!”

The opening exercise was passing around a roll of toilet paper and plucking off a few leaves, telling a personal fun fact for each square. Then we were broken into teams, challenged to be the fastest group to re-organize their section of the store. I could hardly get a word in as my veteran teammates flew on autopilot. A rookie’s word gets no respect.

Additional bonding came as a pizza party this past Sunday night at an arcade. I felt it might be nice to socialize with my coworkers, but it was like a group of high school cliques. Before I knew it, I was alone playing skee-ball by myself. It wasn’t mandatory, but the only football going on was the Pro Bowl so I decided to attend.

It won’t happen this weekend – can’t miss Super Sunday. There’s something for everyone in the marathon Super Bowl telecast – football, commercials involving dancing bears, talking babies and beer, beer, beer. Sometimes all three at once!

Thanks to YouTube, I now have pretty good impressions of Colts and Saint fans.

If I had to pick a side, I’d probably geaux with New Orleans – the prospect of that Dread locked “Shoe” guy crying himself to sleep in his mom’s basement is way too enticing.

I have no illusion about the halftime show. MTV produced a slew of pyro-and-boy-band-heavy extravaganzas at the turn of the millennium. But Justin and Janet had their “wardrobe malfunction” and the NFL relieved MTV of its duties and they’ve been playing it safe ever since.

Prince was an unlikely choice, considering the standard parade of classic-rock fare, but he paid off.  They went though the Stones and the Boss but this year’s choice – The Who – is a total step backwards. The most captivating parts of The Who — Keith Moon and John Entwistle — are long gone, replaced by Zak Starkey, Ringo’s son, on drums, and an ever rotating cast of characters on bass.

I’ve seen recent “Who” performances where the camera only shows the part of the stage occupied by Roger Daltrey and Pete Townshend, almost ignoring the fact that rock’s most dynamic rhythm section is now gone. The Big Show shouldn’t be given to a cover band. I go by the “half rule.” If you only have half your original members, might as well call it a day.

Time to pump in some new blood and show that the show isn’t just a boy’s club. My vote is for Beyonce, who proved at her recent Grammy performance that she can rock with the best of them.

You’re probably left asking, what fun fact did I say with toilet paper in hand at The Clothing Store?

“I am Two-Headed Boy and you are all the subject of a subversive social experiment on TheThirdCity.com!”

Well, I was thinking that. I actually told an anecdote about how I have an inherent fear of stickers because an overzealous grocery store clerk put one on my forehead while I was just a tot. My low profile is vital — and thankfully still intact.

by Two-Headed Boy